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Goldie

Posted: November 6, 2017 in Uncategorized
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“Hey Goldie,” the dominant lady with big belly exclaimed. Her name was Teresa. Old, almost blind lady Goldie stopped and looked. She was ready to do whatever she was about to be told.

“Come here,” Teresa ordered dominantly. Her husband Michael smiled in the manner of a dog. Was he really that submissive or was that love, I asked, wondering who that man was smiling behind his thick glasses.

“She Is too old now…she cannot see, she cannot hear, she can hardly walk, she does not understand what we talk,” said Teresa as the old Goldie ran towards her in slow motion which generated compassion in everyone. Michael laughed to compliment his wife. I joined him not to receive oppressive look from Teresa. She, too, laughed. I had to have her heart in my palm, it seemed like from the first minute I had met them.

She held my index and middle finger very firmly after greeting me in our first meeting and stroked them like she stroked Michael’s cock when she felt like.

“I let that house to an Armenian family,” said she and invited us into her own house with enthusiasm of a teen, hardly containing herself in her old body. I kind of liked her then and there. I knew why; we had the same kind of madness maybe at different degrees. I was already imagining how we could become explosive one day if we ended up being friends or acquaintance as I followed her with my old neighbour who was in love with me. I fancied his son and slept with him soon after I had met him with no guilt or shame. He was the sweetest man I had ever met. He fancied me, too. Hence he hid the fact that he was married twice and had two kids. You see, I could have easily called him a liar if I did not like him so much but I have not. I guess I still like him. I cannot help it just like his father could not and still cannot help being in love with me. I did tell him that I liked his son and slept with him like I had never slept with any man before but he did not care. His love was extremely blind. I did not know what to do about it but for now it was good to have him with me to give a great first impression to Teresa and Michael. Yes, it is still true that a woman, no matter how attractive, how pretty, intellectual she is, is not respectable on her own unless she has a big bank account and two body guards in which case she would not need to rent a house of such people like Teresa and Michael. Yes, it is still true that money is the only power unless one is supernatural.

goldie lady

 

“You might want to buy this house,” said Teresa to my ex-fucker’s father whose name was Emir. He smiled.

“It is a big and beautiful house but I need something smaller,” he lied, and smiled at me sarcastically. He was good at lying. It made him feel smarter than others but he had no idea about tricks of the mother nature nor did he seem to have met a secret demon catcher like me before.

“Oh aren’t you, too, going to marry soon,” asked Teresa and laughed without knowing a word about us. She knew she had just said something she was not supposed to. So many butterflies began flying into the air from Emir’s eyes. I did not know what kind of stomach he had to love the woman who slept with his son and who was his child’s age. I stopped condemning people long time ago. Playing with their weaknesses as I pleased was more joyful, I discovered. It was so much fun to make them believe that I was the person they had perceived and behave like who I really was when they least expected.

goldie 2

 

Emir smiled like a shy teen, I looked away, Teresa looked at us as if a fortune teller looked into a crystal globe and told the future on top of the stairs in her big old and messy house which smelled food. Michael did not even bother to walk in and interrupt her. He knew that she was not going to give him a chance to talk so he stayed outside and played with the cat instead. She talked, talked and talked…she talked even when she did not talk, I heard every word crossed her mind. She was not really showing her house to us, she was studying us in her house. I decided to play idiotically innocent young woman whom she could easily deceive even abuse sometimes. I knew this was the type Teresa was looking for to let her house. I made sure that she regretted letting her house to the Armenian family before we walked out of her smelly, messy big house. I did not talk at all. I only smiled and acted so extremely kind to the point of stupidity. By the time we walked out of her house, she was in pain, I could see it in her eyes. She was no longer dominant but extremely motherly creature. She held my hand and said:

“Let me show you a place.”

“You said you let it to an Armenian family, did you just change your mind,” I asked.

“No, forget about that place…I have a better one for you,” said she and led us to it. We walked through beautiful garden right side of which had admirably peaceful white houses. I had never imagined to have one up until I was thirty. I never thought I was going to live long enough to have a house, I contemplated about killing myself if I did not die that soon but I did not. I could not, there was still some goldie 3love left somewhere in my bleeding heart apparently , I did not kill myself nor did I die. I had chosen love.

 

 

“Oh, that is exciting,” I said to Teresa and smiled. Mad parts of our selves greeted each other second time when she looked into my eyes as we walked through a heavenly garden.

