• POEMS

      I am blowing the air around me I keep silent in their eyes and they are running away yes: they are probably running away to relieve the turbines that I have drifted away the lacuna carved by my spine they hit me with the pendulum of the space they look at me with suspect and fear they scratch me in their mind and then they leave me without seal without stamp without humanity

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    • Cement Rain

      The inner world has been cast in transparent concrete, flowing from an orange cistern on wheels. My mind has acquired a curvature and an opaque density, turned into a sandbox with playing kids caught inside a pearl as big as a dump truck. Yes, the gray cement drizzle was falling even then, at the beginning of time, when we were kids. No one could expect the tragedy then. We were drinking white wine in Valencia,

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    • POEMS

      I don’t remember exactly when I turned into a robot I got used to sleeping for three hours and working the rest of the time my free time was only when I was on public transportation of waiting for it in line that is when I read books life was others as well as hell I don’t remember when during the endless traffic congestion and the translations in which I saw little sense plus they paid barely a dime I trained myself not to think about

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    • POEMS

      It almost feels like you haven’t lived through all these disjointed years after the revolution, or the naive hypocrisy of growing old, -- perhaps this cage, security, or a slice of life like a piece of bought meat. If you only know what invisible thread what a taut and mendacious rope – I too under the flood The incalculable burden I too want to stop saying I

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    • TWO POEMS

      How many words to cover the heartless distance between us? And when you’ll take in your hands this antiquated letter, I will know that your palms will be sealing my faint fingerprints. I don't want them to be obvious, to offer my surrender so easily. I will then peel myself the few pretexts. Will I scare you?

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    • poèmes

      Son cerveau plein à ras-bord de matières scolaires en lieu et place de l'éthique, Ema a fermé les yeux dans mes bras rassurants pour encore une nuit. Toi aussi, cher Aïlan, tu les a fermés, mais toi c'est pour l'éternité, dans le giron d'eau froide. Tout seul tu t'es endormi pour toujours sur les plages de la Mer Égée, là où se baignent chaque année trop de touristes européens, qui en rentrant chez eux ferment leurs portes à double tour devant

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    • THREE POEMS

      It’s Sunday where I am not - where roasted chestnuts are sold on the street, trams are orange and old, and someone else is learning to play the piano. The light solemnly says goodbye. Afternoons like this make me want to write poems about the smell of chimney smoke, about the unread books at home and about first loves. Of course, on such afternoons I don't carry a notebook with me.

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    • ABOUT TODAY

      I have a friend who is a communist and a friend who defines himself as one my neighbour is a fascist and what a fascist! it's impossible to find a radish the salad is here the onion is here but no radish! I was a nazi later on a socialist now I'm a Human

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    • Grandiosity of fake modesty

      i know they’ve all expected a downfall but instead they’ve found success and although they didn’t know what to do with it i didn’t help them when you exceed all their expectations you end up all alone * don’t accuse me i don’t love you every morning i wake up with a feverish desire to bite your toenails * when i wait for you i turn on a blinding light and then you arrive and turn it off (so that i can see you)

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    • THREE POEMS

      She has conspired with a woman dressed in green, who was missing a leg. She has resisted gridlines. She has stolen time from the bellies of spinsters. She has slept sitting, set tails on fire; with mountain folk she has eaten dark food. She has opened the shutters at night, taken out a ladder, switched on the lights, and washed the windows wearing only a bra.

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    • POEMS

      and then you knock down the straw hut, alone / alone / alone in a hostile (in a sickly) universe, blinded by the Flash and the Bang, and then the iron hand will rise and it will try to crush you -- yes -- like a gnat -- (like a tiny gnat) -- yes -- corrupting your (very) / (mystical) essence, like a bombed-out sea of emotions... one day I will climb to the top of the hill one day I will find the bridge of moondust one day I will climb to the top of the hill

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    • POEMS

      Travel bureau Look, │ the seal sails like a boat on my dark blue ink tampon. │ Just a few centimeters away from the edge of the world. Fall We are not angels; it was known... Our wings won’t grow -was there any other suspicion? Have we lately become so superstitious as to deal with the Demon? Since fall is flying, we expect the change of times to clear our vision.

