In the massacre of my words
they’ve beheaded my last line
and blood        ink-like           is hitting on paper
there’s death   stretched over the page
and life           like a window ajar      shattered by a rock
a new gun has finished off the world
and I   imported-goods-like    through this alley’s doors
             am still the very meagre room that emigrated
 
I in my life who am pen-like to the lines of this meagre page  am mother
The cat’s paws are still prancing
to scare the mouse 
running for the hole they filled
 
In pursuit of the lesson I did at school 
I’m no longer Jack the lover to my Jill
I’m doing my new homework
You cross it out
And in the girl who will tumble at this poem’s end 
build a house
filled with a door open like a wound
and from in between the edges of death
like a room gone from this house       lived happily
a girl    who wanting to make me her own
would throw morsels in her voice      to tease me over 
to the temple of her body
for my eyes to keep whirling and whirling    to make a Dervish of me again
How the eyes
these empty sockets
in between the love-making of two are thousand-handed
            How this side of being where I am is all the more other-sided in Iran
Fathurt            mothurt           my brothurt!
My condition is more critical than hurt
Writing’s more emasculated than me
and London    with its hair highlights of a weather is still
sisterly awaiting 
Death to stretch over my body
for life to kill me again
 
My heart is bleeding  for the poet whose queue of words is getting longer
                                       for the branchless sparrow who’s swallowed its twitter
                                       for the restitution of a crow with no overhead wire
                            for myself
             gone from the house   like electricity
I was somebody
                                     Did the foolish thing    became a poet