Performances

Upcoming Performances

02.05 @ 20Uhr


Monthly Performances

(Storytelling)
Every Third Friday 20Uhr @ Chausseßtrase 86
The Bear: True Stories. Erzähltes Leben.
Berlin, Germany

Past Performances

“Pain & Pleasure”

(A Collection of Various Poems about Pains and Pleasures)
The Poetic Groove: The Poetic Groove Show 2019
Berlin, Germany


Best Intentions: Drugs&Sex

(A Collection of New Year’s Resolutions as Ravings and Rants)
Whiskey and Words: #Bestintentions 2019
Berlin, Germany

Human Resources: Run by the Muses

(A Collection of Short Stories and Poems)
Whiskey and Words: #HumanResources 2018
Berlin, Germany

Bravery, Courage, and Feminism

(A Collection of Essays and Poems)
Women Writing Berlin Lab Spoken Word Night #1 2018
Berlin, Germany

Diasporic Ausländer

(A Collection of Short Stories and Poems)
Mic Drop #8 2018
Berlin, Germany

Featured post

New Year’s Vagilution (in February)

This year I would like to give my vagina more attention

to awaken my cunt kundalini

majora, minora, and fury

she’s all Venus vagintata

What an asshole!

(Hello!)

(No, I’m not talking to you)

Cycle appropriated

IUD installation fee

(Comes with free Wi-Fi. Password: T1T5)

Reiterate school lessons

Don’t touch, don’t look, don’t smell, don’t tempt

I touch and look and smell and tempt

Proud of my homeostasis

Featured post

Cyclobenzaprine: (Noun) A muscle relaxant used for muscle spasms or acute injury

Apparently, I have a cute injury
but the diagnosis doesn’t match the damage.
Damaged road ahead.
Caution!
Scurvy crew working.
What? I didn’t know the city paid for that.

Bunnies on the moon huh?
Damn.
Then I could never live there because of my
horrendous allergy.
Thanks for the idea Sargent Newt.

What is to be done about unblinking cats?
Perhaps they think I am a magician.
Little dogs have no place in a big dog’s conversation.
Cats don’t even speak their language.

My water is 100% H2O
(Which has been officially disproven by scientists)
fully loaded with electrolytes and
concentrate from Argentina/China.
Am I even drinking water anymore?

The sciatic nerve runs along the lower back
across the gluteus maximus region.
The BUTT-OCKS.
Ox-Butt.
Can one be a fan of bread
but not a fan of Bread, capital B
while still being a fan of Breadfan?

In some cases of Autism,
the patient has an inability to communicate with humans
but can excel in communicating with computers.
Some days,
I would prefer to converse with a computer
rather than with cursory characters.
Hello Hal.
Hallelujah Hal!

Featured post

Why Hello There

It seems that you have stumbled upon this site, for which I have no answer as to why you are here. All I have for you are more questions. Questions upon questions upon questions. So, if you don’t want to think, or you expect some kind of answer, then run little one. Run very quickly away. For this is not the place for you, and you have stumbled into an ever expanding mind with no foreseeable exit.

Featured post

Post-Punk T-Mec

Madeline’s coffeehouse was wrecked. Just like the community center had been, only this was much worse because we knew Steve, Mike, Joe, okay whatever his name was, well we used to know him. But he knew us and, he had no idea what we are going to do. We were bored. We were pissed. And we took it out on Madeline’s. The guitar feedback rippled the windows, and the drums vibrated the hubcap display in the automotive shop next-door. Word spread by mouth and with 12 homemade flyers letters taped like a ransom note, “Come or else.” Jacked on Monster energy drinks and the adrenaline of being out past curfew, we gave it our all, and took everything Madeline’s had. Banisters broken into batons, chairs splintered, and tables were crowd surfed right out of the building. The cowards in the parking lot hovered by their cars. 100 stood in a place for 45 pulsating and pumping as the bassist fingered the fret. Even our clothes rejected the compressed heat sloughing off our bodies. 27 minutes later, the cops showed up, we fled, leaving the tragedy of Madeline’s one punk stand behind us.

Concrete Reign

The rain on concrete smells like Iran.

A memory so faint

that while I hear the words and understand the melody

I cannot speak them.

For you see,

I have been assimilated.

Told as a child that foreign words

and voracious tongues

eagerly lapping up every sound was a deficit,

and

how could you succeed in this society with such a deficit?

They took my mother tongue and

left me lisping English.

They took my internal conversation

and made it an eternally misspoken monologue.