Michael did not come with us. He stayed with the cat instead.

“I kept this house for my son, I was going to live here after selling my big house for a while but since I loved you so much I am not going to let you keep looking for a place,” said Teresa with a great empathy which I was not sure whether stroked her ego or was a sign of her humanity. I was not in a position to care about such subtlety, I needed a place. Where I currently lived was too noisy. I was no longer able to sleep at night due to loud fucks around my flat. People were primitively basic around that place.

 

“Here is the living room,” said she and I fixed my eyes on the bluest and brightest Aegean Sea shouting quietly in front of the balcony. Teresa did really love me, I thought stood where I stood in the evening she and Michael visited me with a bowl of soup and some cookies. Goldie had come with them, too.

The old, half blind and deaf Goldie stood by her feet and kissed them. It was hard enough to be a dog but harder to be an old one, I thought. She was living last years of her life, according to the local vets. Teresa and Michael were prepared to lose her any moment.

“She had been with us for fourteen years,” said Teresa and lifted her up. Even her hair looked old and weak. Teresa sat Goldie on her laps and stroked her back. Michael smiled, sitting next to her.

“Would you like a cup of tea,” I asked. Teresa stood up as the biggest authority. She had already decided on behalf of all of us. She took three packets of three in one coffee out of her bag immediately and walked towards the kitchen. Michael smiled like a little old dog. That was how he had coped with her dominant nature half of which seemed to have originated from love and desire to express her womanhood. I allowed her to be the best woman on earth. She made us coffee very motherly and served the cookies she had made.

 

“Teresa loves kitchen and she is a very good cook,” said Michael and smiled. And I admired them with regret. They had been married for forty-seven- years, they were almost seventy but their love was as young as seventeen.

 

I would have married to love of my life only if I knew what it meant to have a family like the one they had, only if I knew how…only if I knew that when I had the chance. I had never seen such a happy marriage or family in my entire life before. All I knew was how to push away someone or withdraw myself. And he was now so far away. Maybe with someone else. Maybe happy or maybe faking to be happy…I can feel he is not really happy and I know my feelings are true because he still texts me in my hardest time as if he feels it, too.

 

“Did you like my cookies,” asked Teresa after she had served her coffee.

“Delicious…everything you make is delicious,” I said to delight her and she was delighted.

“What is your secret,” I asked.

“I put love in everything I make my dear,” said she and Michael held her hand like a school boy.

I admired them with regret and heartache once again.

 

 

 

.

 

 

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Who Is Sick Doctor?

 

I have a nest of ants in my head. They try to get out before I open my eyes in the morning. They don’t allow me to move in my bed and get on with my day before they are all out fucking me up over and over again. One of them is you, doc, I know. Fuck you! What do you know doc! What can a person who wasted half of his life only to have two letters in front of his fucking name anyway? You are probably scanning all the definitions, descriptions, patterns of the diseases you tried so hard to memorise, now…aren’t you, doc? Fuck you! I know I don’t matter to you, nobody does…all you care about is those two letters and how they fill your wallet. You, fucking bastard!

 

There is this terrorist whose head I fucked after he had fucked my cunt. I reported him to the police but he is still free, walking around like he is as good as his mother before she was fucked to get pregnant for him. Yes, you expected me to say as good as you, didn’t you, doc…you will have to wait for that for years but you won’t hear that from me doc…you know why, don’t you, doc? You know that I have to be as bastard as you to call you good, don’t you, doc? And you know I am better than you. You know, the bastards around me, made me come to you, don’t you? You know perfectly well what Freud said, why do you still pretend that I am ill? Say what he said if you have a droplet of honour left in you, say it doc!

mad world

 

“Before you go to a psychiatrist and allow him to diagnose depressed, check out how many bastards you have around you.”

“Thank you very much doc! So why don’t you ask me that, doc!”

“You are already telling me about them, please continue.”

“Please continue…you bastards, blood suckers, mother fuckers…you all have this posh accent…guess what doc, it does not impress me no more, in fact I want to fuck language like you do doc.”

“Cool, how are you going to do that?”

“There you go…you don’t really care about me more than you care about your fucking game, do you, doc?  Yes, you don’t. You want to be the only fucker in the world, don’t you, doc…yes you fucking do. You cannot hide it from me, I can see…I can see everything doc…you are dying to see my soft, warm, pink pussy…you are dying to touch it, aren’t you, doc? The thing is doc, you are not man enough. I only fuck those who are good and those who aren’t usually have too little or too big cock…see doc sometimes people don’t really need to seek justice…it is already there…in the nature of everything.

