Only 2 Perch Restfully on Barrels of Issued Rifles

I shove it anyway

2011-12-29T22:37:00.001+03:00

Look:
She keeps her arms
crossed, I touch
her elbow and she
opens a book
of Everything. Look
at everything:

A wound is a chance
;an opening
for a dull silver clouds' orgy to frown
;an orange
sunset - or
was it a sunrise when
we collapsed into
each
other? -
and everything.

Alarm... Alarm
snooze Alarm
Alarm
a new wound for us to
heal
;a ripe heart to
peel; and we
could feel a
wound yet to
heal.

Look:
She sits with
her legs crossed and
i suspect
that love
is asking me
to shove
my pen inside her
Book of Everything

Look:
I yet
suspect

My Jinn Have Names

2011-11-23T01:17:00.010+03:00

نارفغ

يرعم

يديوج

هولشي

رهوج

Not for you I write today

but for the rest of the pack

your fire-red memory shall be my ink

but for them I shrink like

a waking hook

and then spread my wings wide

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>I open for them a book:

By the hundreds Ghazals' bones and skulls,

by the the remaining of the howl

lingering in the winds as they around the mountains bend, by the

trembling of the not so decisive moons

you shall know the wolf

had passed by so

let us go you and I to

the wolf

let us stop by

take of your mask.

Would

she prefer a hello or

would he prefer a hi?

dare you ask.

"I used to starve for ten nights or more,"

Arabic speaks the wolf. "Couldn't catch up

with the jacks, and whoof whoof

would drive me the hounds

away from the goats. I

had

no life

couldn't possibly

recall

the last time I had

husband or a

wife. My heart

was the bulk

of my percentage

if you count by bounds and whoof

whoof

would drive me away the hounds."

Stop.

Not for Jinn I write today

but for the rest of the pack

Would

she prefer a hello

would he prefer a hi?

you only dare to ask.

Let us stop here you and I

by the 81 homes we shall cry love and

love

is love,

love is

love.

So sad, so bad is the

quick sand in the Empty Quarter

but I'm taking of these gloves to

touch these very nerves

Yes I got the nerves

to pick up the nerves and touch

the strings of the howlin' wolf

through one ear goes a whoof

whoof through another ear

as I rub the the wolf's belly

Yes I'm so silly.

next to the wolf I bask

Not for Jinn I write today

but for the rest of the pack

Would she

prefer a hello or

would he prefer a hi?

how you dare to ask.

You and I know

love is sheer so

let us sit you and

close to the fire.

Read aloud:

Would

she prefer a

hello

would

prefer

hi?

you cowardly ask.

You and I will read aloud

so the cloud

would

hear

……...us

………….and

………………..cry:

For a home I lost

for my lover is a ghost

stop here you and I

and let us cry

for the sake of a moment

that blends the

wests to the easts and

crumbles the

souths to the

norths

not for the

moment

I thrust

nor for

the moment

you pull back to come

back and come

but for the moment of

aaah;

the moment just before

oooh;

the moment just after

Jinn catch us

making

love

the

Empty Quarter

and my fingers burn

2011-11-06T03:18:00.001+03:00

I woke up this morning
had a ringing in my ear

Yes, I woke up this morning and had a ringing in my left ear

But it's alright I say
i got my fingers and the blues
and a little bit of booze

I woke up like this mourning
like a 27 year widow

I woke up like this right
mourning like a 21 year widow

Grieving is pain but pain
sleeps when you cry it on your pillow

I woke up this morning
starting a new day

Yes I woke up I swear
and had just another just day
waking up is tough but
I woke up any way
waking up is damn tough but
I'll try another day
it's alright I say
i got my fingers and booze
and a little bit of blues

naked come on in naked

2011-10-23T00:17:00.007+03:00

tapping my foot to

the tap of your foot. in your chest,

your heart sits cross-legged

you're at your best, donning

the silver cloud vest; the one

i gave you; the one

that saves

you. you're at your best

walking the walk

of a lover who never read t

the red neon sign that read,

"there is a knives-juggling clown around each and every corner,"

now

these are rainbow times

fairies riding zebras around your head

come on take off that vest

naked come on

in naked for I

love to draw you

when

my lightbulb is on

love comma

2011-02-27T01:34:00.002+03:00

How could you deep

fry my heart

with spicy attitude,

serve me to Tantalus as you

tiptoe dance,

pin me a comma hanging

before vast whiteness,

posture me naked

on a tightrope

over inferno

to draw,

draw me with a mute silver flute,

give me a couple of

heaves and horns,

set me screaming like a fire siren

sinking

down and

down,

and call me your lover?

Sobs, gasps, sobs Mehyar

2010-11-09T21:31:00.004+03:00

In a past so far, the word was that

Dante made a dream to a Siren.

He got up, dusted off his shame and sang:

I' mi son un che, quando

Amor mi spira, noto, e a quel modo

Ch'e' ditta dentro vo significando

What a Ghaando. He never mentioned Mehyar.

Look at him,

.open your eyes

..look through his eyes

...that's no cat

....that's no bird

.....that's no song you ever heard

......look at

.......him,

........open

..........your eyes

...........steady and nice

............here's the

catch

.hear no match to

..his

...sobs, gasps, sobs

....to his crying laugh

.....Open your eyes now

......look at him

.......don't turn your head so fast, so far

........look at Mehyar

.........look at him

Do you know how it feels through out waiting the wailing Siren? sobed gasped and sobed Mehyar.

priˈtend

2010-08-15T02:00:00.006+03:00

the actors are celebrating their spectacular performances. the after party behind the red curtain is a spectacular masonic orgy.

Open.

spread up your red curtains

give me your left ear

relax

move a side

your right

leg

open.

I'll show you

the play

the after party on its prime. orgasms are hitting the baroque ceiling, especially above the billiard table.

---------Q

the narrator is a boy

but this is no time to play

it begins in a secluded five-story

Luxury Hotel

hear

the big hellos

the elegant yellow

smiles at the reception

the deception pretends that it's pretending that little did it know about what happens when time -waking up- yawns and the side of the red curtains kiss each other and close.

the theater is dark and you want to leave, but you can feel the audience is a pack of wolves staring at you. you can see nothing but their eyes in the darkness while you pretend that you're sleeping in your chair and dreaming. Yes, pretend.