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    • Two Poems

      I often confess to the district tax collector to the court representatives who look in vain for my name in their lists To the gilded vestments of the bishops I confess To the open windows recently barred To the neighborhood butcher To the policeman patrolling alone at nights To the bailiff with scores of summonses that he releases to the wind like kites To the court martial I confess and their harsh punishment

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    • Poèmes

      Tôt ou tard s'en aller Plus rien à trimballer Partir après demain Prendre un des deux chemins Lumineux ou obscur Retenir les piqûres S'adresser au soleil Celui-là qui s'éveille Ah, toi qui es si froid J'accuse ton cœur droit De m'avoir laissée seule Pour me casser la gueule. Tôt ou tard s'en aller Plus rien à trimballer Plus rien à endosser Plus de cœur cabossé Marcher le long des rails Caresser la ferraille Gribouiller sur les murs

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    • When we are young, When we are girls, We climb trees, play hide and seek, We don’t have balls, but we have dolls It’s not a problem if we’re girls or boys As long as we share the toys. When we grow up We get the balls, lose the dolls, Release the braids and ponytails and wait for a suitable wind. And then we get a bit older. We become a mother or a woman, or if we are lucky, both. When we grow old, we look more like a father. Our breasts flatten and rest, we get a quite, unwanted moustache,

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    • Tow poems

      The elegance of stone on a rock The liturgy of eternity. Cells. Stone guest, not a cross, but rook. The road was trembling, the rains washed away the ridges As a rainbow on hands the tears was dropping. I was living while losing faith. The sun, a yellow spot, was floating, Among the clouds, among the dots and the dashes of a sheet, Apostrophes, the softness of my tongue,

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    • Paradise of Nothingness

      Justly laughs at Iraq. Justly laughs at lads struggling with a drunken policeman: His forged badges in his coat and his hands are fettered to a coined Dirhems of gasp and sever cold. What shining badges on his miserable chest! What a feathery hat; punctured while it avoids the thunderbolt with an amputated head! What badges of bravery hanging over like the keys of a banker,

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    • Kaimaniya. Voices

      you’re a sick hahahaah she’s definitely sick look at her a sick little bitch a moron she needs treatment hahahaha she wants to get a spider she sits at home thinking we’ll go away hahahahah she’s blasting that music hahahahaha a sick little bitch the whole street knows she’s sick we’ve known her since childhood she’s stupid really stupid look the sicko is coming look she’s coming

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    • POEMS

      a couple of sun rays to what is already clear how fares your palestine? when will it let you go? how fares your heart amidst the strange and the alien? i’m muddling up words. languages. in the evenings i read that Lord’s love’s parceled out by abraham’s children out rolls the spring on a camel laden with gifts green turns the cover and contents of your koran – sort of a book devised by

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    • Poème sur l’Ukraine

      Là où sont engendrées les guerres, là où poussent les herbes du désespoir Puis le ciel a déchiré ses vêtements, un à un Ses joues griffées par les ongles de la peur. Avant de rencontrer les foulards de tes poèmes Déployés sur les bateaux d’Odessa et sur les navires tristes, Je disais : « Seuls les grands poètes écrivent de la poésie sincère »

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    • POEMS

      Poems come in different kinds. They may be tall – or not really. Women – or not really. Poems grow too but they do not need watered, they are not trees and you are not water. For a poem to grow he or she needs to be rocked. You may encounter a poem missing a leg or an arm, but there’s no need to be sad – they can regrow them like lizards who lose their tails and find them again.

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    • TWO POEMS

      Yet distances are bridges that cannot separate us, for we gathered the light in the well of our eyes, we visited night’s broken branches. I want you to know that you are never alone and that in every empty inch there is a crowd moving and each smile comes -please remember it- from the secret fountain of goodness. Know that we’ll have to ask

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    • The Creator of Soap Bubbles and other poems

      Moisten your breath with her crossed questions on graveyards until the moon has fallen down. And once the moon has fallen down, close your eyes. Find a space beside her and die! This desire, as this life, does not bear all this clarity. She, with her octopod vagina, swallowed swarms of my day to teach me how life could be my concern, like poetry and

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    • To Sasha in early February

      Let me imagine you will grow back into tiny feet and perky giggle, tasting sand from the back of your hand while I watch asphalt burst with heat, the husk of August cracking with the burden of the cerulean blue, juicy half peaches on the napkin next to me, trying to hold on to the faint glow of the late afternoon before you are one step closer to radiant cheekbones, velvet lipstick, a knot of scratchy

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    • Six Poems from 26 Poems

      I owe everything to you. Clay the unsafe scaffolding of divine guilt, the shadow of those who shaped the pyramid with a sense of goodness. Before I could say “save me” from you I was born. Inside your soft belly throbbed the strange substance creating, O God of excess, the fear of the future existence that I owed. (Where no wind blows the candlelight flickers, longing for the startled youthful

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    • On Your Breast, By the Cross!

