The Fishbowl

Well, I wouldn’t give a fuck about the New Year


A fat ass guy or a fat ass gal

The sort of fat cat who many have to get skinny to make room for

Had come, so fucking cocky, shoving the new year up my ass

Doing me rather badly


Of course,

The fat ass was more man than woman


He was wearing must    aches    and not    booo  bees

Wearing  must aches   or    having  booo  beees    makes no difference to me

What does,     is the fact of being able to be  fat ass


The fat cat pussymonger


Swiped all the new years all the way out of me and you

And expects

That I


Like him

Be happy go lucky for the coming of a new year


The whole devilish humongous mass of fat asses

In this no good bugger of a holiday

Fucked up my breath


Struggling for breath

A soul-mate to share it with

I am

Peering into the tiny fishbowl,

Swimming with the fish


Like the fish    I yearn for air with my sucking lips     self kiss my self


My pulse beats      in my lips       like the fish

I kiss   and kiss    and kiss          the air only


The new year




and me




Would it hand my lips to,

And my kisses,

Which slice into the teeny weeny fish bowls

HamSeresht, Iranian Gay Poet & Blogger 
Translated into English by Sina Gilani, Iranian Canadian Actor & Director 
The poem was published in Hamseresht’s blog, The Last Surviver of the Generation of Souldmates – his weblog was shut down by morality police in Iran in 2012 – the poet’s whereabouts is not known.

Original in Farsi

The Seconds

I wonder what’s behind your gaze

We are here to pass the moment
Here we are to conquer moments

Do not forget I am here

I’m watching you with all my might

With that fork, are you thinking of pulling out my eyes, I wonder.

What if you’ve poisoned the dish we’re having

We are here to pass the moment
Here we are to conquer moments

Have you made the bed for us?!

I wonder why the bedsheet is all red?!

What harm you’re up to do to me?!

I wonder if your belt is rather though

We are here to pass the moment
Here we are to conquer moments

The shimmering white under your shirt did not escape my glance

Do you always keep a rifle at home?!

Why the fruit knives are razor-sharp

Did you know I, too, carry a knife?!

Show me your fingernails!

Is that because you play guitar?

We are here today only to pass the moment

Here we are to conquer moments

What’s your favorite song?

Did you know I can yell quite loud

Why did you turn up the sound so high?!

So no one hear us making love?!

We are here today, by accident, to spend a few moments, only
Here we are today, by accident albite, to conquer moments

A glass of juice would be nice, after all the bustle;

What if you’ve tampered the juice?!

Are you positive you haven’t locked the frong door?!

Should I believe my eyes? Am I really leaving now?!

Wouldn’t you clutch on my neck when we say good-by?!

The moment is passed

We’ve been conquered

I am leaving

Should I be certian this cab taking me straight home?!

Barbod’e Shab 
Iranian poet and pioneer gay blogger
Tehran Iran 2006

Translated by Saghi Ghahraman Toronto Canada 2009


Choose to sit across from me on the floor

Choose to lift up your knees,
Push back your shoulders, push down your hands

Choose for me to sit across from you on the floor, lift up my knees, bend my shoulders forward

Choose for your lips to close involuntarily

Choose for your lips to open in a form of an exhale

Choose that at the same time a blood drop flow through your lips down your pubic hair

Choose for my hand to rub on the flowing blood drops

Choose for me to rub my fingers from the bottom to the top of your mouth

Choose for me to rub my bloody finger on the side of your hips

Choose for the blood not to stop

Choose for my hand to swirl my fingers in your blood and your suddenly swollen mouth

Choose to desire a cigarette all of sudden

Choose For me to light your cigarette without smearing my bloody hand on the side of your hips

Choose for me to put the cigarette in your fingertips

Choose to bend back to reach the ground to lay your face upward, on the ground

Choose for me to turn my head away from your pubic hair without rubbing my face in the blood that for now has stopped

Choose to ring your legs around my knees

Choose to let go of the sole of your foot to put it on my belly

Choose that this is the only move you give yourself, in silence, laid back, staring at the ceiling

Choose to let yourself be carefree to leave yourself to my drowsy interaction

Choose for the moment to be suddenly gone

We are lying on the ground facing upward

Our gaze and our minds clung into the ceiling

Our hands on each other’s knees, we let go of the knees,
We push back and forth,
Our bloody mouths sleepily bang, back and forth

Choose for my hand to reach my arm and lift it up from the ground to raise my shoulders,
To bend my back forward, to push my head down into your belly

Choose for me not to fall asleep

Choose for me to wake somewhat up

A moment is gone by suddenly

Choose for me to place my head on your dried & sucked breast

Choose to hold your hands around your other drained nipple

To raise my head, to get my lips between your lips

Choose for me to get up and grab us two new tampons

Choose for me to say to you that it is better for the two of us to sleep now

 Saghi Ghahraman Toronto 2014
Translated by Dr. Claudia Yaghoobi 2019

 So Lonely Among All My Assorted Parents

“after work, come right home,”

My old man and ma told me

“this evening we are going out to ask for so-and-so’s daughter’s hand for you.”