Dear devil finch,

2010-07-21T01:00:00.002+03:00

have you taken the train to .............................?

have you taken

a step

before

a step

before the last?

How

Long

Can

You

Last

,devil finch?

2010-04-23T22:02:00.004+03:00

.........................................Give me a Break !!!
.
.
Blue,
...............white an-
d green
is all I ask for. And
I wouldn't m
-ind seldom
orange omenfull visions. I
wouldn't mind if
you smile to me. I wouldn't
mind.
I wouldn't.
.
Por Favor. At least
hug me for that.

Shower Rhapsody

2010-03-27T00:31:00.003+03:00

.
.
.
When the sky was
blue and the clouds -
not talking to each other-
slowly migrated,
it was
Tuesday ……night
and I ……was
singing under
……………..the shower
as if …………………llife
…….was the …soap
……………bar in
…my left hand:

What’s your story …………..today?
The scandalous talk of the hour…The supercilious walk of time..The howl of past
how could you understand?
……………………………...how dare you?
as I imprudently dance ………..for you,
…………………….hopping
from a cloud.……to.>>>>>>……………a cloud
wearing nothing but a
…………..feather
on my head
you chuckle, but
then you hear things and
surrender to a
dead
serious
threat
Oh the fear of hearing
the wail of this syntax
every time you
close your eyes,
every time you
open your eyes, every time
you live
and everywhere
you imagine, dream and die
to be
in
What is your story today? I’d be dead
if I was a cat with teeth too big
for you to adore
and you would be as curious if I tell a little white tell-tale of fairies where
Qays kamasutras Laila, where
you ride the Single Hound to Teniriffe, where
I fly you to the moon on a magic carpet, where
you cling on my shoulder and here
I laugh, elevate
and laugh to elevate more,
watch, laugh and laugh
at the scene of that feather
on my head
at my stiff erection
at the rain
at you
at the fact that
I swear on the feather that
the clouds smell
like your feelings
and I ask
if you could smell me
like a blue sky and taste
my hard feeling

The whisper of newly born seconds:
shhh, past.
Sleepwalk, time.

listen

2010-03-10T20:34:00.003+03:00

.
.
I
.
need to
tell you
.
something:
I’m a
.
poet and I
.
need to tell
you something:
listen

blow my blowout wiswasa

2010-01-30T22:21:00.003+03:00

>
>
Balloons float up
around you
from nowhere
to everywhere.
You look up,
watch them rise,
or is it you falling
down to the same old whaling jingle:
“Oh my people, oh my tyrants,”
sings the lead clown as
he slaps his chest
with ten bloody
fingers
As far as I’m concerned -
or a bit further -
he could’ve had too much
wine and forgot
to shave his
beard since he
witnessed the wooden
sticks get
swallowed by the
omenless snake
>
>
What did inspire
the colorful cones?
They stand above us,
ridiculously pointing up
as if we lack.
“On the nameless bridge they left me” pondering from everywhere to nowhere,
the clowns sing along.
>
>
A red line is a mark
on your face.
How do you justify the fine, thin, elastic, medically white string you hang your chin with?
Did you believe that I called just to ask: what’s English for Wiswasa?
Why did you forget to invite god?
The clowns do clown: “Welcome baba, welcome”

Felinae Confession

2009-06-16T19:24:00.008+03:00

>>
>>>
I have a radical reminiscence of leaving no faint trace. I tiptoe super fast...

Sectional View

2009-05-12T19:44:00.002+03:00

Your point
bribed the view to its side
with an “of” and they both voted
against everything sincere.
Naturally.

Corrupted politics is corrupted masses, and few good assholes with few groupies and a dogmatic language, for which all the enslaved verbs labor hard to translate their original sin:
Ash & Semen.

So save your “point of view” and let’s talk about the view.
How much - really- can we see?

Here

2009-04-07T21:11:00.004+03:00

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Just a little stanza that cries to you:
Eat me and then die
Or take a sweet siesta
You'll remember me
Somewhere between
A sour laugh and……………………bitter silence.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Imagine No Illusion

2009-03-14T19:22:00.003+03:00

.
.
Truth has no concept that you could inherit,
nor obtain, nor
smell, nor
create, nor
see, nor
sing, nor
hear, nor
cook, nor
touch, nor
write, nor
taste.
Infinitive.

Truth is a red red apple that you’ve never seen, touched, smelled, heard or tasted. Your father vividly described the red red apple to you in a colorful, soothing bedtime story. You awakened the next morning in a black and white world, where your father no longer is there. “Cold,” “hot,” “warm,” whisper the colorful fairytales from all the bedtime stories you used to listen to long time ago.

Truth is a concept Men can either deny or strive for. It is the very concept Women always accept but a lot of times ignore.

“Hot,” “cold,” “warm,” the fairytales give directions -at the best of their knowledge- while you’re at your childhood bedroom creeping in a dark windy night, going through grey plastic dolls, white balloons, black tanks, grey clown masks, black trains and bears, searching for a red red apple in a black & white world.

The Thing (Extensive Revisit)

2009-03-01T19:26:00.008+03:00

.
.
.
Prelude
I extended what I
could possibly extend
but I
never reached whatever
I
was reaching for, for I
was either some-
thing or some-
thing went awfully
wrong totally
out of your context,
see, I blame it on
both
my hefty buoyancy
&
your tight con-
text

The Thing
The thing is
sometimes when I say the thing,
you tear the air complaining about everything
have you heard about something that has one wing and can't do anything but fly?

Once, I heard the thing
declaring that anything
that lusts for everything
should build a cloud-castle and grow feather fields around it ……………………………………………………………….yet twice I fell …………………………………………………..on my head
………………………………….all over the sky
because nothing explains if I’m supposed to sing:
………………...........................................ding-nada-ding
or sharpen my sensitive string
to beat the hell out of the thing
till you cry.

Finale
One thing is to say that you love the thing;
other thing is to love talking out the thing
adding one thing to the other won't

reveal the fierce, unconventional finding:

"Any claim blindly aimed to a merry piñata clinging on a dead tree isn't worth anything but a mere thing" – DV

Everwitch

2009-01-18T23:59:00.008+03:00

"i petition
to your hairstyles
not for my own
taste
for i know
i must shut-up
and my
appointed silence is
sett but the
poet h-
e knowes
it is
that if it
be possible
no more Innocent
brides-want-to-be
may be
massacred," she expressed.