I

have been successfully assimilated.

Olive scrubbed white

linguistically castrated

socially isolated

sitting between my families chatting away in Farsi

realizing that I am not a part of the critical conversation.

realizing that the family stories and memories die with me

because I cannot understand them

and thus,

they cannot live in me

and I cannot spread this genealogy.

They die with me

first-generation assimilated.

In the U.S., they did this with the native children.

Took them from their tribes,

cut their hair,

and educated them.

Force-feeding a foreign tongue

until they were regurgitating legal adults

deemed useless

and sent back to a place they didn’t recognize

to a family eager to embrace them

but their world would die in their tribe

and they would forever be an inland outsider.

And that, you see, is what it means to be

an assimilated American.

Shivering in Malfunction

The frustration of living in constant pain to the point of temporary paralysis (oh trust me! Old lefty has crapped out on me quite a few times) while your entire buddy is spasming and cramping as you are desperately on the internet looking for any masseuse or physical therapist that is open or SHIT! even taking appointments in the next 48 hours realizing that there is no one available for you and you have to succumb to creating a Rude Goldberg machine of tennis balls, pool noodle tubes, foam rollers, contorting your body on them in such a way as to stop the spasm, loosen the muscle, and regain feeling back in your numb limbs.

 

But this time
there is no
stopping,
loosening,
or regaining
as I lay there for over an hour
on this bed of therapeutic nails
muscles refusing to contort
shivering in their malfunction
hesitating just above their muscular reset.

If My Three Sat with Me

If my three sat with me,

I imagine there would be so much inconsistency

with one yelling, the other singing, and one continuously confused

by the abuse the other two received.

 

If my three sat with me,

one would be leather clad and asking, “Warum?”

the other feeding them and calling them, “Joon.”

and the last wondering into the conversation asking, “Yes but for whom?”

 

The English is always correcting the other,

the Farsi trying to persuade the German,

and the German defiantly pushing against persuasion but accepting correction

because it likes it.

 

If my three sat with me,

I would no longer have this

internal,

infernal

conflict.

Is This What Bravery Feels Like?

Is this what bravery feels like?

Crying in the middle stall of the Schönefeld  airport

Missing you dearly and not regretting a moment, decision, or choice.

Is this what bravery feels like?

Life in two suitcases

One abused violin

and objects left behind never to be reclaimed.

Is this what bravery feels like?

Denying the handouts

Living in an abandoned warehouse

Sleeping on pallets

because your parents said,

“You chose to be that way.”

Is this what bravery feels like?

Ending a marriage of 20 years

To live in a one room apartment

Racking up debt from never having worked a day in your life

Children visiting every other weekend

Loving you, hating you, never understanding you.

Is this what bravery feels like?

Shaving your head to hide in a basement bar

With foreign tongues lapping your ear for language

As you drink piss tasting piña coladas.

Is this what bravery feels like?

Period sex and discarded tampons

Clots clambering down your leg

Wondering where all the bleeding was truly coming from.

Is this what bravery feels like?

Loving this

Hating this

Living this

Licking this

Just a little taste

And wondering

Is this what bravery feels like?

Berkeley Burning

Squatters, low-lives, fucking millennial generation. The whole place had gone up in flames. Hellfire paradise burned back up to the heavens. The entire warehouse was a sparking pyrotechnic nightmare. Daisy chained extension cords connected together weaving in and out of crumbling rooms. One room a mausoleum of discarded luggage piled high on both sides, the hall of abandoned travels, adventures never taken, and loved ones never left behind, bucket list ever full. The showering system was a wood pallet drainage system, a bucket of water, and a hose connected to a hand pump. The communal kitchen was glorious chaos. Camping stoves and Bunsen burners, the unification of hippies and scientists. Everyone cooking, eating, and composting together. The communal living space was filled with bits of discarded sofas and lounge chairs maintained with bits of pallets and duct tape. The main hall painted with glitter confetti, neon hands plastered along the walls, and rubber remnants stuck to the floor. The other rooms, I couldn’t go in the other rooms.

Pallet luggage

Condemn camp stoves

Generation fuck this

Daisy chain

Electrical fire

Berkeley is burning.

I Need …

I need writing because

if I stop,

my inner child dies.

If I stop,

I kill my god.

If I stop,

there is no place for me.

If I stop,

I will forget to love.

If I stop,

I will forego forgiveness.

If I stop,

voices are silenced.

If I stop,

my sister bruises.

If I stop,

my mother never chooses.

If I stop,

I won’t remember that I survived.

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