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“I don’t know why we fight.
It takes much too effort to stay mad at you.
To dodge your skin in the hallway
and leave the kitchen without bringing you a treat.
It takes much too effort to stare at the sink
so my eyes don’t smile at you in the mirror.
It takes much too effort to look away as we undress
and lie apart in the now bigger bed.
It takes much too effort to stiffen my body
because sleepy limbs forget fights
and pride is always lost in dreams.
It takes much too effort to awaken every hour to make sure we are islands with a gulf of white sheets separating us.
I dread the light peeking through the parted curtains
and empathise with your groans �
I didn’t get any sleep either.
I really don’t know why we fight.
It takes much too effort to stay mad at one another
when it’s so easy for us to love.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“This is an ode to life.
The anthem of the world.
For as there are billions
of different stars that
make up the sky
so, too, are there billions
of different humans that
make up the Earth.
Some shine brighter
but all are made of
the same cosmic dust.
O the joy of being
in life with all these people!
I speak of differences
because they are there.
Like the different organs
that make up our bodies.
Earth, itself, is one large body.
Listen to how it howls
when one human is
in misery.
When one kills another, the
Earth feels the pang in its
chest. When one orgasms,
the Earth craves a cigarette.
Look carefully,
these animals are
beauty spots that make the
Earth’s face lovelier
and more loveable.
These oceans are the Earth’s
limpid eyes. These trees, its hair.
This is an ode to life.
The anthem of the world.
I will no longer speak of
differences, for the similarities
are larger.
Look even closer. There may be
distances between our limbs but
there are no spaces between
our hearts. We long to be one.
We long to be in nature and
to run wild with its wildlife.
Let us celebrate life and living,
for it is sacrilegious
to be ungrateful.
Let us play and be playful,
for it is sacrilegious
to be serious.
Let us celebrate imperfections
and make existence
proud of us, for tomorrow is
death, and this is an ode to life.
The anthem of the world.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“Summer has landed overnight, and the street is full of arms and legs that are not usually seen; they seem detached from their owners like so many piles of limbs in the death scene of a war film.”
― Caitriona Lally, Eggshells

“I feel my hand. I am these two beasts struggling at the end of my arms. My hand scratches one of its paws with the nail of the other paw; I feel its weight on the table which is not me. It's long, long, this impression of weight, it doesn't pass. There is no reason for it to pass. It becomes intolerable
...
I draw back my hand and put it in my pocket; but immediately I feel the warmth of my thigh through the stuff. I pull my hand out of my pocket and let it hang against the back of the chair. Now I feel a weight at the end of my arm. It pulls a little, softly, insinuatingly it exists. I don't insist: no matter where I put it it will go on existing; I can't suppress it, nor can I suppress the rest of my body, the sweaty warmth, which soils my shirt, nor all this warm obesity which turns lazily, as if someone were stirring it with a spoon, nor all the sensations going on inside, going, coming, mounting from my side to my armpit or quietly vegetating from morning to night, in their usual corner.”
― Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea

“You grieve at first. And then slowly, with the yawning of the years, the disappeared gets scraped from your memory, the way your flesh can be peeled from your limbs. It's very harsh and extremely painful. But it gets done, square inch-by-square inch. Until, the skin that is your memory gets completely scarred and numbed. You live. The disappeared is detached from the dermis of remembering. And that is what is known as moving on.”
― Psyche Roxas-Mendoza The Unlamented

“I don’t know why everyone
is still trying to find out
whether heaven and hell exist.
Why do we need more evidence?
They exist here on this very Earth.
Heaven is standing atop Mount Qasioun
overlooking the Damascene sights
with the wind carrying Qabbani’s
dulcet words all around you.
And hell is only four hours away
in Aleppo where children’s cries
drown out the explosions of mortar bombs
until they lose their voice,
their families, and their limbs.
Yes, hell certainly does exist
right now, at this moment,
as I pen this poem. And all we’re doing
to extinguish this hellfire
is sighing, shrugging, liking, and sharing.
Tell me: what exactly does that make
us? Are we any better than the
gatekeepers of hell?”
― Kamand Kojouri

“He pictures amputated human arms flopping like fish down the center of the road; syringes floating on beds of liposuctioned fat; gelatinous human eyeballs wiggling merrily as they roll down the highway; and so on. He could imagine other such grotesque stuff, but chooses not to.”
― Dan Chaon, Stay Awake

“Yes. Oh no! I don't subject myself to a leadership that does not break new territories! It is the job of leadership to succeed in landing its limbs on new grounds.”
― Israelmore Ayivor

“Four limbs good, six limbs bad.”
― James Cambias, A Darkling Sea

“Let all the green leaves be mine
as long as the trees define
shades created by their limbs
for the soil made with victims
of atrocity's vileness
to redeem the fragileness”
― Munia Khan

“Nature has no beauty forbidden
Manmade concrete slab: guilt-ridden
Wings or leaves whatever we may care
Those limbs with the birds only trees will share”
― Munia Khan

“Symphony of peace is the murmuring sound of a river! And with the shimmering water I feel my limbsâ€� ecstatic quiver”
― Munia Khan

“Isn’t a tangle of limbs a glorious thing to behold? Don’t you wish to be in a tangle of limbs?”
― Rick Moody, Hotels of North America

“Besides, as Ma had told her innumerable times, a lady should never indicate in mixed company that she had limbs beneath her skirt.”
― Susan Page Davis, Heart of a Cowboy

“Before the snow could melt for good, an ice storm covered the lowcountry and we learned the deeper treachery of ice. At night, we could hear the disconsolate sounds of trees breaking under the weight of their glistening unnatural burden. Limbs broke with a terrifying violence, like the snapping of healthy bones.”
― Pat Conroy, The Prince of Tides