She was hunted at a cambodian-insent-scented ballroom where the rhythm of Qadri masterfully sewed distant hearts with a thread of fragile hope and sharp needles of experienced predatory visions.

In her previous life, her last words were a similar quote with variations. She wrote them to a Massachusetts judge.

In this life, she expressed them with a loose dress and an outrageously humble hairundo.

Yes, Mary Eastey has been resurrected in Kuwait City.

Serious Wisdom

2009-01-02T20:20:00.003+03:00

Between You & Me
We were fictional characters between the lines of a conversation exchanged by Luminus and Robert Hays. Fictionally, I lied naked next to you, and you insisted that a leg of each - fictionally of course- should be kept warm between the legs of the other. I told you a bed time story. You reached REM before listening to the wisdom of the end.

The End
He shaved like every morning, lit his pipe and grabbed his mug, rocking his chair at the front porch. Out of the blue,......................................*6erbaaaaaaaaaaaakh* rumbling assassinated the rapture of the morning. He kept rocking his chair and said:

Wisdom
“This country is going down.”

Magic

2008-12-29T03:43:00.002+03:00

if you read

between the lines

you find it

magically funny

forget the tensity

they are nothing

but

sexy rabbits in a

black hat

Color Correction

2008-12-14T19:22:00.006+03:00

.
.
Subtract the blue,
It’s too cold to ask for a blanket in mid February, when the stores run out of scarves in Geneva; the flowers’ market hibernate in Amsterdam; concrete squeaks in New York City where I exclude the three ice cubes from my pure malt, trying to convince myself that the bartender, who resembles wife of Picasso, likes me. Trying not to drown, I Hang on a deceptive cadence that hangs on a saxophone hanging
on
an
exha-
usted
sigh

Feather the yellow, before my neurons make a melodramatic show,
I order,
I need a smile and a hello;
That don’t consume the rest
Of my April emotions.
I need a monsoon to
Pour all over my sight.
At late night, grand and white
Might shine the moon
And when I yawn

Add red,
Make me scream,
“It’s too spicy
to quit” and
I’ll hit on your
muscle-clock
A femtosecond beat
You chill me
with heat
we- Like any scandalous
Angles- should wear
white
swimming garments
and dive -like any
children-
heads
first
into
Hell

Atrax formidabilis Web

2008-11-25T18:53:00.009+03:00

I admit
I thought about you
when I shut my wide mind-eyes.
I chuckled and said:
Oh darn,
how she lures them
with primly pure feelings;
vividly intimate disa-
sters; sad
clowns; scandalous
veggies; innocent
rape; and purely
primal feelings;
to trap them in her fake conspiracy.

I chuckled more and then slept.

Lucid Culinary Unltd.*

2008-11-17T17:43:00.007+03:00

Sweet Siesta
Your toffee
tastes just fine
sticky sweet at this

time of day after lunch

as I watch the soft rain, whis-
pering

your perfect image on
a steam covered window
and I long for
imper-

fection but
you’re on top cont-
rolling fiction

Hearty Pillow
The witching hour is upon us
ignite a fire beneath the
transparent pots
let's cook a dreamI am hungry
he says
Howl
Awaken
the blushing beasts
Tell them, now
tell them
we're having
a sensory feast

and let's cook a dream

not rare nor well done
but rare

and well done
I'll fetch fresh

water from

this stream
first,
she says
I’ll ride you well
up hill
for its raining
down in hell
Then,
You start brewing some
coffee and don't you for
get: a hint
of rum to hunt
the dream
down
Come on
he cajoles
don't quit on me

we've got a delicious dream

bubbling away

keep

slicing

peeling

mincing

stirring

savoring and

licking

my fingers with

tasty morsels
come on
cook and hum that

strawberry-cheese
old hit
I’ll hit on
your drum
till we hunt

that
dream

down

* Established and developed by J & DV

Ye Never Know where The DV Perches

2008-10-01T08:33:00.004+03:00

The Capital of All Funky Smells is where the Devil Finch has recently perched.

06:43 am and the city is wide-eyes awake. Humidity is a God here. It rules the sky, strangling the the percentage mark with one hand, and giving the finger with the other. Behold, the birds flying in slow motion under its influence.

"Welcome to the earthly manifestation of exoticism," greeted me a Kali statue at the gate of the hotel.

"Sh3indik Ehnak (what takes you there)?" my grandpa asked me yesterday when I told him that I was flying there tonight. "Your sailor stories is what takes me there," I wanted to tell him, but I shrugged and said, "who doesn't want to see Bombay."

Analove Letters

2008-09-24T22:57:00.002+03:00

Dear N.G.

Hi there. It was a pleasure seeing you the same cocksucker you were. No fuckin’ clue your clumsy steps taking you where. No bully or heart feelings. I just wanted to up-date you on where I stand.

Don’t get all mad and defiant. I got married two years ago to Ryan, and we live in a nice house. You know, the kind that doesn’t have roaches creeping all around the kitchen, where Ryan and I love to get the counter all wet. You’re still living on the same dirty house, I bet, mailing to publishers your worthless psychedelic shit.

To say the least, I don’t miss you. I stopped having dreams about your dirty orgies and sodomy. I kicked my destructive addiction to your flirty, deceitful eyes and sadistic laugh. I didn’t know how, with you, love lowered standards of living so far and filth hurt so fuckin’ good.

Bye bye, Adéu, Ciao kinky guy. I hope you spend the rest of your life clueless and high.

Sincerely,
K. T.

====================================================================

Dear K. T.,

Alraight! Good to hear from you. But, honestly, seeing you wasn’t a pretty sight. I felt those cuts in your left wrest when I saw you with that clean-cut dude. I also realized that your years of denial have created thousands of roaches in my kitchen, where you fucked and never cleaned. Yes, indeed, I was almost always stoned, but not too high to figure out you were having an affair with that Jamaican guy.

So you got married. Congrats. You looked all clean and nice. You didn't look like a prostitute. He was holding your hand (How cute?). Yet, I could tell your hand was so cold, an ice cube would melt on your "bottom lips" as fast as the fake diamonds, with which he made you shut-up. I admit, it hurts me to see your big black shades and his polo-shirt collar-up (Whatta stud?). Let’s hope he doesn’t catch you with another Jamaican guy. Be careful, you don’t want him blackening your other eye.

