The King of Diamonearts

 

A Siren sings her truth

Into the sea, into the night

The cosmic wanderer

finds home

in her echo among the stars

A flame drifts across the dark

Shadows transmute to warmth.

Descent of Two

Leather wind, checkered pulse —
I stand on the world’s last tooth.
Desert breathes below,
a silence wide as light.

She lands —
a flash of skin, a fall of trust.
We ballet on a needle’s tip,
gravity jealous of us.

We slide —
stone to sand,
sand to speed,
our bodies a blur of one.

We roll —
yin, yang, dust, dawn —
and cities rise,
forming in our wake.

Children run from nowhere.
Grass remembers how to grow.

A beach —
her skin in the sun,
my pockets heavy with enough.
Laughter, salt,
the taste of reward.

Then —
a tie, a tap, applause.
Ugly faces fall like spiked volleyballs.

A map spread wide —
hands tracing blue lines of maybe.
We build,
we build,
we build.

Sheherazade

چون رویایی گذرا

چون ابری سبک

چون مخملی نرم

در بر می‌گیری.

هستی‌ات روشنی‌ست،

مستی و قشنگی،

با سماجتی شیرین

 از پا نمی‌نشینی.

در پیچ و خم راه‌ها

می‌رقصی،

می‌گریی،

و با لبخندت

بر تاریکی می‌تابی.

ایستاده‌ای—

کمی خمیده،

اما استوار،

بر تپه‌ای شنی.

و هاله‌ی حضورت

اعتمادی‌ست به ثبات؛

خورشید همیشه درخشان،

شهرزاد.

The Soloist

Blue suit,

voice on fire—

yet my eyes

won’t hold.

A nymph drifts near,

we rise,

air-borne,

a dance of ease.

Mask of chrome,

stage of light,

hands find

horn,

string,

wood.

One note—

I cannot miss. 

دعوت

 

بیا خطر کنیم

تا از خطر گذر کنیم

بیا رشد کنیم

تا بازی را خبر کنیم

بیا با هم باشیم

تا دوری را به سر کنیم

بیا یکی شویم

تا جدایی را به در کنیم

بیا خطر کنیم

تا از هراس، حذر کنیم

Eclipse

When the autumn leaves start to fall

And the cold winds start to howl

I think of you and your smile

Of how your eyes carry the weight of stars

Of how your presence used to make me whole

and of how your silence is tangled to my soul

For when its winter and nature starts to freeze

I can still close my eyes and wait for the breeze

To bring your scent from across the seas

That mates with the seedlings inside my tears

So Instead of loving you every day and night

I’d have a child of my own to think about

Years will pass and when he’s in bloom

I’ll look into his eyes and see that gloom

That you had in your hair back in the day

The same thing that made you and I stay away

To have love but choose to look at it from afar

To not be that shooting star

But to sit under the beautiful sky

And watch the celestials passing us by

As if the heavens themselves conspire

To teach the heart what it refuses to desire

The stars shimmer with a truth we cannot hold

A fire too bright for hands too cold

Yet in their light, your absence blooms like a rose

Thorned and radiant, in the garden only fate knows

To love, and turn aside, is a subtle crime

Hidden in the quiet music of time

And still, I bow to it – the beauty, the ache

Knowing some flames are too pure to break

 قلبم را از سینه کندم

و به پای کبوتری گره زدم

پر زد به سوی تو

باز که گشت،

چیزی به پایش نبود

کار تمام شد

All but Martyrs to the Almighty

درد من از سهم من،
سهم من از درد من.

در قفس خویش تن،

از برِ محبوب من.

 

IlLUSIONS

An alien ship drifts silently toward Earth. Inside, two figures lie in hibernation, their bodies still but their minds alive, linked by telepathic exchange.

One is the captain — a being who can sense and process the endless streams of electromagnetic waves around every celestial body they pass. The other is his son, still learning, still stretching his mind under his father’s guidance.

As Earth comes into view, the son asks:

"Father, what is it the people of this planet yearn for so deeply?"

"Love."

