Melancholy
I join the Myths,
Like a silent amber-coloured face
I greet the existence:
Hello!
My face Rips into pieces.
It fades into the midst of the city,
A city whose silver pillars towered over the sky and
lost me in the orange of toy cars.
I looked upon the mirror, I,
I was a woman with a camera-shaped head to record my Non-Existence,
Who Kissed the furbished face of this alien city’s Prostitution,
Wishing the fetus in my Womb
To be a werewolf with black shoes, and a barcode on its body,
Like an insect runs away from life,
Falls within the reach of pesticides.
Let it be a loud screeeeeeeeeeeech of protest,
A screeeeeeeeeech to the height of all that is God,
Which is nought,
In the same aeon of Once Upon a Time,
Where everyone Was except God
Who is Nought,
Until my ingress is Barred,
More forbidden than aaaaall the fruits of Eve…
To the nethermost bottom of blunt and cold recurrences;
As cold as all the distance between bodies.
The Surreal World, Now
Murky is the firmament in sanguineous crimson,
The air stenches of ash dancing cheek to cheek with blood.
The ablaze fumes from far-off distances,
Busy with devouring the cadavers of Being,
The last survivor’s ebony tresses dishevelled.
A fissured flesh in a weeping wound and
Two weary hands have in perpetuity
Stretched to touch the state of inexistence;
The flimsy angels into the lowest bottom of the Fire fall, and
The ending curtain also turns into gaping jaws cachinnating:
God and Satan had been two sides of the same apocryphal coin which,
In Human both forged be, and the earth
In teary eyes circumambulates, while
Stifling is in profusion in the air.
Towards an ignis fatuus, the skyline is headed,
And hope into the Earth’s inner core,
And The cursing Sun a fugitive in pursuit of night.
Solitude has crept into Love’s bedchamber attire by raping amused,
And The dusk is pandering to its every whim, and
Time has its pharynx squeezed by the rebellion unbound.
Calmly to each other’s bosoms rested are the mad,
Since they in pain have dwelled, and know,
Life is but the palpitation and respiration of the veins each to each,
And birth is but nothing rather than the cries
Being wailed within arms of tear …
And The last survivor,
And the last survivor under the spell of empty iteration of breathing.
This Damned Highway
‘The Naked body of the street’…
I can’t remember who said so,
But the naked body of this street is Wounded.
Here is the longest highway to eternity,
A highway as vast as the Unpacific Ocean
That each time I pass it,
Each time I go to the Slaughterhouse
That Nobody remembers all those Deadpartures[۱]…
The Naked body of this street is Wounded and
I do not know why it won’t stop Weeping!
The Body of this soil, its heart, will Stop beating;
Yet you Bloodsucker Worms won’t be satiated.
۱۵/۰۷/۲۰۲۳ (۲۴th of Tirbaran 1402)[۲]
Prophets
Your bosoms
Are secure delusions of a land
Where no dream is fulfilled
Your lands
Were hoof-beaten by the lust of gods
When psalm-like songs were sung
By the bush engulfed in flames
While you were dancing toward your altars.
Behold! Gazing upon the blood rain,
You wait to see the death of Man!
What in mind did you have when chanting the name of god
You polluted the centuries with one hundred and twenty-four thousand legends,
Vultures of this brave o’erhanging firmament!
Your shadows
Clutch the throat of this morose earth
Like an unbearable burden
And from the east to the west of these centuries
Have girded up their loins to sear our eyes.
Man can stand it no more
Your false Alast
Was a provision for the mirage of life
That cradled the sunrise
So that we put our first steps in your tumultuous Heaven
On the throat of freedom
Slaughtering life
Drunken by a never-existing god
With promises of a feast of milk and honey
In the arms of nude houris.
Now we’re mourning
And witnessing the death of this earth before its birth
May your gods’ curse rest upon themselves
To taste the bitter taste of death of emancipation
In their veins
And withdraw their legends.
[۱] Dead + Departure
[۲] Since the name of the first month of summer in Persian Calander called Tir (bullet) and the bullet in Persian also called Tir, I make a pun with the world and make it Tirbaran (fusillade).
