#hasanaspahani
I just sit on the stairs
I gave the entrance ticket
to someone, a few more minutes
The show begins, I already know what story
that will be on display, and I'm bored
I just sat on the stairs
Crowds come cheerfully
coupled with wry lies
I know who they are, but
they pretended not to see me
I just sat on the stairs
in front of a performance house
actually, who lives and what is there
in this house? Is only hope that must be
I bought with a very expensive ticket?
Yesterday I read in the rest of the local newspaper
articles that are far from the headlines
someone wrote a review about
the theater is dim, the actors are getting worse,
and bankrupt show management.
I just sat on the stairs
see people pretending to be happy
buy a ticket with the remaining savings
that should be paid
for health insurance.
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 5:49 AM UTC
GOD said,
"There is no god,"
And I believed
in Him.
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 1:10 AM UTC
HE stroked a white cat. The cat slowly turns into a cloud. He was about to cup the cloud but the whole cloud came into his eyes. She became sleepy and fell asleep.
The cloud that had entered his eyes became cloudy outside his eyelids. He dreams about a sheet of sky that will rain. Then woke up with slightly wet eyelashes. But it was not the tears.
*HE:
Who cried in my eyes last night?*
He did not see, the cat or the cloud wanted to answer but they were stuck in a holy book that on one page of inserted a brochure course an easy way to reach the paradise that has been long past the date of its operation.
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
WHERE are they who want thousand bottles of wine?
Just a bunch of cowards and clowns went away...
Fake cartographer and some roadside circus guys
The restraurant's waitress asked them to get home,
Removing lip globs in the corners of their lips ...
Did not know there was a Dead reaching out to the neck,
Did not stop in the marching room of a bottle of wine,
Just a poet on the edge, hiding in the rhyme line!
Where are they who want thousand bottles of wine?
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 6:54 AM UTC
THE cypress trees there translate
season into color.
A line of boulevards for guests like
me: a hungry one.
I may know what it is
they plan.
Splash and swish. Sweet. Ripples and
breezy. Lyrical.
After the song I used to remembered
and always wanted to hear.
I may know what it is
whispered the water to the wind.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 7:07 AM UTC
THE WORLD is an office asking for your sweat. Before lunch. Officeboy turns off the aircon. Stuck in line in front of the teller. Number is empty, on bank account.
This world is a city asking for your blood. An old friend who grew into someone who was getting less and less understandable. A monster that feeds on its own body parts.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 6:53 AM UTC
HE took me
To the dirt road
Along the creek
The flow of time.
We met a child
Who can not swim strongly
But good at fishing.
He took me to the cemetery.
We saw
A child and his father pray
Visiting women
They are very dear
He pulled my hand
To the banana garden
Which bear fruit on long bunches,
And it knows
Will soon be cut down by a machete.
He was lying with me
On a night
And awakened by various things
The scramble wants to be a dream
In a rush sleep.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
* : Janet E Steele*
And what is the body? And what is a house?
The body is home to pain,
there was a mouth that held back a scream
there are wounds that show the face of blood
The body is home to the spirit of layover,
and there he felt at home, listening to the song
time, clock & heart rippled
And what is a house? And what is the body?
The house is an area where there is none
the shadow of the body, in a corner
gramophone placed & prayer sent to far.
Home is where you come back
from a small meeting, and there you are
happy, because you have time to say love.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
YOU may be in the museum about cheese, glass art, bicycle history, or history of wooden bags. Not waiting for anything. And I just have time to steal travel brochures, offer a route around town, at the door of the hotel restaurant, after a lazy breakfast I chewed.
You may be among the crowds at the Arc de Triomphe monument, at the end of the Champs-Élysées. A digital screen is spread out, a row of chairs is laid out, and the big flag is flown. An ordinary man, preparing an unusual speech, that evening.
You may be in the departure room of the Frankfurt Airport, with the Arab Emirates airline tickets, disrupting the chaotic time, saying goodbye to the cold German weather, which I had previously tried to greet.
You must be somewhere, making some sort of experiment with distance and time, testing a hypothesis. And you smile, imagine the witty thing you will later conclude. And I do not stop guessing what's possible.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC
JUNE hid from me, on a forgotten calendar sheet on the kitchen wall. In vain, I shied away from the dust. Dust did not care about June on that calendar I'd never had.
Me and June, almost did not know each other again. Me and dust still greet each other just as a matter of praise. Dust and June as usual, still deceiving each other, yellowing on the paper.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
I want you to simplify me with your love. Like the gratitude of paddy field to rain, with which it grew rice.
I want you to simplify me with your love. Like the prayer said by grass for the soil, which gave it life and in turn, enlivens.
I want you to simplify me with your love. Like works of the sun: rising-setting, giving names to morning, noon, eve and night.
