Poetry

 

I love you bitch

I’m all yours, Grandma!

Minister of Labour 2005 Original

Titles

• I’m defined by my footsteps, imaginary or otherwise
• Your body parts are parts of the system
• The system is the system is the system is the system
• My Mother the Dick Breastfed me on spasmic orgasmic juices of ejaculation he did not have a use for right after

The Head is Where to Start

On the surface, I am the owner and carrier of a handful of body parts with some of which I’m more familiar, and with some, less.

The head, as a whole, I am familiar with.
The face, on the front of head, and over the head, my eyes, my nose, my mouth, lips, eyebrows, forehead – familiar. The two eyes, set side by side on the the top-section bridge of the nose; the bithches can’t look into each other’s eyeballs, that’s fact. We’ve created mirrors for that reason.

The nose is there only to sneeze, smell, sniff, and snort at times when a specific indulgence of choice is pulling hard at the senses.

There are two ears, one on each side of the head, can’t be bothered to hear each other’s ringing of the ear – I wonder why not.

Then, there is the mouth, which can’t be seen by the eyes – the importance of mirrors – but could be well heard by the ears.

The mouth is kept shut by two lips, and bursts open by an urge of the tongue.

There is a forehead on the front of the head.
It’s not assigned to do much aside from taking a beating from open palm of my hand when I am frustrated, or lean on another forehead, skin bared or veiled by an ever-reluctant mane,
to share emotions.

And yes, the skin
The skin covers all ‘round the body, keeping my innards and insides from falling down and apart and flying all over the place.

The cheeks;

Without any holes, and openings, like what eyes and ears and mouth do, they reveal a huge lot by changing color, feeling warm to the touch, guiding a teardrop downward, keeping stiff when crashing with thunderous heavy slaps.

That’s not all.

There is the neck, for example, binding the head to the rest of me. I will go on in few minutes; don’t walk away

–
Saghi Ghahraman
King & Dufferin Toronto 2011

Doesn’t smile

I want him to smile

I want him to lie back and smile, motionless

I want to suck on his genitals till it runs out of milk

Till he smiles, and a tear runs down the side of his left eye

He doesn’t smile

He doesn’t want me to milk him. It hurts, he says

He’s got no genitals, he says

He says I’ve rubbed him out of it;
he lies

He wants to move on top of me

He says I’m the one with genitals;

he lies

He wants me to keep still while he licks me

Close my eyes, and press my lips together

Then he wants me to open up in a form of a smile

What a change, what a change !

Patches of black hanging down the sky

Then I creep up his leg; a roach, that’s what I am

What happened to me, to me, with my big blue eyes !

I creep up his leg up up up

Patches of black
What a change in the sky.

He lies

A good erection, yes, the roach bit the penis

What a change;
I remember things

Things have changed

I remember everything

The roach crawls down slowly, feeling as tiny as a lonely ant

Orange light falls on the bed

It is an isolated room

Down on the floor is where we made love

There on the windowsill, where we sat watching neighbors’ commotion

They were loud at times, then we made love

I used to envy him for his thirsty vulva

Feeding him my forefingers I would envy his pain

He had pain; he says he still does

He says I rubbed him out of his genitals

I want him to lie back, stay still

Then,
I want to crawl up a wall

We did nothing during the night

Crying yelling shouting whining was all we did

We used the night for a stage, a crazy one

The curtain rise !       The curtain fall !

Rise !
Fall !

Rise !
Fall !

Rise !
Fall  fall   fall,  stupid !

He is beautiful, sleeping, sun rays on his body

Kisses, how many kisses

Countless kisses my lips tattooed on his skin

How completely, entirely, absolutely he is mine

I want to wear him on me

Wear him on my bones

He is a child born thousands of hours ago

In a shell, dark inside and chill

He saw me on a dirt-road; why was I purpled ?

The road ran down a valley, deep and dense

But,
why was I purpled ?

I showed him my womb     Bloody safe warm soft, ah ? I told him

He is an enchanting goddess with eyes of sapphire

Wearing sky blue sandals

With a dust of purplish silk as a gown

I want him to smile

He wants to paint me all blacks & reds

Then;
he wants to hang me on a wall, wash his brushes, and walk off

Bright sapphire smiles
Red ruby smiles

Sit back like a motionless dirty sea
Like a womb taking back his child

No,
I don’t want to hide you

No,
I don’t want to hide

Why don’t you hang me up a tree like a silly star

Yes,
of course I hear the gnawing

Yes,
I know it hurts

Yes,
I see the clouds are crumpled

I’ll wash your gown, not to worry.

I’ll wash the sheets, bloody sheets, yes.

  —

Saghi Ghahraman
Davenport Ave., Toronto 1999

I carry womb

Womb carries child

Child carries hunger

Hunger carries pain

Pain carries hope

Hope drags us into wars hoping to catch something anything less painful than pain

War carries death

Death carries doom

Womb carries child

Child carries hunger

Hunger carries pain

Pain carries hope

Hope drags us into wars hoping to grab anything less painful than pain; except death teams up with doom and carry us away

I carry on and carry my womb along, anyway.

