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