Total Pageviews

Saturday, October 08, 2016

There is a beautiful wine glass and scent of aged wine in the spacious cold loft shaped studio of an old actor, there is a portrait of sohrab or the actor's youth on an altar shaped out of work radiator.. there is a night bus to paris and it is 2 am and im buried under my fall coat with a thick shawl wrapped like a snake around my neck.. im writing to you in desire, im speaking to you in pain, i am waiting in my sleep and there is a night bus to paris and it is  2:30 am and the dim lights, no the cold, no the thrill of reading you wakes me up in minutely intervals.. the tip of my nose you would once so lovingly write about feels like an ice cube and the road to paris stretches under us in despair with the end of the road an infinite black sucking us in and the darkness swallows, there is a night bus to paris and it is some minutes past three am and i am half dreaming half wishing i would dream but i'm writing to you in desire and you are asking me to sleep and there is a beautiful wine glass on the table of the cold loft shaped studio of an old actor who is reciting hossein panahi and the night bus to paris keeps us in its shadows like a belly of a whale. We grow old in the belly of a this whale but i keep waking up to read you

Sunday, September 04, 2016

Something from July

Thursday, August 18, 2016

Image to be added

She said I get consumed by people, I do.

Thursday, July 21, 2016


The cinammon sprinkle is hugging the surface of my espresso right now.. And when i wrap my fingers around the waist of the white china cup it holds on tight to me , when i bend over to kiss your sunburnt knee the smooth hair on your legs caress my lips and the skin im touching  becomes mine momentarily then i think of how my cheek wakes to the roughness of your beard purring like a cat layed out in the sun and what they say about touch on an atomic level or the extreme closeness instead, a repulsion of molecules or a chemical reaction inversely ... 
The particles we are made of, our matter.. How much of us is water, metal, fiber, air
Much dead skin is ressucitated against how much dead skin when you touch me ...and if two deaths cancel each other out 

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Because losing you is still a fresh open wound...

Saturday, July 16, 2016

Honey melon and sweat

Summer nights are accessorized by fans and open windows and a breeze that shoves the curtain out and sucks it back in like an indifferent mouth blowing and popping bubble gum... And for flustered semi nudes who lie underneath those mouths hoping the refreshing breath would lull them to sleep.. A semi nude who was fully clothed just hours before, biking home, glazed in summer sweat, passing one beauty after the other, checking her own reflection in store windows, insecurities bubbling up and settling down by a desiring gaze. Feeling like a passive slice in an impossible meat market. Counting the grey hair while getting ready for bed. Summer nights don't acknowledge your need for solitude. They want you in your best shape and on your best behaviour ready for the competition. They smell like honey melons and sweat, summer nights are cruel and liberating at the same time, like walking with a pebble in your most comfortable shoes.