“I have a medium size.”

 

“Medium size cock…million times cocked up head that is ugly and bald…a life that is wasted listening to…anyway enough about you now…you are as pathetic as anyone in the ward. You feel like a God in everything you do, stupid people respect you because you have a degree to say that…when the patient in the ward says that everyone laughs and calls him mad…just because he does not have a fucking degree to say that…you like that don.t you, doc? You like being treated like a God but you know deep inside that you are not. Especially when you lick a beautiful pink cunt…

 

Another one is out of the nest now…another ant. He was a woman trapped in a man’s body. He loved the power of his cock but was unable to handle its responsibilities. He wanted to fuck like a man but loved and protected like a woman. In other words, he was a coward. I cannot call him homosexual because there are some good people who are homosexual, too. He was just a pathetic little parasite who happened to have a cock. Hence, he could do anything to abuse those who did not have it, he thought. No that was not really what he thought because he was too lazy to think…that was what everyone with cock had thought and he happily bought. So, doc, tell me who is sick , tell me who is actually sick doc?

 

 

 

 

 

My Sister

Posted: October 19, 2017 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

My Sister

 

“Hi,”she said.

“How are you,” she asked and that was enough to fuck me up. Not because I was sad or bad or even mad but because it was her who asked how I was. She shattered all the pieces I had glued. They all stuck to each other I had thought and I was back to who I was, but had I ever known who I was. I mean the one who was free from wounds, scars and pain. Who was I going to be without them, I wondered. Without my wounds, scars, tears and cries who was I , what was I, I asked. How empty I looked to myself while trying to empty myself. What did I want for God’s sake, I asked my hungry-self. Experience but no wound…knowledge but no responsibility or headache…wisdom but no fucking pain or heartache…best of all I wanted power to murder all my weaknesses…but what kind of power would ever bring my pieces back and make me unbreakable, I wondered.

 

“I am fine, how about you,” I asked.

“I am okay, thanks,” she replied. I did not see her to know how sincere she was. “She is not really okay,” whispered my heart but I was not brave enough to ask whether she was or not. But I knew she was not somehow. And I knew she was not brave enough to say more, to ask more, to talk more…so she hushed up her heart and let it bleed like I did and we both listened to the sound of our pain for a while, thousands of miles away from each other.

 

broken rose 2

 

“I dreamed of you last night,” said she unexpectedly. It was courageous of her to say that. And I did not know what to say.

“I moved to another place, that must be the reason why,” I said , not daring to hear her dream.

“Where did you move to,” she asked, drifting away from what she had initially wanted to communicate knowingly or unknowingly, willingly or unwillingly…it was not that clear to me.

 

“I moved somewhere near the sea,” said I, pain of her accident in the darkest part of my heart.

“I wish you happiness in your new house,” said she, knowing perfectly well that happiness had got little to do with the house sometimes even none.

 

“Thank you…come and watch the sunset with me on the balcony one day,” said I. I listened to the silence, it was loud, it was wet, it was long… and it was resentful…

 

“It is still hard for me to walk, especially when the roads are not so good,” said she.

“The roads are not so bad here,” I said but she knew that they were. She knew that she was worth nothing before the accident like everyone else and now she was worth less than nothing as she was disabled. Nothing must be something if there was something less than nothing, I thought in that brief moment. Yes, moments can be incredibly brief and unbearably long sometimes.

 

“Do you remember how we had everything once…youth, health, determination, time, strength, yet… yet we did not appreciate them…maybe we did not know how to… or maybe we were too young and arrogant to do so…yes we wanted to be loved without being able to give love…we wanted money….we wanted to succeed something big…become someone bigger than anyone on the face of earth…yet we were put in invisible little prisons separate from one another…unable to hear…unable to see…unable to understand one another…yet we were told how free we were in those invisible little prisons…and that was the reason why we were unable to love…no matter what we had did not seem to be enough…and we were never good enough to our imprisoners…and how we hated each other…and how we hated ourselves, do you remember now,” I asked without uttering a word the best of which was surely going to hurt.

 

“I still panic when I cross the road,” she then said.

