Armen Abalian - photos


A selection from the last couple of years...


You wrote back
Because it's rude and mean not to
Your words safe not sultry

You never write
But you always write back
Except for when I remind you of when I sent you my perfect heart in an imperfect package

Then, and only then, you are silent

from L@st Months

A last secret
One final breach
Gently moving your hair behind your ear to whisper
To reveal a new intolerance

"Come here"

You can avoid the house
Avoid the neighborhood
Avoid the city
Avoid our history
Mute, muffle, or murder the memory
But if you want access to any of this
"Come here"
Is your only gateway

I am deaf to any other preamble
No more words, warped and wounded
Washed out or wistful
No more wishes, birthday or bogus
Friendly or furious
It has all been said
It has all been felt
Like a store sample phone, all the buttons pressed a million times without actually making a single connection


"Come here"

So easy to save someone from the soliloquy of a summer solitude
Don't try the back doors
I have been weak, but I still managed to bolt them all
I have also closed all the windows
To avoid an accidental whiff of your perfume
Or an accidental chorus of a song that reminds me of you blasting from some car for three seconds as it drives by


"Come here"

Say this, or don't say anything to me ever again
It's that simple

from L@st Months

A weak impulse, and even weaker knees, eating, drinking, sleeping, swoosh, ugh, reaching, folding, stacking, rituals, dreaming, singing, quiet first, progressively louder, trying to scare, this ghost, does not bang doors, or make the floors creak, or appear, human, or otherwise, just moves through me, like I wasn't even there, such ease, like there's some kind of determined resolve, behind it, but there isn't, it's just chance, boredom, in that other realm, not really playful or pitiful, one day, some day, she'll get used to it, she'll know, she can't connect, only haunt, until then, swoosh, there she goes again, maybe, she knows, already.

from L@st Months

Bad decisions in good weather
Fatigue, long lasting like a post-apocalyptic drought

I walk past a dirty patch of grass, polluted with discarded bits of life, beer bottles, dog shit, an old sweater that could have been taken off at the moment of some drunken or even sober illumination

I think that if the grass were cleaner, I would have lied down in it, face down, breathing the earth, getting ready for that day, one could say

Eyes closed, I would imagine life on another planet, a reticent reality where I could bid adieu to all these overbearing obsessions

A planet of muffled sounds and eternal moon-lit scenery that stretches beyond past, current, and future neuroses

An ideal place, but one that can only be imagined by one person at a time

from L@st Months

Green fields look so scenic from a train, but up close they smell of animal suffering and bad jokes, and feel like mosquito bites

Teleport me to the Nevada desert, into an isolated area farthest from even the loneliest road in the world, where solitude crosses its own boundaries to become bliss

Where ghost thoughts of flatlined emotions disappear under the ruthless, dry, sober sun

Where desert flowers form stronger bonds with the eternal

Could you also keep the lines of communication open, in case I get bored or paranoid?

from Love Poems

The future, chained to the past, screaming at the present

It will break free, but not yet, not today.

Today it will need food, water; it will need to be consoled.

It will need to be told stories that will seem like unbelievable fairy tales

To remind it of something beautiful that is not guaranteed.

from Love Poems

You say "darkness" and everyone automatically thinks of sadness, depression, hopelessness.

What about a place to escape from the incessant, chaotic, frantic, overwhelming laser light show?

Darkness, with the impartiality of a blanket

Where a sick animal can dream about health and an unconfined existence.

from Love Poems

Some nights I woke up next to you and saw you looking at me

Or vice versa

Which areas of your mostly hidden, hard to decipher inner world were you wandering around?

Lush mountain landscapes of green and purple?

Deep desert valleys of red and broken beige?

Or were you lost in some nondescript, fragmented reality, looking at me, trying to tell me you couldn't find a way out?

I never asked, I was just happy to have you there, next to me.

(c) 2017-2018 Armen Abalian. All rights reserved.