"And the other things they chase?"

"Shadows and dust, my son."

Writing is Therapy!

when you want to fuck her to get even with her cunt side... correction! You want to fucking pimp her and pee on her pretty cunt face while she's getting fucked in the ass then have her lick it from your toes... motherfucker you're a cunt and I'm becoming a vengeful dick for staying around your stupid cunt for too long!

The wrongness of Kundera's philosophy!

The time has come

To migrate from this place to another

From the place of existing to the place of being

This lightness of being

To give away the sweetness of the juice of that fruit,

Growing on top of that tree at the corner of that hill

By the river in the field of wheat,

And go backwards to the sound and the noise

To the fury of the city

To the pollution and the collisions of the traffic

And tall dark haired skinny girls

In their fancy boots

To makes a routine out of the unbearable

So that it’s no more…

Elegy (Persistent Momentary Lapse of Things)

 

Can’t you see baby,

That it’s not working?

All the sincerity,

All this time,

And you break my heart,

At least once every night…

 

Don’t you feel it baby?

That it’s not there?

Even though I look in your erratically colored eyes,

And see nothing but your want,

with all of your repulsion,

…

 

Can u feel me seeing it baby?

That it’s not us we’re chasing?

That it’s the way things are,

In this fucking choreography of attitudes,

And the persistent momentary lapse among them

 

It tears my heart,

At least once every night…

Perfect Model

I wish life was merely the embodiment of the intersection of pretty moments with absolutely no interceptions in between.
You’re in the middle of one snapshot of it, and not knowing what happened, right in the middle of the next.
That way I would do the rightest thing right now and wouldn’t worry about the rest.
No time to regret it if I was wrong.

a perfect model…

Of the nature of the wind

coming from the realm of the wind,
and the people of breeze,
of no memory and no future,
until death makes us stop and gets us to know any peace.
to know us, is to feel a sting,
of being encircled by, and unable to capture.
Cursed us in the cold winter morning,
loved us in the late spring.

The curse

Born within a snake skin

Lured by its reflection

Mirrored through the zombie-d eyes

Antagonizing imperfection

Coordinated by a blow

ISOMORPH

 

It’s a bubble, hollow and warm. You crawl in it, walk in it, naked or not, when you’re a small child.

It’s your home, it’s your world, you’re always in it, lucid, round and light, no matter where or what.

if you want to grow, the means is a touch, and when you want it smaller, it shrinks down to your size.

No more a kid now, you’ve blown your bubble larger, making a balloon of it, bouncing up and down the ground.

exuberant and alive, living in this balloon was, surfing the earth and the skies, landing on others and other’s as is falling in love.

It’s so fun you keep touching it, making it so large, like the world itself: bouncy and round, vast and full of charm.

to the time it’s too large, you cannot see it. Not seeing it, you don’t touch it, you don’t think you want, you don’t even try.

You don’t try, and you don’t want to try. Don’t want to try and you forget. you forget and you die.

class-ified ambition

 

If I had the sun
I would charge you all none
for the warmth,

my cold mind wouldn’t have to stray
while my numb hands do the routine
in a cold winter’s night

G.R.I.E.F

 

There's this little fraction of time in between the moment you know you’re not asleep and the moment you know you’re awake.

There just might lie the last frontier for salvation…

drawers of memory, salvador dali, 1965

boBe‘s Jay

chapter one

It's just a disguise and it's jut for the beginning, and until the rise in the salvation day it will not demise.

you're just watching a mask and it's that rigidness you seek to watch.
just like how you're talking: "politically correct"

inspired by: pro anarchists recession inside Xian

The Description

 

…then you feel

you’ve descended to something you used to think of
but never were

or if so,

soon was gone off you

so you can’t walk on no more.

not lived,

not loved,

can’t walk on no more…

so you sit

and you squeeze

and you shrivel down and down

till you’re so less than living in terms of everything imaginable

not lived or loved,

and less than life…

a dead man alive,

the world doesn’t concern you…

Ballerina in a Death’s Head, by Salvador Dali, 1939