In the name of the nomenclature

Who used to thank God?
Wash my tears off the coldness of some pretending ideas
Come here
Who used to thank me?
Oh Lord
I'm so merciful less than a cup of tea over there
Where?
Just here: to the moon
When it is shining all over the words
To the candidate
of new liberty consortium in Middle East
Where?
Nowhere!
But you said somewhere in the middle
Like here or here or here
Middle East Ea here st

To the fundamentalist hippies
Of the native paradise whores and dogs
and hot no-water fucking place of nowhere
Ok I got it
The no-water of nowhere
To the of more than one night
You would thousands of nights
To the Vanity Fair
To the couple of time to rescue and refresh
To the fresco
You are a bastard poet
I know that
To the mothers of our linguistics
To the native tongue
Plague abandoned Portuguese ship where are the past of my Indian landscape of finding a lyric of miracle and towers seaside to the Persian Gulf on the fathers name I wrote it again and he was a deaf ugly fetish punctuation laying on my poem

Just here:
To the rolling stones
To the falling stones
To the masturbating stones
Fall on my head the woman said fall on my head to the land of my ugliness to the night of lesbian paradise and stoning for a little day in the midsummer of the little garbage in the whole city you would fall just call me in your name again
To the mother tongue
I am so bastard mother
To the Lenny and the Honey
Here or there
Whereof you wanted to be calm and here you found the charming Perspolis

Where?
Here on my forehead
You can see the sentenced low
Go don’t stay with the passing line on my forehead
Happy morning when it looks time calls and you hang up not to hear the bastard poem he asked me if I had a light and I have a light in my hand and a light in my home and a light in my head and a light in my friend and a light in my fever and a light in my Lord and a light in my Japanese ferocity and a light in my afternoon sweating when the summer passes by and a light in my shoulder on the dividing cross of funerals and a light first I see you and a light here of no-water land of fucking kettle type heat exchangers to sterilize pistachio you call me again and a little living germ first wanted to vote and then civilized monotonic notes realize its being himself.
Fish

I hang over no matter it makes me sad
I anger over and not over it matters to be sad

Hey
You said somewhere
To the dead woman walking to the deserted stoning field
To the walk of life if wanted to be alive
To the run of life to the escape and cry and cry for life
To the hamlet when it is rainy and cold
To the velvet of stoning no matter if you are alive
To the no velvet stoning ritual and hands rooted in the sand
To the somewhere before again
To Mr. Ministers fucking penis-head of kings and lions
To the moon when it falls in the water

You got it
Heyyyyessssssss
I got it
You said here or time?
You bothered of bastardized baptized poem like this of no mother tongue and feel so pleased to bleed my head off.

To meaning
To bread
To hunger
To socialistic realism
When the moustache treatment is an industry
To Maharashi
When it is good to be Panda
When it is so good to be me
To Bush
When you have nothing to find it out
To Derrida
When you have no political idea
To Marx
Where you are sad so sad to be born in India
When you are sad so sad to believe in reincarnation

What time is it?
He asked me in a dangerous cancer ward when the falling leaves were falling on the rigid ceiling of national institute of zoology and psychological experiments in the 43rd northern street where the painter of all sad victims died of fever and the carpenter travels to the garden of mushroom so the Eden plays fool the mad rhapsody of oil and chemical weapons

Who is the meaning of his appointment?
Who just try to calm down and never can bear soccer final hat trick hero?

Jakarta never falls asleep. You knew that.
The pant and juicy pant of talented whore calls you after meaning
Of that wall
The air treated to get ready to choke to puff mentality to compare abusing shadows of near neighbor
To the part of fixing machines
Adultery and preaching sound normal
To Lorca
When dreams are so wet and adhesive
Where are you?
Here
And never think of that certainity you dreamed of in the first of July
My dear friend,
It is three o'clock in the morning and I am still sitting at my table to write something of happiness and peace. You know that my entire fault is that I never ask anybody to stay and share his loneliness with me. It looks that I am going to be sentimentalist but it is not a real form of my inside. There are too many critical shadows to feed me by their poisonous astonishing idioms. You know that I am not such a poet who wishes to be unknown and popular in a village. I am working on certainity and freedom. And on the extremely mad loves. And these are too shadowy and freezing. I would like to establish an international society of national propaganda and arbitrary poetry. It can make our vision of poetry in 21st century deconstructed. Would you like to join us?

Sincerely yours,
Absolute Stream Covering

To the moon of no miracle
To the same father
It is a bastard poem of no English as a mother tongue
It is a baptized freak something play the verses of shrinkage and melting
Who are you talking to ghost?
Estimating statistical data of madness and simulation of flight in the passageway of mortality and doom
To the best friend
When it is raining and there is a fever of finishing
To the fish
So make it faith and love and triangular shapes
To the can not
You have been thinking of my country where the phoenixes arise from fires and you will point to the B-52 over the yard of back doorway elsewhere of forgetfulness and harm
Would you please inset the temporary memory?
The God would answer in 3:47 PM
When the north wind comes over the land
Lizards will shake and shepherds will sleep when the nightmare transfer to the melodies and aqua link of wet monitor
You see
Here is my name
Naked and stimulated by shock
To the jerk off quadratic earth
To the mankind of wallpapers
To the 45000 years of packaged mummy
To mama bomb
To dad calendar and brother success
To sister of damn shopping every Friday and found to be interest in our show of natural human in treatise and morality of wisdom
Where are you angry man?
Here or there
Or suspect to be natural
Or the land of treasure and Sanskrit

Heavenly my dear enemy,
Thus it will be you and your countless mama bombs over my children naked head with our pants and pending smile we would be of the same nature. He said, I mean my friend in low; you are the first copy of my agreement to be yes of all no matter if you die. How? I do not know but wish you could dream.