      Lost in the clouds, I seek refuge in the soil; Your breast... Who waters it with my salty spittle And with the sweat of the clouds? Who guards the kisses amassed on its hillside. and drags those destinies with his ropes? Who converses with the thief, and shakes the clouds with the voice of an uncertain god? Who finds tranquility in the shape of your sunken breast? Who settles in his land for a time

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    • Reflections on Crowe

      I know this place is stasis he rhymed like this symphonic we could have laughed but the long black bending legs kept taking me drugged and unawares to the jungle of sensation misword him standing at the station: but he never tied the speed freak to the tracks trying to crack this pulsing chest and let out the wings I cannot breathe with this internal everything possible becomes graspable light stained griffins

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    • How coldly

      I ask them about a movie, and they tell me their own history. Save me here, under the bridge, where the concrete is burdened by waves, and to shine I look into the lamp’s eyes. Leave me, leave me under the bridge, if I shivered, I’d bathe in the light, from the concrete, I’d learn the brine. I was right before, it’s terrible to admit, to recognize the monster’s color in the rapture (and conversely); not a big deal, really, scant for a poem, but this

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    • POEMS

      The boys are back in the pub and make orders with their last pennies, They've shrunk in numbers, there are only a few of them now deprived of a guarantee for eternity- to leave this life untimely with the aplomb of the Great- an ineptly induced death: and they are angry at their own never touched wine- they are alive, the fraternity of the still living poets, of the ones cursed to die from love, with arteries calcified by meds,

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    • Isthmus of the Wind

      Words were not The sole Signifier of loss For T. S. Eliot, But Being-in-itself Where the beginning is the end —In my beginning is my end, Traces of old fires, The perpetual star of hope In the long journey of the Magi For a Birth like Death, Omar Khayyam’s history of the Soul Which you read as a young man —In my end is my beginning. Each step is bound to incompleteness Without a word:

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    • Two Poems

      Like he just walked out of the video shop, there stands the statue of archangel Michael in one of history’s shaded courtyards. In the city to take a break, he’s renting out all the films. Paying no heed to the plinth, he promises cool, darkened rooms and, through the cracks of the blinds, a lot of sex. Well, all right. His renaissance rendering contends beautifully with porn fantasies,

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    • CEREMONIAL ROBES

      The wave of red lifeless water, the road followed at night, the poor earth strewn with travellers, the white swaying shrouds, ceremonial robes. The only thing needed for a race is the horse’s mane. This is the truth, now we are here rotted away in a rut. God must not see the letters of my script. Mankind’s a mistake, he keeps saying. And to correct his mistake he gives sorrow,

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    • Cette Femme Enfant, clandestine de la vie

      Cette femme Assise, clandestine de la vie La vitre collée contre le corps… Connaît… ô très bien… ô très fort Les déchirements des départs Le tremblement des mains a l’arrivée Se souvient de l’ami Brel chantant Vivant à jamais dans ses Marquises « Et vous mes mains ne trembler pas Ne vous tendez pas Surtout ne me laisser pas… Souvenez-vous comme je vous pleurais dessus »

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    • De l’autre côté du verre et autres poemes

      Le grand-père a perdu un œil en Allemagne quand il travaillait à la mine. Il n’a plus jamais été lui-même depuis. La ceinture lui contournait le ventre et il mâchait du pain trempé dans du vin. Il est mort dans une résidence au nom de bateau. C’est curieux comme les gens tracent leur propre cartographie.

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    • My Father Builds A Shed

      - not just a shed, but a work of art – each joint perfectly butted, all dowelled – not a single nail. And lofty and strong and light! You could stable a giraffe in there, with room to canter. You could graze your beast on the roof and it wouldn’t bow. Father worked tirelessly –those dark years in the shadow of the War dropped from his shoulders as he measured and sawed and planed and hammered.