I was, after all, a dirty hippy with straight forward kinky lies, dread locks and a refrigerator felled with vegan food. Maybe I was little mean, but I understood that you felt "so fuckin’ good."

Sorry, maybe it didn't hurt enough. Maybe I should've more often used the cuffs. Maybe you wanted harder-core psychological stuff. You needed your brain fucked instead of your duff. For a while, I missed you. But since you left, I’ve boycotted orgies and sodomy, waged a war on my
nasty little cocksuckers, including Naomi, who made us a great three-some. I hope you just realize that I loved you and you screwed me because I was stoned and dumb. I stopped hoping that you'd call me, although from your tone I’m certain you still crave for my “analove.” If he's doing your eye that black, he's not that good from the back. He's so "clean," according to what I've seen. Cold-clean and you know what I mean.

Please don’t send me any more letters. I’m working with a publisher on my first book. If you’re interested, it talks from cover to cover about getting hooked on anal pain and pleasure.

Yours,
N. G.

Dream Letter

2008-09-22T15:27:00.002+03:00

Dear Dreamreader,

One dream, I made a step of a tongue to find myself out of the big bright circle. Amidst the dark, I couldn’t see but what seemed like thousands of brow-knotted wide single eyes brusquely staring at me. “Wakeup,” together they chanted as I slept till dawn. "Eyes do speak" was my first thought when I woke up.

Dreams always have meanings, the Library Lady says. But she closes her eyes when I tell her this one. “I don’t want to stare at you son,” she says.

Sincerely Why,

Meanderego

PS: What's in a step—

that

falls

against gra-

vi-

ty to

assassinate

dis-

tance and

blackmail

prox-
imity?

It took me a
step of a
tongue and
Yaaaarrr

i made it

only this

far.

What's in a step?

That Only Night

2008-09-12T01:17:00.003+03:00

she dropped the spoon and
I admired the way she
struggled to grab it while
she went on praising the moon

we sat at the deck.
it had more room. surly bigger
than the living room.
the table was small and crowded
with silverwares,
clean plates, to be
clean plates,
a box
of matches, her
elbows, a glass-
pipe, half-empty
bottle, half-full
glasses, my
wrests, an
ashtray and
a candle
diligently placed in the middle.
that night,
we slowly stumbled with words
avoiding each others hearts.

she dropped the knife and
I admired her breast, thighs and legs
as she struggled to grab it while she
went on talking about…

that night,
our bodies were vicious catalysts
only to torch the illusory hope.

Vines' Charmer

2008-08-18T15:04:00.004+03:00

i admit
i snuck to your cellars,
had a taste of
your red, red wine
it still lingers and i still
flip from the thrill
and as i confess
the pleasure is all mine
vines’ charmer
let me lead you to my vines

are these your eyes
studying what i sip?
i love to think so and
i diabolically smile. as
i imagine your tongue
caressing your upper lip,
wife of picasso chuckles
and you hide
behind the oak barrel
vines’ charmer
let me lead you to my vines

i admit
i tend to picture
your legs interlaced
with mine, telling
me how intoxicating
is my wine
vines’ charmer
let me lead you to my vines

i admit i
get elated when i
inhale your scent.
when i exhale, i
feel a sweet pain,
as i feel your intoxication
withdrawing from my vein. i
don’t want to let go, but
you keep telling me no

vines’ charmer
let me in
into your vines

The Word Only*

2007-11-19T17:53:00.001+03:00

Don't tell me how hard
because I won't
just speak easy
sew these torn fragments of this
night as-is your
night as-is
night is
always yearning for that bright
light that finds you no matter
how far I go and how close I become
to be indicted as Dionysus

You speak easy
I'll do my part
I'll draw that maze
I'll paint it with haze
I'll call it "The Word Only"
I'll smoke that Haiku,
chew on a Shakespearian sonnet,
sip the "Waste Land" in a glass of wine
I'm just fine with "The Word Only"

"Because I do not hope to turn again"
I won't just speak easy
"Because I do not hope"
to hear you complain
"Because I do not hope to turn"
back and speak easy, so

Don't

don't tell me
just speak easy
You speak easy
sew these torn fragments
I'll tear'em apart
and keep'em holy because
"I am not worthy
but speak the word only"

*All quotes adopted from "Ash-Wednesday" by T.S Eliot.

Flat Disenyland

2007-11-08T02:13:00.000+03:00

Although his complexion was olive, he drew his own image and painted it 20% red, 11% red and 69% red. He chewed on a matchstick and kept a red dynamite stick in his pocket. They called him "little trouble."

The more he read, the more he became convinced that earth was not flat or global. Earth was nothing but red in his mind and no one could take that from him. They called him "big trouble." He had a 100% red vision until...

...he obtained a prestigious degree that added a fancy title to his name. They called him "professor."

After 12 years, he was seen with his wife and kids waiting in a long queue to enter Disneyland. One of his kids wondered if all the other kids in the long queue would be able to enter. Professor and his family were last seen entering Disenyland.

Outside, another kid lining-up in the queue took a matchstick out of his mouth and said "we can't all get in Disneyland. It's a flat land and we're falling behind. "He was fetching something red from his pocket.

That day, no one left Disenyland. Nothing was left from Disenyland.

The Horror...the Horror*

2007-10-18T02:14:00.000+03:00

Don't! Do NOT mistake the wide black eyes' gaze as a mere stare. The 7-year-old kid's eyes are actually hugging the Amazon swamps as his fast-beating muscle-clock shot Adrenaline-saturated blood to sharpen his senses. The Amazon River was flowing in slow motion as his muscle-clock was counting seconds in each split second counted by the digital watch on my wrest.

He didn't see me. But intuition has already told him that another soul is wandering around, vigilantly watching, attentively listening to the apocalyptic rhythm of his heart beat. I wonder if he could hear mine? Because I was not dancing.

He didn't see me. Not yet. We sniff each other from distance. "The horror...the horror"...the feeling that smells sharper than steaknife through a bar of warm butter. The sensation that haunts the simple duality of hunting. Who's the game? What is the game? Why is the game?

A deep breath was too loud of an option. I can close my eyes, but it will not make me disappear and the mere thought of added mystery is not appealing. Enough is snuff Snuff enough Enough snuff. "I'm here," I volunteer. He swiftly looks at my direction aiming his brow-knotted eyes at mines. I just got shot... Please, don't mistake the wide black eyes, please.