Sincerely yours,
Water Fall Niagara

Hole in my head
Where
In my head
Where
As you can see here:
Or there:
Every morning I see your face around the surrounding walls I have to blame of shame to consider my life so easy and be faith of my unknown father of the bastard chameleon there on the no-water desert of fucking pleased astonishing shapes in sunshine and hunger of damaged times.
Who are you?
Even who I am you have to believe
Even who I is to be the one you remember
Even and if the copies of my sound could be treated and traced through the deep holes on my head
Some day
You will answer

B Plus Something Plus ing

Birding

To live the life of a bird
With a sign in the middle age of the bird
With a country of outstanding bird of the cards on the left table in a café café Bird
Bird is or could be the most or the main part of the world or the part of the same world on a table in the word deleted by all writers in the café of the same street of the monk of the same possible way in the dark land apart falls too much apart in the way of your life
To live the life of a bird
You can think of a same condition in the same way
The same of the same
And the bird sames me in the way
The bird ways me the same ways
And aparts me from the ways of the bird

Breathing

Nothing takes too much time to live in the apartment near the street of this lonesome
Some day if you look out of the window you can see the sacrificed body of trouble
Should be a should in the last opposite time of the calls in the missing relation
Tears calls you up
To the stair
Of the bush
If you get the real way
Here you call it but
No name can travel so far

Barthing

With the heavy stone of the time
Barth
Lake of the snake of the road
Goes by
With the martyrs
And same as you wanted the readers be died
Same as the cost of Roland time
The zero on the waking page to be write zero on a living condition and to call it died

Barding
Is it poetry or farting?
Just by accident
Now you can assume the repeated words
With the penetrating madness

Here is the three parts of my essay on "Phenomenology of poetry" whit regard to " the social dynamic of language"
http://www.modaber.com/1381/09/11/p11.pdf
http://www.modaber.com/1381/09/18/p11.pdf
http://www.modaber.com/1381/09/25/p11.pdf

Poet Killing

Poet-killing
By: Payam Fotouhiyehpour (1998)


White shirt of secrets we wash it in Aras wash it in Atrak in Arvand we wash it in Tehran's oozy brooks
Black snow falls on stone and stones the hidden secret white shirt of secrets we wash it in river of fears frights wash it to put it on in stoning time and
Black snow of days falls and poet-killing with the judgment of patience poet-killing with the judgement of stoning poet-killing with the white shirt of secrets in the yellow eyes of deads
A hidden light stays awake for you cries that sad poem from sad text I warn my songs
I'm afraid of bearded women
I'm afraid of bearded women
The cart of bearded lady passes put lips on her lips till lips-sewing with the effort of patience lips-sewing with the effort of stoning I warn my songs
Till you don’t hear the voice of the world out there four bodies waiting to excommunicate white shirt put it on not to hear the voice of the world the silence in the crowd of the world the sin not to hear
White shirt of secrets we wash it in Aras in Atrak Arvand wash it in Tehran's bloody brook's in springs of marasmus
Till you don’t hear the voice of world I warn my songs in the sad text the cart of the bearded lady passes this road with a fire on the head and put lips on her lips till the extermination and
Black snow of days falls and falls from your eyes the sky lonelier than always look till the sky breath look till the sky breath look till the sky breath doesn't remain four bodies wait till the last breath that wouldn’t come till the last breath that wouldn’t come wait I warn my songs
I'm afraid of bearded women am afraid
And wait for the heart of the promised dagger with the last voice of the world poet-killing with the judgement of patience poet-killing with the judgement of stoning poet-killing in a dried out brook in ruin corpse remained for days
You smell and dry out the breath wait
Iron helmet on head and stoned wait
Tighter and tighter the rope and your throat wait
Sewed-lips I warn my songs wait
White shirt of secrets we wash it waters in blood-waters in the perception of ooze wash it in the river of world's songs and
Your eyes are getting eroded but not to dream and but not to dream and but not to dream from dusk to down in the quagmire should be a sinner and should for being of fear
Till the secrets from the frontiers of secrets a road with a fire on head and there four bodies four promised stars kill poet with the judgement of patience poet with the judgement of stoning
From the yellow eyes of the deads I warn my songs
Look
From the cold eyes of the deads I warn
Homelessness with the judgement of patience poet-killing with the judgement of patience
Out there black snow lays on earth and on ooze and city sleeps in fever and coma I warn dreaming
It's poet-killing in your white shirt come with me
It's poet-killing not to hear the voice of the world
It's poet-killing
White shirt of secrets we wash it in Aras wash it in Atrak Arvand wash it in drunken brooks in the piss of the bearded women dreaming the spring we wash it

______________________________
Related note:
In 1998 Mohammad Mokhtari (Poet) and Mohammad Jafar Pooyandeh (translator of philosophical texts) have be killed by a band directed by Saeed Emami. He was a deputy of minister of intelligence.
In 1939 Mohammad Farokhi Yazdi (poet) was killed in Reza Shah's prison. His lips were sewed.
In 11 century Amir Hasanak Vazir was kill by stoning while an iron helmet covered his head and face. Also Halaj and many others were stoned.
Aras, Atrak and Arvand are the boundary rivers of Iran. You can find them on map. Aras connect the two ears, Atrak is on the back of the cat and Arvand is south between Iran and Iraq.

… And I obviously love "fugue of death" and Paul Celan.