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    • Les barricades mystérieuses

      Le matin, je voulais y passer à vélo, mais il était déjà trop tard L’asphalte éventré barrait l’allée en monticules de déblais Laisse-moi passer, j’ai supplié, accorde-moi un dernier regard Ni les chansons ni les bougies n’agirent comme lubrifiants Je t’en prie, père Clement, au besoin, je peux porter un nœud pap’ Hélas, sa conscience de classe l’emporta Découragé je me suis

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    • POEMS

      neither sunlight nor darkness: a strange light in the heart and green summer summer of flight and glass, but such strange, final light, as though everyone died in one morning, while picking lilies of the valley and celebrating Ivanov Day, when water joined with fire; the water spirit celebrated his birthday, lighted wreaths floated on the river waves, the witch on her stolen horse galloped to Bald Mountain, her hair streaming, trees crossed

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    • Prophecies

      Here I die the death of a Palestinian poetess. Then I live anew as a Palestinian poetess, Becoming, with agonizing leisure, A mystical ode that has traversed nothingness twice over. *** On the canvas of the flood I draw the same picture. Every time you repair its cracks, I break it. On the canvas of the flood I scatter the dust of stars With which I pass the test of cruelty, the schizophrenia of prophecy, And I weep.

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    • A PICTURE FROM CHERNOBYL AND OTHER POEMS

      in someone’s sitting room full of postponed bicycle trips to denmark and back. trifles falling out of my pockets give me away, the shampoo ingredients I turn into before I ask someone serenely to spill the shampoo lest I become the most wistful person I know. it’s as if light bulbs have never fallen from the sky onto our heads for fear of injury. it was banal and stupid

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    • TWO POEMS

      My hands in your hands become one hand My hands in your hands one hand One by one you’re bending my fingers Making a fist of my hand You open me out Your palm against my palm a slight pressure and our fingers make wings You say I love you Look : I lip-shiver you and you repeat my name repeat my name over and over and we believe My eyes calm down slowly slowly In the peace of sleep

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    • My promised Meridian

      Could you possibly find the name of the City in my own personal riddle; The Landmark starts on the hill And my sculpture is the landmark on Koohsangi Hills Take the letter "Y" as its name A thousand miles above the Sea Level Geographically archived on the life line of my Palms You know, it's my third gravity And makes the gravity less. And this last landmark As if it's a dreamlike bas-relief on KOOHSANGI HILLS And here it is

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    • Fragments of Closeness

      to touch touch if you could the gap the search for a stopgap a plank long ago elsewhere again something separates * the story you tell gentle words that sometimes remove sometimes add to the pain of whatever widens yet seems to narrow * at best you think you write a rope bridge you’d like to bring yourself to the other side like to bring so much to rest * your words warm leaves in my hands like a nest or is it merely your voice your sound

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    • A Drunken Boat and Other poems

      We could ride over the Danube or sit on the step watching melon-rind drift down the tide in a summer that is intolerable while the city is half-asleep or sheltering near the railway track a long way from the city which is a long way to whatever music is sung in its tunnels by the dead who must live there but rarely appear on the platform we enter through the doors of the Metro where the nearest

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    • Three Poems

      Only one person in this world believed me. If I said that I had just come from an old castle Up in the mountains. I have a treasure like none else has ever seen, I have a lot of unique stories about demons and angels. Only one person… He no longer exists now, to tell me what to do with all these things that no one can believe its existence !! It was very possible that I was dead now… That I have left this unjust idea Which is like a jungle that smells like camphor

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    • The Balcony

      Sweden! When a narcissist walks by the birds quit their singing – would you have noticed? because I think they can have it Who dies on a regular day? Who is being sacrificed? Who is suddenly just gone? It's such a weird togetherness that spells being apart Sweden do you want to be as usual again without covid-19 and eat potatoes, a sausage from the pot in peace and quiet? Sweden, this is stupid, Sweden, I can hardly even say it, I'll pick another name instead, Maria

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    • POEMS

      such is the day the sun has all but let itself in the water is boiling start the powdered sesame a small coniferous forest has been burnt with a cigarette butt he left it on the table for me to see the matchbox pensioners, do not gather plastic the sun wants to lift it up into itself blood must be swooshing in the toilet bowl can you hear our country cracking like pine trees in the white cold a prefab home in the meadow a private cash machine a car park and a recycling skip with a lock and key to keep

