Monday, February 20, 2006


Like waves of wine
In my glasses
Winds of invasion
Worries me

I gaze through glasses of my window,
sipping my wine
And think:
It’s an illogical logarithm!
How many suicide-bombers
Can a righteous man bomb
In a sunny Sunday morning?

And I can taste
The cost of each millimeter of a megatonic blast
In my expensive wine.
It is illogical.



Your credit has expired
And you can't loan no longer.
What would you fancy?
To fuck your banker's wife
Or kill your own?


ده روز ِ اول ِ مرگ را
آسوده زیستم
مرگ مرا،آه، سوده می کند
مرگ، آ
مرگ، سو
مرگ، ده


Sunday, February 19, 2006


In the near future
Whoever is not a suicide-bomber
Will be a dead man
And vise versa.


Tuesday, February 14, 2006


Just figured out that the NYC's borough, Bronx has been named after a Dane in the service of the Dutch West India Company, called Jonas Bronck who purchased the land from Native Americans in 1639 and named it Bronx. Interesting, isn't it?

Sunday, February 12, 2006


A week with many Sundays
And weekdays with few weak suns
Does your slavery commence
With work,
Or pride?

How many suns
How many days
How many prayers
Can a week abide?


Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Stage your own funeral

"I'm curious how a funeral looks from the other side," said Peter Halasz to BBC. Halasz is a Hungarian theatre director with terminal cancer is to lie in an open coffin at an art museum for a week while still alive so he can experience his own funeral.

I "act" therefore I die! Right?