Me, I, Myself

Sixty-three poems by the Iranian poet, Maria Oosh

Table of Contents

The tortures of cries

The scarecrow

Pity

The play

Untitled 1

Days

It’s too late

I cry when

Nobody

I was never sorry but …

Who knows?

An idle talk in a restaurant

Untitled 2

Some advice

No wonder

Amnesia

Chess

Untitled 3

Untitled 4

Birth

NOW

Untitled 5

All but death

All day long

Wish

I’m looking …

Answer

My room

Headache

Untitled 6

When we plant …

This morning

Enigma

Sorrow

I miss myself

Woman

Untitled 7

Worry

The end

Untitled 8

Medusa

Still in love

Mission

You

My body doesn’t fit me

The day

Untitled 9

Fear

Untitled 10

The question

And laughing is a sad verb

Love

Take a left

Every tear, every “O”

“I want to fly blue”

Untitled 11

Untitled 12

Untitled 13

Untitled 14

Untitled 15

Untitled 16

The luny law

The tortures of cries

Look!

The dead bury the dead

and clouds cry in pain

Men born to die

and the road ends

where all cruelty begins

where the torture of cries is heard

and good god looks upon us

the good god!

The scarecrow

The man stood on his voice

and stretched out the loneliness of his arms

he was crossed to the wind

wisdom came

and put an absurdity hat

on his proud head

love tore his clothes’ faith into rags

and as the mocking birds

were drowned in the pleasure

of pecking into his cold eyes

in his marshy truth

he stood still, upright and fable.

Now, he was a scarecrow

Pity

Only when I lose my eraser

I feel awfully sorry

and that’s when I run about my memory

asking for blood

and really feel like being cruel

as I used to be in my childhood

when I would burn the little ants of hatred

watch them pop out in nude flames

and then set them a funeral of earth and tears

Yes, I wish to be mean

like the old cunning fox

in grandma’s stories

and pull wool over my own eyes

to tear my emotions’ flesh

and never worry

whether it’s fair or not

I know, I can’t

it's a pity I was born kind

The play

As my virgin wounds yawn in solitude

silence slowly grows hatred

in time’s deserted womb

Go!

no one is born for my content

and you know better

no wall is warm

who cares?

the sun is still shining

and the mountains won’t move

even if you have the faith of an angel

A cup of philosophy

two spoons of history

little crumbs of thought

and an indigestion of belief and doubt

Life means:

No! No! No!

yes, yes, yes

No!

(I put my cross on the hip of time

it was red before I was on it)

The wind won’t hear you

the wind won’t hear you

and the blue is deaf enough

to celebrate with its light and thunders

The fire is put out

the ashes, gone with the wind

the song is sung

what a bitter kiss!

Must I believe in shadows

and in the light of the hands

that will save the world?

I’m simply standing

on the last line of this page

where are you reading from?

Untitled 1

I can swear

I’ve lost you somewhere

maybe down the road

which ends in destiny

or in the tender looks of elegance

somewhere by the shore of emotions

Why?

why should my pockets always have holes?

you seem so far

but I can feel the very beat of your breath

So soft, new and friendly

I don’t care

I’ll row all the seas

wander all the lands

and trace the torments of faith

to find the lost music of my heart

There is a new shade of blue in my horizon

forget the prophets!

I was born to see you

Days

The windows are dark

the curtains, darker

Someone must complain

to the Chlorox making factory

Another day

and I fill up my time

passing by phony figures

answering phony smiles

squeezing the phony warmth of the hands

which fade in the dark

Yes, I know

I must learn to love truly

and never care or fear

when they judge

and lead me to the gallows

just because ADAM and EVE

were afraid of the happiness

they were given for nothing

Yes, I know

god’s line is still busy

It’s too late

Ah!

The fresh breeze of wrath

the good old feeling of being mocked

to kiss the lips of pain

to give fear a big hug

to sigh love

and to murmur stupidity

“Oh, how do you do?”

Hell!

It’s too late to die

I cry when

You tell me:

I’ve no heart to be broken

and no eyes to get wet

but my dear

I cry when I’m showered with pain

So that you’ll never know

Whether it’s me or the clouds

Nobody

I’m nobody

and that’s my great happiness

no chains of existence

not of personality

no faith to stay

and I never get bored

’cause I live

as if I never die

and I’ll die

as if I’ve never lived

I was never sorry but …

I ran it all

from nowhere to nowhere

and never guessed

that clouds are nothing

but vapour

and when I fell apart

with no love to sew me together

I was never sorry but

to go up

and look down

and find you there

down there!