"I was shot... like I was shot with a diamond... a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought: My God... the genius of that." Who's that kid? What am I doing in the Amazons? I don't have and don't intend to delve into delusions to fetch delusional answers.

I rest assured because I know that we, the former prey, just digested the horror: The hunter that tastes sweeter than Vodka, Caffeine and Sugar.

* Inspired by Francis Ford Coppola's "Apocylepse Now," 1979; with quotations from the script.

Absolute Lute

2007-07-31T01:33:00.000+03:00

The endless shapes of whispers ornament my sense of existence, coloring my "80 percent red, 09 percent red, 11 percent red" blood: What kills the very insanity that
keeps my neuronal wiring hot
repulsing impulses of my
absolute lute
mentality's sharp strings? If
I reatain my sanity, couldI absurdly absorp reality?

Congrats!
You've just witnessed my dissection of a concept quest. And
If you're asking where you at. Welcome to
the the Devil Finch's secret nest.
You may call it a trap, but I insist,
do your best.

The Resurrection of DV

2007-06-26T00:46:00.000+03:00

"The
original sin is to
limit the DV.
Don't" -- Based on Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach.

I'm so tempted to start this post with a cliche. But no I shall write as sharp as a real devil finch. In fact, I should write as red as the Devil Finch- Cut Throught. And when the DV writes, you better wear a Ga7fiya, get your Misba7 ready, play an indian lute and rap it out like a fuckin broklyn crack head while you sip on the finest french chateau and dance Salsa.

On Magritte

He puts that fuckin apple on the DV's Face and the DV picks through it. He stuffs the sky inside the DV's eye and the DV flys through it. He bleeds the DV as a drop of rain on sad Brussels and the DV grows as wild as Oregon's wilderness.

He keeps constructing and the DV insists to destruct -- or is it the opposite? Fuck, the DV loves playin with the dead mother fucker. Or is it the other way around???

On Fai7a

"The thin-blurry-fine-bold line between a frozen hell and a burning heaven," the DV would say if you ask him to describe Al-Fai7a. You'd think he's - as usual- despairatly trying to push the limit to the cliff. But trust him because that's where he mingled with the brain-washed Ekhwanchy, the Petix sniffer, the fanatic Salafy and the millionair mama's boy. That's where he touched her hair for the first time. That's where he was made.

If you insist to doubt it, refer for confirmation to the only witness who ironed the hell out of Fai7awi's white masks for 20 years without burning a single Ghitra or Dishdada. Feel free to dig Jigannat outta his Karla grave, on which the tomb stone reads: I shoulda been burried in Faihaa.

On Mi Casa

How did the DV develop an addiction to airports, hallucinating siastas at Eco chairs abored airplanes, honest chats with strangers and the random books he picks 10 minutes before his flights??

Mi Casa, As much as the DV hated national categorization, as violent as his revolte against the myth of nationalism, as strong as his urge to burn a flag on a national day, he loves settling at your eyes.

"Why do you leave," Mi Casa asks the DV a strickingly simple question and he can see the lust for a complex answer in her eyes.

"Mi Casa, I do because you're a home without a boundry. Because you build a cage for a Devil Finch and leave the door open. Beacause you set a trap and intentionally forget to place the bait. Because you have that smile of those who know better," he answers with a husky voice as he plays Nancy Sinatra's "Bang Bang" in his Oud. She takes that as an answer, lets it simmer over her heart and appreciates it as much as she appreciates the DV's freedom. She promises him to always be there and the DV promises to always lust back.

The DV is her kite and she never lets that thread go. She's the DV's Mi Casa and he is a wicked Devil Finch. When he arrives from a wicked adventure, she Sings with him and makes him a coosy place at her bed.

"Argue
for your limitations
and sure enough,
they're
yours." -- Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach.

Fuck you. I'll cut my wings if you catch me.
Thank you. I'll sing with you as you fly with me.

Saving Isaac

2007-02-09T17:04:00.000+03:00

The time --
I heard my complexion for the first time. Brilliantly simple it seemed: Alif Lam Meem.

An accusation --
...a one-winged-bug flew around me while I loved thinking that I fly...Myself coffined in my own rug knowing that I didn't: Fie.

The Judgment --
(Was ever idleness like this? Within a hut of stone To bask the centuries away)-Emily Dickenson

A justification --
I hold my complexion neatly folded in my hands for those who dare: While Ishmael clung on my neck, 12
I walked reading the Spider along the road until it had worked its web all the way
to my exiled tongue and farther morewhere a question mark grew so deep and largethrowing its blue shadow over whoever's chain-smoking these thoughts at home.
Knocking at my absence, Abraham waited at my door.
"Does he insist to ever-enter?" I thought.
Looking through one eye, I asked in Hebrew for the
code: "What's aboard a bug?"
In Arabic Abraham answered: "Don't you people see?"
I ran to dust off my ornamented rug...The window was all I could see...Nothing else counted...Not even the glass-challenged bug... Through that window, I commanded: Fly oh my... my dirty... decayed... rug...

After the Time --
Riding the same spider that ate the bug's left wing: Nooun.
Isaac, where'll we be soon? 38

12. Ishmael] Isaac
38. Isaac] Ishmael

When Destiny Pulls a Practical Joke & Calls it Modernity

2006-10-15T19:46:00.000+03:00

What good have modernity done for us? Have we (human race) become more civilized?Modernity helped us to invent cures for different diseases, but it also created Cancer, HIV, Bird Flu, Mad Cow, Bo lowyooh, Khaz Baz.....ect

Modernity helped us beat distance with cars, trains, and airplanes, but it screwed the planet from behind and within 2-3 generations Planet Earth will be Planet Wast Land. Trust me it won't be as pretty as T.S. Elliot's poem and you'll not gonna be driving your Cayeen or yakht to anywhere nice.

Modern thinkers created Democracy and Human rights Hoooorraaay...All humans will live in justice. But wait the presumably most democratic country and the world's claimed Human Right's defender is the US and it has caused only recently more death and destruction than the bad deeds acheived by Bin Laden, Stalen, Hitler, Saddam Hussein, Dr Evil, Grandayzaar, Jongar, Mr Freez, Qathafi, Khomainy, Nabba6at Bosamra, om 9achmat 7ammod....ect all combined.