“Yes, that is because you had the accident while crossing the road, that will stop,” I said but I knew it was not that easy. We, humans, had hearts which had nothing to do with reason. Reason could explain why we had pain, how it occurred but it would never care how it hurt. It could cure it with some medicines, it could even numb where it hurt but it would never care what every pain left behind. Reason was dry, so was I. And I knew she did not like my reply. She did not know how upset and how angry I was.

 

“Is your father still alive,” I asked.

“He was, I heard,” said she. That was when we felt hell of anger and resentment but no word. That was when we felt the sharpest knife of our lives stabbed in our hearts but had nothing apart from watching how we were losing blood.

 

“It is okay,” said she, remembering the day she had had the accident and how her father pushed her in front of a bus which crashed her to the pieces. I knew it was not okay, she knew that, too.

 

“There is nothing we can do, just forget all about it,” said she. She said that despite her broken leg. I knew that she did remember him every time she took another step. She sounded like she had learnt how to appreciate what she had, including her bad and a little mad dad.

 

“He is not bad, he is just an angry dad who has never been hugged or loved and whose anger was the way he begged for help to get out of his loveless hell,” our hearts whispered to each other. And we stopped texting to each other. I sent her a picture of the sea I saw from my balcony.

 

“Come and enjoy the sea one day…at least we can have one nice sisterly memory to remember…it might make us forget the bad ones maybe,” I texted while the sun was leaving with a hope of another tomorrow.

 

She did not reply.

 

 

 

 

 

What a Fatherless World

Posted: September 3, 2017 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,

It is the night before Eid. People post about it, talk about it, how it brings solidarity or how it should bring etc… aaand there is this song sang by two girls in Brussel as part of International Festival of Language and Culture’ 2017 festival.

 

Ben yoruldum hayat gelme üstüme,

Diz çöktüm dünyanın namert yüzüne,

Gözümden gönlümden düşen düşene,

Bu öksüz başıma göz dağı verme.

 

Je suis épuisé la vie, ne viens pas sur moi,

Je me suis agenouillé face à ce monde lâche,

Dans mes yeux, dans mon cœur tombé tombant,

N’intimide pas mon innocence.

 

It hurts yet something forces me to listen again and I do…it hurts again and I promise myself not to listen to it again and it ends…a brief release and I struggle with myself in seven long seconds…once more, once more, begs me my inner voice and I hit the play button once more…I listen it hurts a little deeper especially when the black girl sings it so soulfully and so painfully…her heart cries and I hear…and it finishes…okay I say this is it…I must cheer up it is the Eid night…but the black girl still cries in my heart and I feel urge the urge of sharing the song and I do…I send it to someone who hides his heart and plays smart…and he is too far from where I am…and the song travels to Switzerland in matter of seconds through whatsapp…and there is this painful silence which dies to bring back the song to my mind and it does…and I start listening to it again…wait impatiently for the black girl to cry her heart out and touch mine and she does…but something is different this time…I begin listening to it through the ear and heart of my friend and imagine whether he would feel the soul of the song like I do or not…since it is after midnight I get no reply from him…maybe tomorrow I say as the song ends…

 

I see the piece of paper my neighbour sent me the other day when my stomach refused to take all that nonsense which my mind accepted to tolerate. It aggressively forced me to throw out everything even a glass of water not only through my mouth but also my nose for two long days…yes I knew that it was a psychosomatic reaction and I did not want to remember it, but this piece of paper and the number on it…it came from the man with a white hat…he wanted to help…and I have not called or texted him yet…

 

I hold it, register it on my phone…and then he appears on the screen and I hear the black girl again…and the last expression on the face of my friend who had to go to Switzerland…the man with white, the black girl and my friend…they all become a part of the same story in that song and I listen to it again.

fatherless girl

 

Ben yanıldım hayat vurma yüzüme

Yol verdim sevdanın en delisine,

O yüzden ömrümden giden gidene,

Şu yalnız başımı eğdirme benim.

 

J’avais tort la vie, ne le jette pas contre moi

J’ai donné chemin à l’amour le plus fou,

C’est pourquoi de ma vie parti partant,

Ne me fais pas baisser la tête.