Who knows?

They must have lurked somewhere here

its on all the walls

wanted: DEAD or ALIVE

and children are warned

about a mooning lunatic

before going to bed

I didn’t ask them

why is man born

I didn’t want them to give my childhood back

(I didn’t have any)

I didn’t ask them France’s capital either

or all that you may call

extra-sentimental rubbish

My mother says:

time, it’s a matter of time

you see

people forget

god forgives

who knows?

One could vomit history’s sin into a holy tub

or

stand on one leg teaching people how to walk

It was midnight

when the sacred blood was spilt

when the wine and the flesh

were prepared for the Sabbath feast

who did it?

someone must have!

maybe me

with my eyes closed

maybe in a dream

And there was the altar

I confessed that I would never confess

“Your shoulders are light”

they said

“they can carry the cross”

They decided

and the nails were of accusement

hard enough to stay

and I fled with them on my body

A miracle?

No, necessarily not

maybe among the crowd

there were still

people who would like to forgive

and gods who would like to forget

who knows?

The twenty-first century presents:

Atheism and hatred

One could laugh aloud

showing out all his teeth

Think about men with elastic noses

strolling upside down, hand in hand

Ah!

maybe I could confess my foolishness

maybe I could make a revolution

maybe I could bury myself as a rebel

maybe…

stop!

A hard story.

turn off the lights

maybe before,

down the B.C.s

around a small fire

there was a narration about a man

who laughed hurriedly

for men to forgive

and for gods to forget

who knows?

An idle talk in a restaurant

He said:

Life is a headache with no aspirin

and I know I’m reaping

before I can sow

it’s just that

my hunger has turned into thirst

and I have paid homage

to every fool in sight

just to live the better

tell me

why can’t there be blue roses

or men with glass bodies?

The earth is still moving on it’s own axis

on mine

on yours

on theirs

on … oh!

listen.

the crows!

look.

they have turned into vultures!

they are waiting.

A black funeral

do you hear?

a black one!

and I simply sighed and looked over the menu

and asked him:

“Tea or coffee?”

Untitled 2

Thanks to Satan

I’m still breathing

never known why

and my pale face

with all its paleness

smiles palely

to every pale flower in sight

I,

love

and hatred,

know the end

yet we go on

that’s our last and only choice

Some advice

I was standing in the line

when it happened

An old blind man behind me

tapped on my shoulder

and gave me some advice

“Don’t pull that dagger off your back

for

it won’t stay long in your hands”

No wonder

If the heavens turn into green

and the earth into red

If banyans grow

metal apples

and salmons survive on land

If men grow wings

and talk with the tongue of angels

I won’t call it a wonder

Listen!

I may still even not know

how to solve a riddle

But life’s taught me

how to deal with god’s tricks!

Amnesia

Sometimes I even forget the very smile of children

the music in the raindrops

that disturb the dancing petals in the wind

the whispers of silence to solitude

the very beat of love

in faith and fate

and all the lovely things

I could still wish and appreciate

Somehow I forget to get sick

and forget all that one could

or could not forget

and all this happens

when I just try to remember

why am I living?

Chess

God was bored

and he has just left playing

now, there are only two squares left

two squares and one piece

it’s fair,

isn’t it?

Untitled 3

I still don’t know my birthday

like a bastard I stick to every calendar I see

January?

April?

December?

Maybe I was born on Duke Wellington’s birthday

maybe on Lincoln’s

maybe on George Washington’s

maybe …

who knows?

It can happen

to anyone

anytime

anywhere

yet

it’s just that

the red never turns into white

remember

ugly ducklings seldom grow up to be a swan

Untitled 4

T

e

a

r

s

and the poet disappeared by the next turn

the road

broadened with the downy dried pains of

f

a

l

l

i

n

g

leaves

the blue,

playing its best music

the trees,

waving woven memories

The girl stood there

her eyes closed

her hands longer than her legs

and as the sky suddenly sighed its solitude

she learnt

love means:

You’re a lightening

and I’m naked in the wind

Birth

“Born to love”?

that must be a great thing to die for

specially when this calendar has seven days

and you know well enough

that you were born on the eighth!

