reza jabrani – 3 poems

Bomb Iran

On a pleasure cruise in the Caspian Sea,
the Ayatollah mixes martinis with muddled
Russian caviar and pomegranate syrup, the rims 
coated with the dust of the world’s finest pistachios,
for none other than his best bud Senator John McCain.
The friends sip. They dance. They swim.
A bacchanalia of true bestie-ness.
They even commiserate about how heavy their heads
hang, bearing their respective, bejeweled crowns.

At dusk they disrobe and leap into the water,
racing with backstrokes and sharing a series of bawdy
jokes about the Shah and Saudi princes putting on drag
shows in glitzy compounds to impress Saddam.
Later, once the ink dries on the arms deal, the two 
buds become enemies again but the captain 
of the yacht and its crew of swarthy mercenaries 
remember this night, the laughter, the martinis,
the two wrinkled bodies, one pale, one dark, 
laughing and parting the contested sea. 


A Head for Numbers

I hung myself in the closet like an old salami, 
cured in grief, swaying as the onlookers shook their
heads with disbelief. He was so young. Had promise. 
17 credits towards a law degree. Nice calves. A head 
for numbers. But who were they to judge the dead?
To judge me? For I had made the calculations and 
accepted the solution of the knot tied round our necks,
the inevitable tightening, the world’s terrible sum.


Talking Heads

Went to a Talking Heads show in D.C. with a pundit in a tight
Italian suit and gave him a blow job in the bathroom. 
The toilets flushing, the water flowing underground, his load 
hitting the back of my throat. 

On the cab ride home, he lectured me about sanctions against Iran, 
geopolitical hot spots, nuclear proliferation, Middle East coups. 
I never saw him again but I still have the ticket stub and I’m still 
not sure if the Gulf is Persian or Arabian.


REZA JABRANI writes coarse prose and crude poetry @coarseprose

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