You might say Americans are fakes, but Europeans are for real. Modernity is the product of Europe a9lan - you might say this while chewing 3elch boga6u elly ree7taa khaysaa- and if your looking for democracy you should be talking about Europe. Come on guys. We all know it. EUROPE STLL STINKS RACISM (no generalization meant here). The Jews learned that before us and from a quick look at European governments' new policies concerning Muslims in their countries and the statments' of Pope Abendectictactoc XIV (Allah yer7aam ayamm John Paul bo sa3bola) I think another Holocaust (Yes, it's a Spa) is gonna take place in Europe and Muslims will be invited there for a WARM dialogue of civilizations.

Back to modernity, yes ....Modern thinkers came up with feminisim....Yaaaaaay....Chicks now can kick boys' ass with some smart, sassy talks about how uncivilized men seek to oppress women and how chicks should GET UP STAND UP (up and really, reaaaaally high) to make men lie on their bellies when having sex with their female partners. Some men liked the idea...why no6? Feminisim is sexy for some men because they would like to try how it feels to be spanked.

Unfortunetly, 13 % of Human females, who came up with the idea and fostered it were too high too implement it. 25 % were jelous because the idea was not theirs, so they decided to dub feminists Godless Bitches. 38 % were married and were too busy raising their kids and making sure that their husbands were not cheating on them. 29 % are still arguin about the definition of feminism (I actually heard a nice lady saying that feminism is the religion for HM Madonna's worshippers.) and 80 % are busy looking for Mr. Whoever, who will make them hate sex and metamorph to heartless FemiNazzis.

Modernism, modernity, Mo6ern, Mo-dren-dren (ettarik or etdig heren), call it whatever you want it's a fucking bad practical joke (Ashkara Dagga). If we are now modern creatures living a modern life with better standards and more civilized concepts and relationships how come men still dominate every fucking aspect of this world. Let's examine the mating system in modern life as it is the most basic male-female relationship:

From my personal experience (nothing scientific), I know that alotta women -both eastern and western- feel more attracted to stronger men. Alotta of them also would like to see their men's power/authority practiced in their relationships as a proof of this claimed power. Why?

Jumping from personal experience to science, I'd like to mention that stronger male mammals mate with more females. In more common words, stronger male mammals get laid more often. That had been scientifically proven as I was told in an 'animal behavior' class back in college.

Biologists also say that female Mammals are more attracted to stronger males because they could provide them with security/protection, especially when they're parenting. One strategy practiced by male mammals to attract females is bluffing. Several studies found out that actually males mammals with better bluffing skills get more Pu#*y than others, which tells me that females do buy the stupid male bluffing.

Moreover, accordin to uncle Darwin humans are mammals. I'm convinced that alotta women (no generalization being made) feel safer when their partners push them around. As I earlier said, it is proof -be it real or false- of their men's power and ability to protect them and their kids. Let me make another personal note: In all of the gay/lesbian couples I encountered during my college years, one of the partners would be the bossy/strong and the other partner enjoyed being pushed around. It tells me something about relationships' dynamics in our civilized era.

You may plausibly argue that we are not mere mammals, but we are unique, articulate human beings who create laws and negotiate to acheive peace. I would argue back that this is an illusion. According to a statistic published in the Sept/Oct 2006 issue of Foreign Affairs journal, the latest centurey was the bloodiest ever. Hulaku's era sounds like a fary tale, compared to the warfare and killings we (human beings) have committed during our "civilized" era.

In conclusion (phew finally), I think I'm an employed mammal in an age that proves that evolution has been heading toward a more barbaric human population and I miss writing college papers. If i make it to next post, we'll do some post-modernism, which could be very sexy.

Do You Speak Violin

2006-10-05T05:01:00.000+03:00

In Violin

I can't play it, I can speak it

Acknowledgment
I saw you
No, I mean you 2
who I spotted once beneath the seventh ocean
praying for two hills 4
on each grew a rose
that smelled like Eve's Apple 6
you were between the hills,
sitting on your knees,
weeping in front of a cross,
calling for a christ other than you 10

The Feature
Slowly the sun is drawn
by the silver strings of dawn
down to an infant April mourning
Magnolia celebrated by green
then the Virgin moans
scandalous-innocent-obscene is the morning
so when stars emerge floating in darkness
cook my corpse a dinner for Tantalus and call the dish Violin

Flood...Flood...Run the wet feet
a loud weeping melody
while the feature artist hides behind a red curtain of a white sheet
wait here comes a moan...wait there goes a sigh
Wait A scream echoes
a scream that
echos scream
Devil Finches start traveling in the artery
jamming all directions in horizon
ornamenting the air with an arabesque of shrieks:
Dione, Pelops is not fin, Dione
Pelops is a silver-stringed Violin

Tribute
I saw you
Your tears were digging graves when
I heard a sweet-wicked-fake cry, yet
so honest
you aimed to destroy the cross and
draw the solo prayer of the myriad of Mahatmas chanting in your chest
you were searching for your arms when
I yelled: an arm to the easts the other to the wests
Topographically planted at opposite ends 40
You desperately pulled as
the ever-multiplying Mahatmas chanted: Come together...Come together
I testify,
you pulled till there was nothing to pullinto.
then you smiled and with a devil finch voice whispered: In Violin...

2.No] yes
3. hills] hells
6. apple] nipple
10.christ] Christ
40. opposite ends] emerging horizons

2006-09-20T01:22:00.000+03:00

Why can't I?

why can't I just announce it? It's the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me. It's Goddess. It's everyones' dream. It cuts through my uncertinities like flawless diamond. And IT IS real.

On Septemebr 2, 2004, we met for the first time. We talked for about two hours and I found myself chatting about the sillyest stuff ever. I felt like a kindtergarden kid so light, so clear and free of reservations. And I missed her the second she pronouced the "B" of the first "Bye" she ever told me. I knew we were gonna meet again, but it wasn't enough. I was already jealous. At whome? maybe at all the people who got to spend more time with her than I could.

My history of crushes, flings, break-ups and regretable one-night-stands was suddenly of less importance than the color of my PJ's (I have some really bad ones). The ones that I really liked seem now like a good memory, yet mere memory that I don't long for.

Yet, why can't I announce it?