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC
1. Ticket
IT should have written your name, in that column.
Do I have to care about the name of the city and the airport?
It should have been the reason for my departure:
go home to meet you, for longing. "Repeat the word, completely
which can fit in empty space, on my ticket paper, "
I will say so, to the registrar.
2. Baggage
I WILL not give this to a haphazard officer.
My backpack will just hug me along the flight.
"It's an unfinished longing, longing to worry me.
There are many who are not caught. It's an incomplete longing, "
I will say so, when I get back to you.
I'm not going to let what is tightness scattered carelessly.
3. Waiting Room
I AM worried about you. The airport in this country is not fair.
There is never a good waiting room for pickup.
I'm worried about me. This heart's longing is also never fair.
There was never enough waiting time, for a moment to be patient.
4. Emergency Door
WHY does the stewardess always, like telling anxiously?
I already know very well where and how to open
Four emergency exits, wear safety jackets, put up
And removing seat belts. I've been very anxious ever since
Bought the ticket I mentioned in stanza number one. Tickets are on
there I want to write my own name, flight date and time,
And the reasons why you so badly missed.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC
I do not want to be your metaphor, said rain to my tears
Then cry me with the sky, so you can no longer
Separating: between gloomy weather and unstoppable sadness
I do not want to be your metaphor, said the flower to my love
Then I put on the worst clothes and I became your gardener,
So you do not realize: what you picked every morning
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 12:14 AM UTC
My love is saltiness in your sea. The sun thinks he can vaporize me from you, making me a cloud in an unfamiliar sky. He was wrong, but let me do it, I do not want to blame him.
My love is the nutrient element fused in your garden's soil. The sun thinks only he who grows you and blossoms your flowers. He was wrong, but I will not blame him.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
MONTHS are mature, the moon comes, I pluck you, with a doubtful hand and an abundance of anxiety. Night is ripe, night comes.
Moon hungry, wild moon. You make me a bat, take out. I am from the blind stone cave, hunting you. Night hungry, wild night.
The moon is sharp, the moon is deep. I'm a diver fisherman, long sharpening. Spear, on you I shut my eyes-wounded. Night sharp, deep night.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 7:19 PM UTC
YOU delirious about the coastal span - from
the country that went on a hot year - then become the
beach your body: spread out - fragrant and hungry!
Like the perfume ad page, which is torn off
thick copies, magazines that chock short of pictures!
The one on you lies, I, which is released by the wind,
large pickaxes, mooring the sky, then sprinkling wildly
I started this guerrilla, facing my own shadow,
your spicy sand bath, quartz that grows hearts
Late afternoon. The sun goes past: yellow past
soon it was broken and glowing, the blood of a snake
I've repeatedly looked at digital numbers,
Casio - waterproof, 200 meters - an hour of the day
*
If the sea yells, the sentence is the waves!
He did not carry any name, until he called the bay
Place turtle loggerhead, from far journey,
Thousands of miles pilgrimage, to the sand he had hatched,
littered, food wrappers and beverage cans
This ******* like undesirable verbal abuse!
*
What have I found? Or broke it? I'm a farmer
threatened insect pests, certainly can not keep, seeds per
Seeds, immature rice. The season is short-lived.
When I see the location of the taxi to the North,
I also had to go back there, fold the map, then
stepping like a man's footstep -
like the song I heard from Springteen - and
write down a poem that I am afraid of his verses.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC
1. How Can a Moon Make a Shadow from a Boar's Body in a Forest Feeling The Entire Night?
2. Is the River in The Forest Choosing Himself Where He Was Turning or He Should Ask the Wild Boar Frequently Crossing It?
3. How Many Wild Boars in The Forest Have Ever Realized That There is Always a Moon-shaped Shadow from its Body?
4. If the Boar is Dead, Is the Shadow Dead or Staying and Hiding in The Shadow of The Forest?
5. Has The Wild Boar Ever Thinking That Moon Is a Boar Stuck at the Elevation Then Slept and Sleep Is On?
6. Is the Forest to Which There is No Boar Still Worthy to be Called Forest? Why No Boar Moon? Night Boar?
7. Can Later When I Die and Bury in the Forest, Then from My Grave Go Out a Wild Boar Without Shadow?
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
A non-compulsive lung asks for a laksa sauce: what sense can you always hide from me?
An urgent hand, saying to the crumbly crumbling cup: what injury are you preparing for me?
A non-threatening eye, whispering to the cauldron: what spice do you add to my boiled hooves?
The wobbling heart, suspecting the gaping gap: when should I be immersed in the flamy oil of yours?
(2013)
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC
WITH a fractured beak, he stirred his own shadow, until he was dissolved in it.
With a weak wing, he hugged himself, until he could no longer be separated from the tightness.
(2013)
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 4:48 AM UTC