.

Saghi Ghahraman
Bathurst on Finch Toronto 2003

My lips are parched,

Like my self;  oozing with a shy blood

.

Brutal shears trim blisters inside my head with a slow hand

I retreat to cool bed sheets    fall in to sleep

    …then I laugh hard

       …turn back to the self

   …tilt the head back

…slap the knee with open palms

…grasp the belly, tight

I shake the laughter off

Nearly noon        of a bright day        every day     when things end up into a flat face – that’s the time when time gushes in, gushes out of the pit of my insides – I laugh hard

Then, comes morning

I breakfast a heaven with two pills an’ a sip of milk

I don’t remember what I do next

From the inside of my cunt, life vibrates

The hollow inside remains hollow for quite a while

I don’t remember what I do next

The shadow in the background of love is mocking;

I laugh hard

.

Saghi Ghahraman
Military Trail Sacarborough Toronto 2002

How

I yearn

To stretch my limbs

To the rhythm of the feast

Plump worms are having

Over my head

There are noises, if I listen

The standing up of hair

Teeth sawing on teeth

Then,

I let out a moan

I hear

Seepings

In that hole

Where I used to let my finger taste

The moist of an un-interrupted sex

Where roaches are feeling their way in, right now

My armpits are tight pressed

My legs pressed tight together

White, under a layer of worms,

As I lay here in my grave,

I hear raindrops

Green grass up above

Tiny shoots glitter beyond tiny drops of water ants scurry into the hole

I yearn

To roam

On the surface

Of my vulva

It’s a long wait

It’s a long wait

Wind
Whistles, teasing fronds of long-lived trees

Then, rushes into the under

Or
maybe it’s a snake I desire
To circle the neck
Fail the tits
Slip down below
Face-first into the hole
where I used to let my finger taste the moist of an un-interrupted sex

Or maybe it’s a snake I desire to slip face-first into the hole where I used to let my fingers taste the moist of an un-interrupted sex

.
Saghi Ghahraman
Finch & Bathurst Toronto 2003

I can’t be with-child!  that’s what I told them. I am a child, I’m only 3.

You are 43, they said. Besides, you already have one.

ohh, I said.

I took my harmonica to my lips to play him a tune of lullabies

No no!      They said, he is a grown man of 18.

Oh boy
How could I forget

The child is 18,      I’m 43.

At the edge

Of a cliff

Ready to jump      off

Doesn’t it look like his shoulders, I say, broad and tanned, the cliff.

Hanging on I want to hang on on him

I love him, Don’t I!?      A son of Mine    43     I Do

Remember the night you were conceived?

The night when they entered me

Mother was second in line, right after my groom

They entered me one by one

Ravaged every piece        of me

I say to him, we were, weren’t we, happy, the night when you were conceived, oh boy

Me, lying flat, You, just about to happen,       Oh, boyOboy

No!

I said, I can’t be with-child, don’t you see?

Granny says then, Yes! no!

Mother says then,  No! yes!

He says,  –he, your father –  Ladies, allow me to handle this.

Looking at you conceived at that split second, Mother says, Yes. He does handle, rather well.

The child is 18

I’m 43

My throat is sore

The child is sweet

I’ve got to fall     down

My mind’s a jumble

Her hands with rough nails

Caressed my insides; Mother is ugly

I am 43

The child is 18

I love him so much

Aren’t his shoulders, Or, the small of his back, astounding!

My child, even though you’re sweet, my throat is sore; don’t you see?

There is a wound up here

There is a wound down here

.
Saghi Ghahraman
Military Trail Scarborough Toronto 2002

We open the window

Cold breeze rushes in

The dead-dearest averts her eyes

Chill blankets over the room

We shiver

The dead dearest is lying on a pallet in a far corner of the room

We’ve robed her in a white gown

We’ve wrapped her in a white sheet up to her chin

Her legs are trembling

We’ve braided her hair in two ropes on both sides of the face on the pillow

We open the other window, too

Chill clings into chill

The dead dearest turns slowly black & blue

We pull the sheet away a little

Push the gown a little up

We open her legs and enter

We sit up

Smooth her gown down

Pull the sheet up

We sit back

The dead dearest swells slowly

Sheets flap up, and flap a bit higher

We keep her legs ajar an’ grab on our off-springs

We arrange her legs side by side

Smooth the sheets over her legs

The dead dearest shivers

Babies shiver in the cold

We drink tea

We open the window

We let go of the babies over the jammed streets

We drink tea

The dead dearest is a dear one

We go to her

Pull the sheets away a little

Push the gown a little up

We open her legs and enter

The dead dearest swells up

We open the window
.

Saghi Ghahraman
Military Trail Scarborough Toronto 2002