I told her -not long ago- the hell with the whole process. Lets just a flee the whole country together. We don't need anybody and we don't need a political identity to call home. We could make every step of ours a comfy home. We'll makeout at every park and beach we pass by (I did mean that one).

Yet, why can't I just announce it? Maybe because I already feel very cheezy and silly announcing 0.5% of the story in my blog.

God Dam the man this soceity made me into.

2006-09-17T00:23:00.000+03:00

The thing is
somtimes when I say the thing,
you tear the air complaining
about everything
have you heard about something that has one wing and can't do anything but flies?

Once, I heard the thing
declaring that anything
that lusts for everything
should build a cloud-castle
and grow feather fields around it
yet twice I fell

on my head

over the sky

because nothing explained
if I was supposed to sing:ding-nada-ding
or sharpen my sensitive string
to beat the hell out of the thing
till you cry

One thing is to say that you love the thing;
other thing is to love talking out the thing
adding one thing to the other won't
reveal the finding: "Anything but gigantic prey clinging on a dead tree isn't worth any thing
but a mere try"

2006-09-17T00:13:00.000+03:00

I'm at work having a freshly brewed a cup of coffee and cig at my cubic. Just asked my manager if there was any work to do and he said no after pausing for few seconds.

My head feels like a Pharaonic adobe... You know...the ones they used to build the pyrmids. I guess zyrtec has become useless as a cure for my insomnia. I had a couple of them last night, yet I couldn't sleep before 5:30 am and I woke up at 4 pm with a severe headache.

I've been smoking like train at work. I dopted this habbit lately to express I don't give a fuck attitude. My neighbor at the cubic-hood tonight is not the poet, even though he's as quite as a poet. He could be a poet, who knows.

I know that he's from southern Lebanon. As I said he rarely talks and don't bother trying to talk politics with him because he'll turn deff. He has the Hezbollah short beared and stick his face to the TV when Nasrollah appears.

I have quite a few Lebanese co-workers and they come from various backgrounds. They're very decsent for all I could say. However, after the recent Israeli war on Lebanon I knew for a fact that they are far away from being one Lebanese nation. I thought they learned their lesson from the 80's civil war, but fuckin Olmert proved me wrong.

It's intersting how religious and political identities clash with national identity. The Lebanese case is very obvious the situation in Iraq is another "good" example of this delimma.

I don't know if handing a copy of Amin Maalouf's "On Identity" book for each and every Arab citizen would make a difference. I thin it would IF they read it.

The Kuwaiti society dwelss in the same dilemma and I discovered that when I went to the US for college. Before that I lived in one of Kuwait City's suburbs where all of my freinds cane from identical religious and cultural grounds: Sunni, "7athar" Middle- upper class. I come form the very middle-class; nonethless, some of my friends are millionaires.

I wanna do a flash back to take you back to my firts encounterment with fellow Kuwaiti citezens from different backgrounds during my first few days in the US, but I'm not on the mood. Zertic did fuck my mood today. I'll stop taking any of that shit even if it means a life-long freindship with insomnia.

The flash back for next thread if I make it...

2006-09-15T15:32:00.000+03:00

Only 2 Perch Restfully on Barrels of Issued Rifle

I'm at work now, smoking a cig at me cubic. I came 45 mins late, which rarely happens and never feels good. Every one seems unusually quite...Friday afternoons. They always scare me. I can feel something is about to happen and I don't know what it is but I'm sure it won't be beautiful.

Last night alright. I laughed till I suffocated in Diwaniya. Nothing was new it was just one of those comfortable nights, no one was winning...(interrupted by work)

Ok, Back...What was I saying...yes, last night. There was no special events, but there was a notable general feeling of satisfaction among my freinds in diwaniya. There was strong positive vibe. Just looking into one of my Friends' eyes counted as a long, good conversation. the diwaniya's white dull walls felt so assuring for some reason. I was caught a couple of times worrying about something, but there were those fast looks that came suddenly to rescue me. "Everything is Gonna be Alright" was last night's hidden/subtel slogan. It feels so fuckin good to have freinds like these. Ones that you could telepathitically communicate with although you're not under the influence.

Work is mellow today, but as I said there is the feeling that something abrupt is about to happen today. the feeling is now fading as I remembered last night.

Next to my cubic now sits my co-worker who -like me- reads and write poetry. Unlike me, he openly considers himself a poet living for poetry. I sometimes admire him for that because I don't have the gut to express this attitude openly like him. At the same time I feel sorry for him because I don't think its making his life easier.

Poetry rescued me from various life-threatning situations especially during my college years in the US. I remeber a couple of termes following my break-up with a girl freind who I lived with under one roof for more than two years. I did not plan -neither did she- to live the rest of my life with her, but I was not ready for the change I guess. So I escaped reality with various kinds of "trancsendant activities" as I called them. ...Ready for the flash back....here it comes:

The seperation day:
We are huging at the porch. She is sobing and I have two options: either to sob with her or to smile my face numb. I choose the second opetion, which makes me feel like a fuckin statue with no feelings, but I have no other options (Do I?). To unleash my feelings means to crush and make her crush with me. I don't want that to happen so I, slowly but firmly, pull away, hold her head with both hands and kiss her forhead. "babye hon," i say. She wipes her tears and leaves. It doesn't feel real for me.

"Ok, I'm single and free now," I tell my self as if I'm trying to look at the positive side, but deep inside I know it's Psycho-therapy bull shit. "Focus...Focus," I tell my self as I'm possessing my back-pack. I grab my bike and leave home quickly heading to school. "I'll finish this term-paper within two hours," I tell myself. I bike so fast so I wouldn't make-up my mind and turn back to the porch where I would've been pathetically sobing like a baby.

To the school I was heading, but GOD DAM IT I made that turn. I knew it was gonna happen, but I was trying to destract the idea by ignoring it. I should've fought it face to face I guess. It happened anyway and I took that turn within 20-25 minutes I'll be biking back to the house with a scotch bottle in my back-pack. "It's not my fault that the county decided liquer stores could open on Sundays..."

It's been 3 years since I had scotch in my first encounterment with alcohol. I was never a fan of hard liquer, but at this particular day I'm not a big fan of life either. "I want to be somewhere else, other than life," I tell myself. The idea of death cross my mind, but come on I just burned Um Kalthoum's "Lissa Fakr" and "Alf Laila" on CDs and I'm planning to Walk with Johnny while I listen to the CDs and play my 3ood. "The plan sounds more fun than death," I tell my self and take a courageous, mouthfull sip from the bottle.