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    • Once I were sitting on the same table with a true surrealist and other poems

      He were telling me About the voice of the blood About the reflections of the wind About the agitated muses About the stones that burn At the same time his eyes were closed And breathed rapidly I listened to him carefully Without blinking my eyes And in spite of the fact that He made my flesh crawled Clogged SONG In memoriam I throw away your Already really last Box Of cigarettes

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    • Man Bites Dog

      The field. The surroundings. The nearby road, town, city, county, region, country, continent. Can you navigate without a map? What if you lose your way? What if you need to return to this field, to the place of burial. What were you doing in that field? The body would not be useful alone. It is true, the body begins but without the body there is nothing to worry about, absolutely. You wonder why you just left it out. Without other people worrying about everything that surrounds the body,

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    • Against showing pain and other poems

      And after a while my sister’s mouth, shaped like a thimble, does not save my hands from getting wounded. For anytime I thread the needle, I start bleeding. How stiff my father used to be, straightforward, like a needle. He would hit right in the thimble. And after a while I embroider my family with a delicate thread, so they won’t form a tie so strong and their knots can be easily torn apart. I can tear, neaten them however I like and finally get rid of

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    • The Forgiveness of Sins and other poems

      The routine of portakabins, metal fences has dissolved into the disinfectant white of waiting rooms, contoured reception desks, hospital-green sofas. Habit has been replaced by a sort of determined stubbornness, though as plans go, I would hardly call it daring. It was clear: if I carelessly give way to what by its very nature crops up as temptation, then a single rash decision can bring with it a whole caravan of consequences.

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    • Spill

      You bring your fucking pictures up north too. In the mornings, you stare at the water. Your ponytailed ancestors apparently washed the fright off themselves here. Like a cleanse. The Rhine ate it, gobbled up everything. In high humidity, the German curse seeps into the lungs. Now it’s your turn. A horrible hole beside your bed. (Instead of head, out of mercy) Someone put a hole in the wall and used your hand to do it. A mortar-farce. Go ahead, watch the darkness. It’s not only unsanitary,

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    • DRIFT

      It’s not monsters or ghosts they are scared of but animals that went extinct, zebra-wolves, Javan tigers, barbary lions, on their mind those hide under the bed and take revenge. There will be happiness too, spreading at an easy pace like the heavy smell of food in the corridor that is impossible to air out of your clothes even after forgetting the taste. You know, there the time comes when you don’t die yet, only you won’t ever be awake at the same time and you won’t be able to warn one another.

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    • Clooney or Mum

      While downloading some seasons of ER featuring the young George Clooney, I was thinking how I could contact him, and after binge-watching the whole show I started to do a search. Idris Elba is on Instagram, what if Clooney’s there too? But all I could find was ten official fake profiles. I gave up. The idea came to my mind: I should write a poem to him. Another poem of mine, ‘Noah,’ had been published in an American lit mag. There was a roundtable organized on young authors

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    • The Initiatic Well

      Learn what ‘hot’ means. Zig-zag hopes. Grottoes at entry points, a Springfall Lake. Xmas-like sparktreat with no personal objects, prof-looked-down ‘pacifiers’. Carved, uneven steps. I focus on my breath, adjust my blindfold. Vic for victim, Vic for victor. Dante was different, books are different. Being touched is a privilege, you’re not a pussy. Though you may be a vector. Not for everyone. The Professor’s choice.

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    • For Salt It’s Easy

      Sometimes I’m standing at the station, watching the smiling women, how they laugh, walk, talk, wearing pretty clothes, then it comes to my mind: one day they might be lined up, naked, who knows what would happen to them before their execution. Sometimes I see crushed bodies everywhere and I’m searching where the calm will crack, where death will step between the days and get stuck. Because something washes, slashes and splashes us, like the

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    • Alone with others

      Striving Breath From the Evanescento the Here-after, A Lasting Conscience Breath Puffing Whispers, Is Leaping Out a Delicate Clementine, Your Face So Sweet. When the Sacra Of Spring unraveled pollen and pistils Of an adolescent margin Dreams tasted of plum tangerine Your embracing arms Before intersticing fingers Treaded you a destiny to bear with your raven shimmering locks Mandarin moons glittered from, Your Ambrosian eyes