NOW

NOW loneliness won’t bow to me any longer

and on the road as I walk across beauty

joy won’t take off his hat to say hello

My heart has divorced my mind

and the agitation of my foolishness

plays my spoilt silence in vain

I do feel cold

but won’t shiver

the window is only an excuse

so that I won’t get lost in the crowded room

Untitled 5

Me

Me

Me

Me

You

We?!

All but death

In my heart,

there's a wedding

in my mind

for his daily bread,

a ten year old

pick-pockets my joy

In a funeral

only the ants are truly sad

the man in black

breathes white in his lungs

Thanks to life

sugar is still sweet

violets are still blue

and my breakfast with all its “breakfastness”

is still a breakfast

nothing special

last night

someone was plucked off his own smile

and I need not any candle to see the dark

It seems

all die but death

All day long

Each day I walk into my sorrow

shake hands with my fear

and make love to my silence

in my happiness

the rising sun sets with desire

as I kneel by the solitude which is not mine

and feel death’s hands

on the shoulders which happened to be mine

Every day, all day long

I feel a little like night

and I search for the stars up there

my sorrow has done my soul grey

There was a time

when kindness was a kiss

on a shy forehead

and a smile

was a reward to the faith that made rain fall

there sits in me a four eyed girl

rising an ugly witch

breaking into pieces, for nothing

Every day, all day long

the windows

stare at the doors

waiting for each other to open first

Every day, every day

all day long

I fondle with my fear to sleep

then I run to meet happiness in secret

sorrow comes, holds her hands

and they walk into where

all day long, all day long

I sit by the sighing fire

and mend my dolly’s clothes

my dolly is silent

my dolly is silent and loyal

my dolly is silent, loyal and lovely

because she can’t learn

all day long, all day long

I think how I should wake up

I think how should I tell them that

my dolly is only a dolly

and just because her dress is pink

it doesn’t mean that she likes pink

she can’t breathe

if so, she could tell a lie

and if she did, she would break my heart

then she would no longer be my dolly

all day long, all day long

I think how I should not think

The books on the shelf are tired

the books on the shelf are tired

of being read over and over again

and unlike every day

the curtains don’t hide and seek with the wind

my dress has become small

I was born with an old soul and a young body

my socks don’t fit

and as life gossips with death

about fate

my body grows old and grey

I shall rest in the womb of a mother

kinder than any mother

O grave digger!

apart from my clothes and food

what do you dig?

Every day, all day long

I wrap my voice with my fear

and keep it in my pockets

Now

The truth is a woman

who sleeps with another man every day

and at night

when my slippers become too small for me

when words are only tortures of dungeons

I listen to the wind

maybe some day, he should whisper

the story of a little girl

who left her eyes by the window, forever

Wish

you’ve stolen me from myself

so kidnap me from here too

I’m not eager to plough seas

or to sail on wind and rain

and in me

you can find no love

for marble palaces

and fabled kings

and no desire

to see the crowded pyramids of solitude

or to listen to the stories of silence

I just want to go

for a traveler is the painful infant of long roads

with an endless mother

drinks milk from his own foot and

is adored by the friction of his own wandering

Endless mother, endless love

the tremblance of my finger tips tells me

that I must go

that you must play the flute

in your eyes

so I shall creep

out of the silence of my cold basket

but is this just a wish?

ah, now I know

why I hate the birds so much

the ladder to every disgust

is jealousy

I’m looking …

I’m looking but can’t see anything

listening, but can’t hear

Homer.

Beethoven.

Happy men.

But no!

to be is always better than not to be

and not to know is better than to know

Answer

Life is death

death is life

still how much of a death is life?

Silence?

Socrates drinks his faith

My room

Half open windows

an empty ash tray

a broken cup

a piece of paper

ragged clothes

sorrow

fury

eternity

and the confusion

which shapes the inside

Headache

I’ve got a headache

and the doctors try to fight Athena

with aspirin, in vain

Untitled 6

There are words, one can’t say

cries, one can’t hear

shadows, one can’t see

There are things which are not

things which speaking, looking and listening

have nothing to do with them

and we must only be endowed with their love

When we plant …

When we plant the dead

they never grow

the fertile soil do no good this time

This morning

This morning I closed my right eye

now I’ve got the day and the night

both at the same time

Enigma

I will never know

whether the doors are to open or to close

if the closet keeps things from me

or me from the things

if I hug coincidence

or it hugs me

I will never learn

Why kindness is fear’s shadow sometimes

Why do flowers die when they wake

and why isn’t the sun

tired of rising and setting every day?

