Flowmatic Blood Moon Podcast Artwork

Flowmatic Blood Moon er Poetisk Podcasts første tosprogede produktion, og på mange måder frugten af en fælles indsats. Shadi Bazeghis digte forholder sig til traumer, spændinger og virkningerne af krig. De er storskalerede refleksioner over vores planets aktuelle tilstand, rodfæstet i en hverdagslig poetisk intimitet. Mansoor Hosseini, der som Shadi oprindelig er flygtning fra Iran, har skabt en musik som både er moderne og nostalgisk; lydlige landskaber der åbner et dramatisk rum for ordene, og forstærker deres intensitet.

Tekst/Stemme: Shadi Bazeghi
Musik: Mansoor Mani Hosseini
Montage/Lyddesign: Rudiger Meyer

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Flowmatic Blood Moon is Poetisk Podcast’s first bilingual production and in many ways a collaborative effort. Shadi Bazeghi’s poems tackle trauma, tension, and the effects of war. Big-picture reflections on the current state of our planet rooted in a poetic intimacy of the everyday. Mansoor Hosseini, like Shadi originally a refugee from Iran, has created music that is both modern and nostalgic, creating landscapes that open a space for the words and amplify their intensity.

Text/Voice: Shadi Bazeghi
Music: Mansoor Mani Hosseini
Montage/Sound Design: Rudiger Meyer

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Flowmatic Blood Moon

· 15′26″

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– [01] all hail the american night

i said: all hail the american night

— [05] you have a way of repeating things
when you program

— [01] probably   but i have expanded the code

         PROGRAM ID . hello-world-as-deep-as-a-paper-plate

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[05] so i hand you water

and beer in a wineglass
with ruby-red lipstick on the rim

— what are we without     a little elegance
when the masks crack and we
recognize each other
by our glitches

¬ ¬ ¬

i am so tired   i say   and you’re the only one who knows   
it’s a vast understatement     that i am cold
as hell    that time is a continuation
of the economy’s repeating pattern
absolute power circles;

the US military that buys 269,000 barrels of oil every day

war capital that pays for our excess consumption
draining the planet

populations unable to see the forest for the consumables
who turn to warlords for words of comfort

and here         
in my head?   

¬ ¬ ¬

in my PTSD brain   


the dissonance and gravity of the syndromes     memory flashes

and a heavy oblivion corroding the spirit

there is nothing besides a poetry
à la wilderness

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it reeks of smoke and pent-up night here
the dreams grow from your hair

i awake under the bed
with shared pain and blood in my face

you say it is the blood
moon of the century

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DISPLAY   september nights   the divergence of melancholies

            in flowmatic september nights   where longing

            for the sun and purple

                  dandelions   unfold

            on stems of pain

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DISPLAY   september nights    hoarse flowmatic september nights

an interstellar object moves into Pegasus
at 44 km per second    hey

hold on     we are here     we are not here

¬ ¬ ¬

            september nights    7-digit september nights

            in what language does rain fall

            over unrecognizable bodies

            Common Business Oriented Language?

¬ ¬ ¬

Venus moves into Scorpio and your passion

your ethnic passion reeks!

there are 117 earth days between each sunrise

¬ ¬ ¬

– berätta något för mig

– harfi be man bezan

– berätta något för mig som inte redan finns

            – tell them you came and saw and looked into my eyes

¬ ¬ ¬

on the other side
of the pomme grenade
trees    where we lie

100 years ago

or 100 years from now and talk

about writing it all down

about melancholy
as the only reflexive emotion by definition
the only one that can cultivate
our empathy

— for earth

¬ ¬ ¬

the earth that constantly must.must.must.

without hope or fear or doubt

absorb all blood

¬ ¬ ¬

in order for us to fertilize the camp      and battlefields

¬ ¬ ¬


glitterblack     velvetnight
crystallized morning dew    negligé

on the mulberry tree

i paced around the garden the frost
under my stilettos your body
still reminding me of
solar noon

¬ ¬ ¬

i used to get cramps
in the ovaries

in the morning mist

used to feel a kinship                    
with Himalayan birds
black nightshade                     
in the morning mist

¬ ¬ ¬

i drank absinth that morning habibi

the birds drank chlorine water
they flew from table to table
eating abandoned
       bread   scrambled eggs   fear

you said    what woman
is so enamored of her own oppression
that she cannot see her heelprint
upon another woman’s face?

¬ ¬ ¬

English Translation: Flowmatic, Shadi Angelina Bazeghi, Gyldendal, 2020, translated by Katrine Øgaard Jensen, p.32-36 and p.67-77