Half way through the wicked Walk with Johnny, I sit in a chair behind Um Kalthoum as I play my 3ood. "De Lelat 7ob 7ilwaa, be Alf Lela o le le le Lailaa." I wake up next mourning, thinking that Johnny lured me during last night's walk and gave me a blow on the head with his stick. "Le le le leailaaaaa," the dead women insists although the Sun is annoying the hell outta my eyes. I missed one class already and I have a sick-leave signed by Dr. Hangover, so the rest of the day is off.....(To be continued)

I'm still at work. The ashetray looks scary. My poet neighbor at the cubic-hood must've hated me for making him negatively chain-smoke.

If you're thinking I slacked my working hours blogging, let me intriduce you to "Masked Unemployment." She's the boss in all Kuwaiti state-run institutions. Did I say that I submitted my Resume to a number of private sector companies? (crossing my fingers AND toes)

Gotta leave...

2006-09-14T04:06:00.000+03:00

I only posted one thread in my first blog and I was accused of lacking respect for women by a judgemental by-the-book shmuck. Well, I started this blog to have an outlet for my negativity (aka shit) and my first subject happened to be women at work. If any of you think I was too harsh on women, you should listen to what femenists have to say about women who slack the shitty work just because they are women.

Nevermind...this thread is gonna be dedicated to old people who lack ambition at work. They suck BIG TIME. As if it wasn't enough that they don't care about the quality of their work, they also start nagging you if you try to be creative and if -God forbids- you try to conduct your work with minimal professionalism, they will be all over your ass telling you how it's not worth it and how insignificance your work is.

During my first week at work, I asked a co-worker about something that would've improved my work if I knew. An older co-worker over-heard me and came running (to help I assumed), and this is the conversation we had:

Old co-worker: "You wanted to ask about somethin"

Me: "yeah I needed background info to wrap up this piece."

Old co-worker: "Well, you know. What you're doing is great, but it's not worth it. Our institution is shitty they take professionalism for granted. Don't bother with it."

Me: "Geee. Thanks for the valuable advice, but if you come back to me with the same enthusiasm-killer crap, I'll kick your ass back to your cubic."

Old co-worker (over-taken by the rookie's stark response): "What? I'm as old as your father."

Me: "I know you're too old to be working in a cubic, but if you'll keep throwing your shit at me I WILL make you feel sorry for your old ass."

He gave me the look and left. Ok, you might say that was too cruel on the "Old Gentelman." I say F him. I don't care if he F'ed his life up and winded at a cubic at the age fo 57+, but I will not tolerate any attempt to make my life as F'ed up as his.

I think such wining-women or apathic old people proliferate at government-run institution where they can slack working hours with their usual crap. Maybe I didn't make the best decision when I joined a state-run institution, but at least now I know why our government sucks. It's only because it harbors these examples and has no mechanism to evaluate its employees. I wouldn't be surprised if the old fart who was trying to thwart my effort was promoted to be boss only because he's been workin here for too long. But I won't wait until I see that day...I'm leaving to the private sector as soon as I get a good offer.

2006-09-13T22:19:00.001+03:00

According to Robyn Schiff,
I'm a "Devil Finch" flying seven
centimeters away from
Her Highness the Sun-- only
to perch
restfully on
barrels of
issued rifles.
If you do hear me singing,
you just caught me in a trap of dissection.
"If" here,
implies an absurd condition
as my complexity is beyond your analysis.

In other words, you don't hear me
because I'm always free...

You don't hear me? Drop your rifle, Fly with me

2006-09-13T05:19:00.000+03:00

Yet another night. Yet another affair with insomnia. Not feeling so bad though since I accomplished quite few aimless tasks.

I read a poetry book a colleague at work gave me. He actually wrote it. Ok I lied, I only read the first few pages. I'm not saying it was bad. I just felt that I wanted to read something great, so I went to Adonis' "al-Kitab." I read 43 pages and then realized Adonis was not great enough for me. IT IS one of those night.

Enough with this crap. It's 5:30 am already, I haven't got any night sleep (I never do) and I'm outta cigs. I need to get staright to the point:

I started this F'N website to show my hairy ass to the whole society, but it ain't gonna work because I can't spell the F word...and I'm outta cigs

There is a big chance my colleague Hashim, who serves me enough coffee and tea to nourish my "very healthy insomnia," will read this blog and identify my sorry ass. So it is almost a "definite probability" all the KoKo-sucking-monkies at their cubics will identify my A-hole and it won't be smelling awesome.

In one hand, they tend to sustain a shit-faced expression all the time and they never stop complaining(My colleagues), so why bother caring about their feelings.

Yet in the other hand, some of them can't wait to kick my buttox all the way to the "Fired!" zone and I'm sure if that happens only Hashim and I will feel sorry for me.

I work shifts. Usually afternoons and nights because Kuwaiti women know shit about equlity plus, if married, they're so busy kicking their nannies' and servents' asses. Tell them you should do afternoon or night shifts - as men always do - and the divas will be transformed to unpaid hookers. You don't want to see that unless you're too horney to mantain your descent image.

Ok, I might be generalizing when it comes to the nannies part, but I INSIST they know shit about equality. Some of them think they do, especially when it comes to hip orange shirts and handsome male electoral candidates. Please mind your cute fashion and plan your next summer trip. Do not give me the equality shit because you're still and will always be that waiting-for-MrRight-or-whoever-marries-me-girl, and if married you're too dumb rt realize the source of your frustratation, which is lack of genuin moaning fiestas.

Look at me. I'm complaining like them now. It must be the BV (Bitch Virus). I'm outta cigs...Horraai, I don't have to work tomorrow....I'm outta cigs...I'll stop complaining and start chain-smoking like a train in my cubic next time I go to work...I'm outtaa cigs....I'll make sure all the divas/unpaid hookers - who complain about passive smoking at work and smoke shisha in cafes- will get cancer in their Bitch Attitude...I'm outta cigs...One of them stole my work and now feels guilty whenever she sees me and yet how she deals with it? of course by being a Super-Bitch...I'm Outtaa cigs, but I will make sure I have a full-pack when I'm at work...It's revenge time,..give u a taste of equality, yet
I'm outta cigs