But I know why I write, good enough

every word is an orphan

and I’m a rich generous lady

Sorrow

Tonight my sorrow

is only for you

not for the sky

who weeps soundly on the shoulders of earth

not for the wind

who moans like a hunted beast in the rain

my sorrow is only for you

I walk in the streets

in the very shoes I as wearing when I left you

and spit myself

on the diary

I’ve left on my desk

I smoke you

and leave your eyes

in every pedestrian’s face

Ah!

what would have been

if I had made love to you

in other people’s shoes?

Tonight my sorrow

is only for you

the streets are only excuses

this is you I’m walking into

I stop to tie

the lace of the same shoes

I was wearing when I left you

with the same little hands

you loved to stroke

My sorrow is only for you

and I try to swallow my sin in vain

I’m choked with tears

like a man bearing the pain

now I’ve got an ADAM’s apple too

I miss myself

I miss myself

like when the weather

used to smell of stars and oranges

and as each day tiptoes on

the mirrors grow more and more stubborn

in showing the same thing every day

My left hand fondles with my right one

and I miss myself so much

and I miss myself so much

as if

solitude is a tent

love has forgotten to put down

Woman

A poet

a book worm

a rational being interested in philosophy

“a woman”

erases all the above

but I don’t care

for I’m a woman

even if I were to be from the ribs of ADAM

Untitled 7

life is a bad job

you can’t take leave

Worry

It’s summer

and I wish to write a poem about fall

weekend dinners and night strolls

insist on my happiness

Absurd

that’s my reputation

Ah!

every time I wish to laugh a hell

or cry a heaven

a woman bends in me and does it

as if illusion is chewing gum

one can never throw away

The end

Some one is making love to me

but in your shoes

My heart is no more an inn

for your wild horses

and even the Jesus in your eyes

can no longer crucify me

on your shoulders

I was the one who sculpted you

and now the prayer is done

though no wish has come true

Last night

when the sky was disturbing the clouds

Eros’s anger

I heard Eros’s anger

“I shall destroy all the small gods

so man can have a good excuse to worship Jupiter”

and it was then you fell off my desk

what else are you waiting for?

the end is a punctual man

he’s always in time for dinner

Untitled 8

when ever the wind blows

I know that you’ve sighed

Medusa

so you think

you’ve done my heart a stone

and my mind a rock

what an irretrievable mistake!

you couldn’t have even imagined

what an enormous fire

the friction of a feeling and a thought

could cause

the fire that could destroy everything

even you!

Still in love

Now

every night

I hear my heartbeats

spelling out your name

and I breathe in

all the memories

you’ve breathed into

the hands you’ve kissed

the foolish things we’ve thought about

away, so far away

like a story

retold by a grandmother

to her grandchildren

the story of

a deep wound

oh, how can words say what love can do?

Every night

I try to touch the truth

-- your five lettered name --

without shattering it into pieces

the man who was getting crushed between the walls

told me that I was being persecuted

right or wrong

will you ever forgive me for the sin

I’ve not committed?

and curse me

with the spell you haven’t cast?

no, I don’t want to figure out my pain any longer

and the tears I’m drowning in

I only wish I were someone else

How lucky is the wind

who can stroke your hair

anytime and anywhere.

Mission

I don’t want to be a saint

nor a tourist of useless thoughts

not even an artist

hanged by his own reputation

I only wish to be a luny

for he laughs at no other than himself

and weeps for no other

than those who laugh at him

My laughter would pour out

my recorded silence

and my sorrow

should paint my soul blue

the moon would be my anger

the oceans my restless body

and when strangers

nod pityingly at me

I would stare at them

with my eyes closed

and my mouth half opened

my hands, reaching out for nobody

so at dinner

at their sick parties

in their funny love making and weird courtships

they could have something to talk about

something a little more rainy

than any stupid talk about the weather

and a little less selfish

than any “I love you” ever whispered

Ah!

mock me

pity me

and throw at me

everything that you all dislike

and take away all that you like

my silence

my face

even my voice

I’ve nothing to lose

I’m the prophet of all the clowns of the world!

You

you were in love with love

not me

nor my shadow

not even the words you said

you adore

and the love I thought

no!

only love was your sweetheart

and I …

so,

loyalty is just a word

and to stare with tears

is just a poetic gesture

what should I cry upon?

you?

my lost eyes?

or should I pity your love?

