Dreamcatcher #1.

Royina, I’ve heard the moon can still be seen,
From a corner of your terrace
In the oldest colony of the city.

The full moon.
The blood moon.

Shines, like a nightmare
And its cold light washes the tip of the mosque,
Beside my house.

Royina, there is a song my grandma used to sing,
When I was just a kid.

It said the moon is a land of miracles
And an old lady sits in
One of the craters
Waving her wand.

Royina, tonight is not the night, of the sane.

Full moons, have never been the muses of poets

They are darlings of the wretched.
They are the lovers, of wolves and the insane.

Who have learnt to live with cold moonlight, in their veins
All these years.

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Dyspeptalk #19

The best advice I ever got, was never to settle for something noncommittal, when all I wanted was something absolute.

You ask me what I want today, and I tell you, I want you.

There is no hidden meaning to it, no negotiations, no truce.

I want you, with your filthy mouth and your filthier mind at 3 o’clock every night.

I want you with your fiery temperament and sunny good mornings and it’s been a rough day frustration.

I want you at your extremes.

Don’t tell me maybe if you want to say no way in hell.

Don’t tell me I could behave better if all you want me to be, is less of a pathetic jerk who makes you cry some nights and smile on others.

I want you to be honest.

Don’t turn into those romantic movie characters if you don’t want to, with your entire heart in your palms.

Don’t say you wished for a boyfriend who’d write you letters if all you want is a guy who can rub his tongue under your ear like new denim scrapes your thigh.

Don’t say you want to hold hands if all you want is a day spent in each other’s arms.

Say it.
Say what you want, and let him take care of his own feelings.

Tell him you’d like a vibrator better than a pink sequined sofa cushion.

In the end, that’s all we ever want. To be honest to someone.
For someone to be honest to us.

I want to tell you I would want to kiss you every time I hear a poem in Persian.

I want you to know you are special, and you are intelligent, and you are a good kisser too.

That these aren’t disjointed qualities.

That you aren’t disjointed personalities.

I want you to know that you are a lot of things, and each of them is important.

That you are wanted, for who you are.
That I want you, and I would, no matter what.

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Dyspeptalk #18

There are all kinds of things you can say on your deathbed.

Honey, I think I left the oven on.
If I trusted anyone with my heart transplant, it’d be you.
I know you stole my inheritance, but I forgive you.

There are literally millions of sentences you can end your life at, some impart the much demanded closure for someone dear, some speak of forgiveness or remembrance, some simply go out with a last

‘I love you naked on me’.

There are millions of sentences you could  have ended your life at.
Did it really have to be ‘

no one is responsible for my death but me’

?

We tend to treat death as a phenomena.

The suddenness of which overwhelms us, relieves us of a survivor’s guilt.

We couldn’t see that coming. That was unexpected. That wasn’t anyone’s fault.

We want death to be a heart attack, a hemorrhage, a kidney failure.
So that we don’t realise until it’s too late.

But the truth is, we did.

It was there, in the 3 am phone calls when sleeping pills didn’t care to work, in the midnight highway 100 kilometres per hour drive at a reckless pursuant crash,  the cigarettes littering up the empty dented cans of beer, the forgetting to change dirty shirts, the forgetting to pack your sandwiches, the forgetting to write or call or say hello.

It was always going to end this way, and we knew it, and we never accepted.

Who were we fooling?
Who is left to be fooled anymore?

In the story one man lives beside the Australian cliff where 231 people jumped to death in the summer of 2002, and greets people with smiles and a tray of tea and snacks and patience to listen to their problems.
In the story, no one jumps from the cliff anymore.

In the story, tea and snacks and a smile is more appealing than quitting altogether.

Because a thing that’s already dead is magnificent.
It’s when it starts dying that’s dreadful.

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Artwork by Steve Daniels.

Dyspeptalk #17

“Because sometimes, you have to question how much the world really knows, sweetie.

They’ll keep telling you, love is the strongest feeling in the world.

They’ll keep whispering it into your young nubile ears till the words became your earrings and eardrums and you can hear them echo when you hold your head too close to the broken seashells.

But it’s true, is it, sweetie?

Love is the most fragile thing you can hold in your heart, it melts at the touch of warm hands, it runs through your fingers like the water that rushes away faster when dead goldfish are gasping in death at the cup of your palms.

Love is fragile because it happens at coffee shops or barber quartets, and suddenly your thoughts aren’t yours anymore, they have been whisked away like some toads are, when hurricane strike cities at 200 kilometres per hour.

Love is fragile because you can never tell someone you love them, even when you know you are sleeping on heartbreaks every night and in your dream, her hands are the only things you see as you fall of that cliff.

Love is fragile because you can’t tell her, because if you did, she might not love you back, and it’s better to hurt but not know, than to know and hurt all the same.

Love is fragile because it is afraid to walk through the fire.

It is afraid of pulling up flames beneath a hostel window on the third floor and filling the room with smoke hoping someone looks up at the curdling fumes and realises they have spelt your helplessness without them all along.

Love is fragile because it can happen to you anytime, like a shark attack, or an email scam, because you could be ordering patties and cola one moment, and the next you can’t walk a step without hearing her say,

yes, yes I’ll walk with you.

Love isn’t strong or heroic, sweetie, it is your hands in someone else’s, your eyes under someone’s chin.

When you have it, you’ll know.”

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Artwork by Trash Riot.