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    • WON’T BE ENOUGH

      As if you had never had a face. You turn away, throw yourself against the wall. I know if you had been programed to move You would be pulling down your red blouse, But you’ve been standing like this for months, Your hair, ironed straight as an arrow, cannot be disheveled. Untouchable, like the pieces resembling body parts, pieces out of which you were assembled. Your arms cannot rotate at the shoulder, your legs cannot bend at the knee,

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    • THREE POEMS

      Finally free of an overloaded backpack, my shoulders roll in time with the waves. I remove the first stone – daylight reveals the scratched outline of 'lemons' across it’s smooth centre. My fingernails spent weeks etching out the vertical drop of the 'l', the meandering slopes of the 's'. I think of a yellow cotton dress, the coarse puckering of her lips, a skyward stare avoiding an open palm. The lemon stone lands with a splosh and spray. The next has stale grey surface, starved of salt water.

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    • PRIMAL SPEECH

      is this a poem is this a word thought verse is this what you expect (what do you actualy expect) do you understand are you even interested even if it does not have a message meaning or purpuse to last and who am I to ask that kind of questions SIRIUS a.) I was not born for the world that exists but for the world that does not exist b.) because it does not exist the sense flows into nonsense is my existance realy just a coincidance

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    • The Sorrow of Young Hana

      hana didn't know it is natural to shave your vagina until she was in high school and went to the swimming pool with friends hanging out of her swimsuit were blond because people are mostly friendly and considerate beings, her friends screamed so you could hear their echoes everywhere around swimming pools and our hana came home crying then her mother comforted her that pubic hair are super cool and that in her time girls didn't shave down there.

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    • No Bread Crust and other Poems

      When I was little I used to be a skinny child my father would sit next to me to make sure I would eat two slices of bread, without the crust. Time turns the tables now I sit next to my father to make sure he eats two slices of bread, without the crust. IN THE END (2) In the end, what remains is the husk, an empty open shell. In the end words abandoned him, he would only repeat “come on” and “give it here” and he was reaching out for death as a newborn reaches out for life.

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    • Poems from collection of poetry Through Grief

      In grandma’s attic, there was an old painting, we found it by chance among the jumble and placed it among the exhibits in our newly founded museum. To me, it was the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen. Via neat and light strokes a nice road led across Saliger’s Bridge. It seemed unbelievable to me that you were able to paint it once, just a little older than us when we discovered it. So, you used to be an artist!

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    • Book of Desert

      The Bedouins reached the fire immersed with the eulogy, the groom throw himself in the circle of the dance, where his parents catch him and he was bristling with arms, at the top of the mountain, the terrorists advanced on the horses… passing the night there. Her heart dejected for the idea that she would die by their hands. And they tear her young body by daggers. The Bedouins on the small horses, in their brocaded belt the short-blades daggers,

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    • Deux poèmes

      j’ai moi-même une tête de chien je prends le soleil dans ma gueule et j’en arrache tous les rayons je te prends par la main et j’en retire tes doigts un à un te voilà devenue moignon nous ne nous parlons plus nos langues sont cousues à nos lèvres et nos lèvres sont tuméfiées les mots perdent leur substance et deviennent fragiles comme du verre ils se brisent au contact de la pensée on tourne en rond dans le noir comme des insectes prisonniers de la lumière d’une lampe

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    • TWO POEMS

      I'll give up my night For the wolf that I have left behind He’s toing and froing In forgotten valleys I'll give him another chance To abandon his old game. I said to the wolf: I will tell you a story Of an Andalusian gypsy, consumed by the confusion of the city You will be healed As you discover that you are not the only one Who celebrates his dead dreams! This is not a secret confession As everyone will give up one day their little delights. The adventure of concealed life Is the only certainty.

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    • LES MOTS D'AMOUR

      parfois les mots parfois les mots d’amour décuplent le vide retors dupliquent le vide autour une sortie d’air une décorporation temporaire parfois parfois souvent ils trouvent leur sens dans l’idée d’absence alors je m’abstrais sans rien laisser à la perpétuité parfois toujours parfois je suis prise au carrefour entre les feux d’une mélancolie rouge

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    • POEMES

      La troupe avait percé la blanche canopée Et, progressivement, la marche des épées, Des brigandines sous la nature océan Fut engloutie par les étoles du néant. Seuls les arcs argentés coiffant les pertuisanes Ondulaient de rayons au-dessus des lianes. Les chasseurs progressaient, pas aveugles, prudents, La voix était un guide -un soutien évident Lorsque la peur inonde un ventre de grisailles. Lorsque soudain, devant !... Un souffle de broussailles. Un craquement de bois ! Ils pointèrent les lances