Damn questions.

no choice.

My body doesn’t fit me

my body doesn’t fit me

not that I’ve got a big soul

no, my body is just too small

so small that I forget to take care of it

how boring it is to take care of something

you don’t even know

and how scary it must be

to have dinner with a stranger’s hands

stroll with a stranger’s legs

and talk love with a stranger’s tongue

people think

its you smiling at them

its you shaking hands

and they never know how it is to breathe

with someone else’s lungs

and kiss with

someone else’s mouth

Ah!

what should I do

with a body so small

and a soul so restless

and a mind endowed with satanic thoughts?

I feel so hopeless

as if I’m ruining something for my fright

The day

snow covers the whiteness of this day

snow covers the whiteness of this day

when I point the gun at my head

with my own words as bullets

snow covers the whiteness of this day

and the windows long for the doors

to open to an endless light

the roof is red

of which sunset, I do not know

only snow

snow

snow

snow

and snow

makes it my masterpiece

my best and last

snow covers the whiteness of this day

snow covers the whiteness of this day

and, of course, I was so kind, so merciful

that I even wouldn’t hurt an ant

and I was so nice, so caring

that I resembled a god’s fool

and obviously I was a good girl

a very good one

they all loved me

everyone

as they love the food after the funeral

snow covers the whiteness of this day

snow covers the whiteness of this day

and still

snow covers the whiteness of this day

Untitled 9

How could you tell

whether the day is in love with the night

or the night is in love with her?

how could you tell

which one follows the other?

and

will they ever fall into each other’s arms?

Fear

I fear only three things now

first, to lose you

second, to lose you

third, to lose you

that’s all!

Untitled 10

poor Satan!

exiled from the heavens of his thoughts

just like me

and his only sin waas love and love

the love no angel can ever taste

the love for his solitude

The question

your tortured voice

your oppressed silence

and the sorrow in it

has stoned my heart to death

Ah!

do I live to regret

all that I’ve done?

why must life run in me without myself?

Now, I’m lonelier than the love you’ve planted in me

and more drunk

than the beggar

who moans in the streets every midnight

for I’ve drunk your name

and touched your pain

to love you is torture

and not loving you, the blossom of pains

oh! what am I to do

with such existence so crowded

and a heart so empty?

And laughing is a sad verb

And laughing

is a sad verb

when you know

you mustn’t know any more

what difference does it make anyway?

when I don’t wear a watch and have tea at noon time

when the more I close my eyes

the more I come to see

when my shadow tells them of my existence

while I can simply turn off the lights

when nothing seems everything

and everything, nothing

what difference does it make anyway?

and what should I do with myself?

and what should I do with myself?

and what should I do with myself?

when I know I was born to die

I don’t want to pretend to be deaf

but I’m scared

just scared of

waterproof hands

bulletproof bosoms

shockproof legs

I’m scared, I’m scared

and death

is a beautiful gift

in an ugly wrapping

spell out my name to the wind

spell out my name to the wind

you don’t have to wait for the rain

which isn’t to come

it seems ages

the last time someone looked

stars and tears at me

it seems ages

and the lilacs in the yard

are miserably happy

O darkness!

you neither long for the night

nor the day

it’s me

who draws these circles

and just because

I feel blue

sunset is the bloodshed of a lover’s heart

and just because solitude is my roommate

I feel the world a lonely cage

O darkness!

you drown all

who shall drown thee?

none, but light

you might say

and what’s light

but your long soft dreams

and I’m no fool

to think you both enemies

what should I do with myself

what should I do with myself

the disguese is the face

the face, the disguise

and I’m tired of my own moans

and I’m tired of my own moans

and I’m tired of my own moans

Ah

I wish I had sighed this poem out!

Love

Love, is it just a word

you chew in your mouth

or a keen sword

to tear apart

your touchy heart

and all your happy thoughts?

is it all you’ve got before you lose

or is it all you give

when you have nothing to choose?

love, are you just a tear

swaying sadly on a pale cheek

or the very sweet flower

the turbulent fingers of a lover pick?

Love, are you just a ladder

growing glorious and high

lovers mounting your pain

jump over the truth with a sigh?

Love, are you the shoulder

life weeps on

the harsh wind that sweeps away

those who come

and those gone?

Love, lovers worth nothing

if you don’t sing

but as a child forgets his mother’s womb

they forget you

you are of the past

and the cursed at last

love, love, o love!

you’re a mystery to me

are you here to set sorrow free?

