In the massacre of my words

they've beheaded my last line

and blood        ink like           is hitting on paper

there's death   stretched over the page

and life           like a window ajar      shattered by a rock

a new gun has finished off the world

and I   imported goods like through this alley's doors

            am still the very meagre room that emigrated

 

I in my life who am pen like to the lines of this meagre page  am mother

The cat's paws are still prancing

to scare the mouse

running for the hole they filled

 

In pursuit of the lesson I did at school

I'm no longer Jack the lover to my Jill

I'm doing my new homework

You cross it out

And in the girl who will tumble at this poem's end

build a house

filled with a door open like a wound

and from in-between the edges of death

like a room gone from this house       lived happily

a girl    who wanting to make me her own

would throw morsels in her voice      to tease me over

to the temple of her body

for my eyes to keep whirling and whirling    to make a Dervish of me again

How the eyes

these empty sockets

in between the love making of two are thousand handed

            How this side of being where I am is all the more other-sided in Iran

Fathurt            mothurt           my brothurt!

My condition is more critical than hurt

writing's more emasculated than me

and London    with its hair highlights of a weather is still

sisterly awaiting

Death to stretch over my body

for life to kill me again

 

My heart is bleeding   for the poet whose queue of words is getting longer

                                   for the branch less sparrow who's swallowed its twitter

                                   for the restitution of a crow with no overhead wire

                        for myself

            gone from the house   like electricity

I was somebody

                                   Did the foolish thing became a poet!