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    • POEMES

      Rivière en mon sommeil quelque chose ici me retient et m’absente j’appartiens au paysage ombrageux à l’autre versant des rives je glisse entre les marges une voix me murmure ses anges et je songe si loin de revenir Dans le silence froid des nuits d’obsidienne aux heures tristes et lentes je m’absente parfois si lasse et somnolente et sous les réverbères où ma voix sans issue vaine se dissout dans l’asphalte je me souviens des soirs d’hiver et j’espère encore

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    • LE VIN, C'EST DIVIN (extrait)

      Des dizaines de pas descendent nonchalamment un escalier qui grince. La pièce ne s’allume pas, une torche électrique sert de lumière pour éclairer la cave. Un jeune homme est étalé à même le sol, sur un parterre froid et humide, les mains nouées dans le dos. Ce dernier entrouvre les paupières pour aussitôt les refermer. La lumière artifcielle lui brûle des yeux habitués à la pénombre.

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    • L'HOMME DESAFFECTE (extraits)

      La sève du temps est tarie Les fleurs du passé sont fanées Nos âmes sont flétries Une cascade de larmes ne nous épargne guère ne nous épargne rien plutôt ni les revers ni les jets de pierres ni la ferveur ni la misère ni la chance ni l’embarras ni le chagrin ni l’étreinte ni l’espoir ni la perte Une cohorte de cris sourds soudain se dévoile Les sommets noirs de cette année de malaria sont remplis à ras bord Une armée de silences se rétablit

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    • POEMS

      on the street you hear street noise and planes you get into the car: jazz you get out of the car: street noise the jazz continues – you’re just not hearing the jazz broadcasts, webcasts, whatever solely consisting of jazz infinite conjugations of specific subsets of jazz radio stations for specific styles: the delegation of choice in some number of English kitchens radios are playing Classic FM to no-one because the occupants are out in the garden

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    • EXTRAITS DE INSOMNIES

      la lumière du matin redessine au sol les lattes des persiennes. Nous cachons nos yeux dans les replis des draps et retrouvons un sommeil de molle fatigue. Nos corps assoupis entre parenthèses, (une pause) et le temps en attente. Matinée de fin de semaine, les heures défilent interminables et j’entends ton sourire, me vient l’envie imbécile de conjuguer l’amour. Et toi tu me regardes avec tendresse et, tandis que ta main caresse mon visage et souligne mes contours, avec tendresse

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    • MY EUROPEAN POEM

      This poem should be written in English. This poem should be written in German. This poem should be written in French, In Swedish, in Spanish, in my adorable Norwegian, Maybe in Finnish, Danish and Dutch. Baltic languages should decide for themselves. No Belarusian version for the poem, No Russian version for the poem, No Ukrainian version for the poem. The rest are at your choice. This poem should be written in the languages

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    • POEMES

      Poèmes Le chardonneret De la grande fenêtre de ton salon nous observons les oiseaux dans leur maisonnette qui elle aussi a sa grande fenêtre en miniature, le large toit en pente et une terrasse où durant tout l’hiver tu as semé quelque chose de semblable à l’amitié. Nous les observons à l’heure du repas des oiseaux, plus ou moins onze heures pour nous, quand ils se massent tous entre frémissements d’ailes, éclairs de couleur becs plastronnant petits yeux vifs.

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    • POEMS

      As in all the places where we will arrive for the first time We follow the cathedral’s bells: it is the easiest way to uncover The inside of the city. We follow the smell of roasted meat, of rye bread, of coffee: Our bodies, almost transparent from the airport’s neon and noise Demand the taste of something simple. We sleep pressed tightly together, we, children of our own restlessness, Sometimes finding order in the rhythm of the other.

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    • POEMS

      Broken ecstasy Vanished under some boots, Charity ain't no good When varnished tongs Spit venom everyday. Of a dark matter You are all made, Don't interrupt the light Or you'll head to the dark Night with no savior. I know your tricks, World of hate, But light grew in me And love turned me red On you. Your charity goes into nothingness And clowns divert you from the truth; White collars have the hand on you While my racing heart is expecting You, my love lost in these dark times.

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