Loss…defeat…regret…loneliness…humanness…and life…the song is about everything that is painful about being a human…and that hurts human beings. I decide to call him in the morning and I sleep with the voice of the black girl echoing in my heart…

 

I wake up and it is Eid. I greet the sun with grace before my mind turns itself on and continues from where I left it last night. I drink water and put the kettle on to make a cup of coffee. I drink it as I design a post for the quote of the day…if the projection is true, I say and stop…then why do people happily own compliments and personalize them so quickly, I ask…will anyone reply…I don’t really care, I let them project and I project…

 

I text to the man with a white hat to say how kind of him to send his number upon hearing my gastroenterological ordeal which was actually psychosomatic explosion of my whole year.He immediately texts back to say how nice it is to hear from me on a beautiful Eid day. He sounds desperately lonely and hungry for sincere human connection.I can hear screams of his heart in his messages…he almost sounds like the black girl in that song and I cannot bear anymore…I invite him to my place…I ask him to share half of the first day of the Eid with me…and he happily and expectedly accepts it.

 

I have a look at my novel’s murder scene again…It is good but my hero still seems passive…I wonder how I managed to make the villain look like a hero…my friend texts back from Switzerland and celebrates my Eid. He does not sound like so cold but still distant…I know he did not feel the song…how could he…he is too lucky to have an empathy for someone’s loss or defeat…so I stop listening to the song through his ears and heart yet he is still attached to it but not to voice of the black girl this time…he is attached to the cold girl with little or no wound in her soul who sings with the black girl. I look out of the window…it is a sunny yet cool day…I feel ready to walk out of my home and I do…

 

I want to buy a really good desert for the man with white hat and I do…I feel the peace and joy everywhere I look somehow…strange I say to myself…why do I feel so happy…because of the man with white hat…what is so special about him for God’s sake…how and when did I put him in such a great place…yes I did see him many times, he just lives in the opposite block on the floor five…he looked broken, kind, reserved and strong despite his old age and that is fine…but that cannot be the reason why I almost feel thrilled, I say to myself as I walk around the shopping mall. I buy him a big cup that is as white as his hat and many other things to eat for a week…I return home, put everything in the fridge, tidy the house like I have never done before…no I don’t worry about what he would think about me or my house but I still want him to be comfortable. And he knocks the door all in whites.

 

He is wearing white t-shirt, white trousers but not white hat to my surprise this time. He walks in with a big smile. He is wearing big black rimmed glasses and he has a beard in French style just like the little blue scarf around his olive skinned old neck. It matches with is blue sandals and I like it. He kisses me and it does not feel strange straight after walking in.

 

“Hey, so nice to see you,” I say after feeling his soul and smile. I know he is as excited as me but of course I don’t know his reason just like I don’t know mine. I offer him a place to sit and he sits on the white sofa. He has a small plastic bag in his hand. He opens it and takes out a packet of white chocolate…I don’t like white chocolate but I pretend to love it and thank him in the sincerest tone of my voice…and I smile. He smiles back and I can see he also studies me behind his big glasses. I can hear voice of the black girl echoing in my heart again but I try to ignore her.

 

“What would you like to drink,” I ask him. He takes a tiny little jar out of his small bag this time and holds it in the air.

 

“This is the tea I always drink, it is combination of many herbs,” says he and hands it to me. I find it rude but I still smile as I walk towards the kitchen.

 

I put the kettle on and walk back to him. I sit next to him, I cannot sense any sign of danger or he hides it well, I am not so sure. He has so many lines around his small eyes which happily smile despite his pain that speaks to mine.

 

“I had a major operation two weeks ago,” says he and looks at me. I know he needed compassion two weeks ago and I know he still needs it… and I give him with no word.

 

“My doctor friend told me not to have it due to high risk of death but I had it,” says he and smiles again. “Actually I unpacked my hospital bag when he said the night before the operation but I re-packed it in the morning and went to the hospital,” said he and stops.

 

“I wish I knew you back then…I would have go with you…stayed with you in the hospital,” I say. He looks at me…he feels my heart but cannot speak.

 

“It is okay…I said to doctors before the operation that they should kill me if they know that they disabled me somehow…because they said that there was a high risk of losing my legs if I survived,” he says and smiles again. I can see he still cannot believe that he is alive.

 

“Unbelievable, isn’t it,” I ask. He laughs.

“Yes…was unable to sleep, my leg was always in pain…now I sleep and wake up…nothing happens and I laugh…I sleep again to see what happens…nothing happens and I laugh…I laugh nonstop,” says he and laughs.