Love, you’re a mystery to me

you’re a mystery to me

Take a left

The wind

the window

the widow

The tears

the tear

in tear

The fall

the fear

the flew

away what men call happiness

and the angels mercy

By the next turn

at absurdity, opposite reality

take a left

still stands the statute of an idiot

once whipped to kiss his own nose

where an apple fell

to grow Fall

to bless our every wish into rights

Every tear, every “O”

Fell apart, that’s it oh!

if only words could love and hate

every “O”

would be a tear

Must I always pluck the roses

and smell them daffodils for real?

Fell apart, that’s it oh!

I don’t care for the pieces of peace

it was my heart, wild in the woods of your eyes

every tiny shed of blood

and the merciless shower of your look

Fell apart, that’s it oh!

one can’t always think as high as a shadow

in the night, no

no one cares for the peace of the piece

not when it’s me, my heart at least

and in it, there is a thin track of a story

about a man who smiles darts

without any end

Fell apart, that’s it oh!

if only words could love and hate

every tear would be an “O”

if only you could know

yet in every line

bends a girl

to row, still row and row

and still row and row

“I want to fly blue”

I want to fly blue

I want my song to sing

I want to rejoice in death

and in the happiness I get from nothing

I want to climb mountains of faith

and shade my sky blue

I want to reach the things

I never knew for true

I want to wear the sun

As close as to my skin

I want to glide in clouds

Where no one has ever been

But as I take a peep in life

I see it all a sweet dream

All drowned in darkness

There’s no light, there’s no beam

Untitled 11

Love, cheat me

You cheat me well

But were it so

Maybe I couldn’t tell!

Untitled 12

Eyes red

Heart blue

Seems I have made a living

Out of leaving you!

Untitled 13

Adjectives, they laugh

Adverbs do cry

When I say how happily

That poor girl did die

Untitled 14

I guess mother life had one miscarriage:

Happiness

Untitled 15

It’s day

I write about night

It’s joy

I hold sorrow tight

It’s clear

I pervert my sight

I know it’s wrong

But I claim it right!

Untitled 16

There’s no thing

Like nothing

to save you from everything

Specially

When they put an arm around you

And ask:

“Hey, what is it?”

The luny law

WARNING NO (1):

This is not a poem

I’m just trying to ask you

to hear what I’m not saying

and I promise

these tears are not mine

The last time I cried

I was seven

I had lost my lollipop

maybe I was too small to have it

and now I am too grown up for an apple

I’m not even EVE I know

for that you need three prerequisites:

1. There must be a clown—the very one people

call Satan—to make us laugh loud enough to

wake the dead

2. You must be very beautiful and preferably

lusty, lusty enough to stupefy your own ribs

3. There must be a tree

the very one that will become Moses’s rod

for the years to come

to pluck

smell

and…

at last three dots

which end in an “alas!”

WARNING NO (2):

This is a NO PARKING area

relevant or irrelevant

that is not my question

anyway

last night two people got married inside me

and three lunatics

with three ugly mouths

offered me as a cigarette to each other

three times

in this chaos

an old blind man

stole me from my solitude

and kissed me three times

for one of his three sweet-hearts

I still warn you

“NO PARKING”

WARNING NO (3):

People need shadows

shadows need people

not much difference, eh?

But every straight line is not a road

And every road is not straight

Still

Who needs whom?

You should never ask

think

or know that

specially when you think

you need to need someone

who thinks he doesn’t need to need you much

no, you should never…

WARNING NO (4):

Beware of gravity

Men are born men or saints

saints are happy people

no matter how much an earthling

and from earth they are

gravity has no effect on them

but men live with their eternal pain:

Immortality

WARNING NO (5):

They say

I’m a luny

but I only knock my head

on the wall sometimes

or tear my little finger’s skin into more little

bits

just to remind myself that

“I AM”

when I get a beating

I cry, I cry, I cry, I cry, I cry, I cry, I cry, I cry,

I cry

all

these

three-four lines

too

and then

Loves

plays

blossoms

loses

fades

life begins

d i e s

and the nurse feels uneasy

in her white uniform

WARNING NO (6):

Forget all these warnings

Or else you’ll remember things

you've got to remember to forget remembering them

WARNING NO (7):

Forget warning no (6) too.

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This page was last updated on 7 July 2005

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