I consulted my down there and the response was: Nope

“when you’re done with your tour of duty,

We’ll take your hand and take you along to ask for your cousin’s hand..”

My pop and mom said to me

I consulted my down there and the response was: Nope

“select one from the bunch of pretty girls to go to college with,”

Said my mom and my dad, “one that comes from a good family.”

I consulted my down there and the response was: Nope

Mommy and daddy said to me,

“There are so many gorgeous girls out there in the neighborhood, on the streets, at your parties.

Pick one”

I consulted my down there and the response was: Nope

Mommy and daddy said,

Now that you’re going abroad

find a beautiful girl there

so we can have a blue-eyed grandchild, will you?”

I consulted my down there and the response was: Nope

My fathers and my mothers

Have been breeding canaries with ravens

I consulted my down there and the response was, no, not I

I am one painted raven whom god has sold to my parents,

rather expensive

When I looked hard and long at all the   painteds   I found

so lonely am I among all the fathers and mothers

Translated by Sina Gillani
To be published in a collection of Farsi Gay Poetry


Walks out of her tale
One Thousand and One Time
But cannot
Delay the killing
Of no one


Is no longer a cynical king

To be spotted easily

Scheherazade has bought
A new car
To drive in highways
With a magical speed, and chase
Aloof individuals, made of freshly made entangled-tales,
And warn them


She feels tired quickly,
-It must be the polluted air-

Parks her car under a withered tree

She hasn’t yet unfastened the seatbelt when
A barefoot boy appears
With a stack of newspapers

The boy holds no Aladdin’s Lamp

And Scheherazade wants
To get him in her car
And return him to his story
So, the ghouls, loose in streets,
Don’t harm him

Tough, all the kid Aladdin wants,
Is to sell his newspapers

Scheherazade, tired of trying
Turns the radio on:

Killing street-women in Mash’had, 17 and counting..

Scheherazade is stuck behind the red lights
Murderers escape

One reporter recognizes her,
And follows

Writes a few articles about her One Thousand and One Futile Attempts To Stop the Killings,
and loses her job

Freshteh Sari  

Translated by Saghi Ghahraman

Love Is Not Taught In The Book

By Kourosh Zandi
Translated by Saghi Ghahraman


His hand

Tosses the pen on the table

His head

Leans back on the headrest of the armchair

His eyes

Are fatigued

Shut off


His chest



His legs

Pass their weariness on to my hands

His thighs

Spread open

Lure me to inhale their fragrance

I inhale

And wonder

What would psychology have anything to do with reasons behind our lovemaking

What would sociology have anything to do with our corresponding bodies

What would the meaning of “He and I” have to do with philosophy

My fingertips

Touch the purple veins on his member, trace along

Like the finger of the blind, feeling his way along the brail

Essence of meaning

Lies in the clear supple drops

Oozing out of the tip of his organ

Reason, is the blood circulating vigorously

In the spongy tissues of mine and his organs

When we’re craving each other


Is the moment during which he and I

Wrap around each other

And philosophy

Is his cum





In my mouth

My chin

Rests over his bare knees

My eyes

Watch into his eyes

My face

Receives caresses from his hands


His hand

Picks up the pen on the table


The Wind up Doll

She could hang in in silence
Even longer, Yes, much longer

With a gaze fixed like the gaze of the dead
She could stare at the smoke of a cigarette
At the shape of a cup
At the faded flower of the rug
At an illusory mark on the wall

She could draw the curtain with stiff fingers and see
it’s pouring hard in the alley

A child with vibrant balloons,
stands under an arch
A rickety cart leaves the empty square in a clattery haste

She could remain there by the curtain,
but blind, but deaf

She could shout
with a voice rather fake rather alien, oh, I love..

Wrapped in the strapping arms of a Male,
She could act the robust, pretty Female

With a body like a cowhide leather
and a pair of big firm tits
she could ruin the purity of love
in the arms of a drunk, a maniac, a vagabond

She could be a shrew, and mock
every astounding enigma

She could work on solving a crossword puzzle,
She could be content finding a useless answer,
Yes, a useless answer of five or six characters

She could kneel all her life
head bent, at the foot of dank shrine

She could find God
in a grave of God Knows whose

She could find faith finding an insignificant coin

She could rot down the stalls of a Mosque, like the Ziaarat-Naameh-Khaan’e Peir

She could amount to nothing, every single time,
in deductions and add ups and multiplies,

She could think of your eyes in their Nest of Rage
as if mere blank buttons on a pair of worn shoes

She could dry up like water down its own hole

She could hide the Splendor of a Moment, shyly
like a silly black & white Instant Photo,
at the bottom of a chest,

In the empty frame of a day,
she could tuck a portrait of a convict,
or a conquered, or a crucified

She could conceal the bare wall with false faces

She could cling on to far more absurd roles
She could exist, like a Wind up Doll,
Observe the world through glass eyes

She could lie year after year in a heap of tulles & sequins
inside a felt box, with a body stuffed with husk,
she could shout with every indecent touch of a hand:   OH HOW VERY LUCKY I AM

Forough Farrokhzad
Translatated by Saghi Ghahraman
Toronto 2003