 

I go to kitchen and bring him his tea with the desert I bought for him specifically. He likes the fact that I have made some preparation for him. He takes it, I bring my plate of desert and tea and sit next to him. Strange I am wearing white shirt, too, I realize suddenly.

 

“I stayed in Switzerland for thirty-seven years,” he says as he feels close to death. I wonder what really brought him back to such a chaotic country like this one but I don’t ask not to hurt him. I know how it feels to hear that question.

 

“Yes, I met many people who divorced their partners for no reason but just to go back to where they were born and die there,” I say instead but I realize that that was even worse than an offense. But he jumps to that and agrees with me. I become unsure of his honesty. I begin to believe that there is certainly another reason but let him continue…

 

He checks his phone and says:

“My son from Switzerland…he celebrates my Eid.” And he shows his picture. I don’t tell him that I know him, I tell him how handsome his son is instead. And his picture appears in my mind, my heart gets warm in the sweetest way after seeing his breath taking, sublime God given look. And I resent God for not giving the same beauty everyone equally. His father hears my heart and explains. He tells me about his son. How handsome, how fortunate, how free yet how idiot he is. He tells me how he was fined because of raping two girls in one night.

 

“Well he is lucky that he was not jailed,” I say from the standpoint of a man as I have no choice other than that.

 

“Yes…but he had to pay one hundred thousand dollars not to be jailed,” he says. I begin to see why he did not listen to the song I sent him.

 

“God,” I quietly exclaim instead.

 

“I mean he did not force those girls to go to his house, they went because they wanted to,” says he. Well they must have thought that your son was a decent man not a rapist, I thin and what kind of decent man can pull two girls from the bar and sleep with them in the same bed, asks my mind until I utter a word as a response.

 

“Hmm,” I say and try to understand whether he is also a rapist like his son. Was it his dark side that made me curious about him, I wonder as he says:

 

Well…anyway…even that did not stop him tiny bit…he would sleep with 24 girls in 24 hours if he could…he is addicted to women.”

 

“Or sex,” I say.

 

“Both,” he replies but I can see how much he loves his son despite all that as he tells all that with pride in a playful manner. And I understand that he is not really fully matured man despite his old age. That does not surprise me at all…power of manhood corrupts little men and that is okay, I say to myself as I ache in silence again.

 

He shows me his daughter’s picture and his grandkids without any strong sign of emotional connection.

 

“Your wife must be very beautiful,” I say as all his kids are amazingly beautiful and his grandkids.

 

“She was and she was a very good woman but she died,” says he and I know he lies. Only a month ago, his son told me that she was alive. And I wonder what kind of hell I have inside to be curious about such a man with white hat.

 

“Oh I am sorry to hear that,” I say to make him believe that I am some kind of idiot. He relaxes and talks about his job, his ex-lovers and how finds it hard to live here sometimes. I listen and it gets dark outside. I turn the lights on although I love it a little dark. He jumps and says he loves it dark, too but I am no longer sure whether that could be true. He says how much he enjoyed his time with me and cannot go back his lonely home.

 

“It is okay, you don’t have to go just now,” I say as I draw the curtains with the same painful notes in my ears. He stays, despite finding it hard to sit due to his recent disk operation. He has something more to say, I know. He is in pain to say it.

 

“I am actually looking for a woman to share rest of my life with,” says he.

“I am sure you will eventually find one,” I say to him. He looks upset but he hides it. He wished to bring his youth back first and then he made himself believe that he could still try his luck but maybe not so soon, I hear his internal dialogue.

 

He stands up.

 

“I think I better go now,” says he.

“As you wish…thanks for coming,” I say and stand up, too.

He hugs me this time, his expectations look more alive in his eyes. I close the door after he walks out. I look at where he sat, I feel what he has left behind. I feel sad. And I wonder why I wanted to meet him so much. I resent life for not giving me a father like the man with white hat who loved even crimes of his son.

 

I open the window to let what he has left behind out. And I play the same song…the black girl cries I cry…she sings and cries…I listen and cry…what a fatherless world, I whisper as the man with white hat appears in the garden and his lucky son in my mind…

 

Ben pişmanım hayat sorguya çekme,

Dilersen infaz et kar etmez dilime,

Sözlerim ağırdır dokunur kalbe,

Şu suskun ağzımı açtırma benim.

 

e regrette la vie, ne m’interroge pas

Exécute si tu le souhaites, mais je ne dirai rien

Tes mots sont blessants, ça touche le cœur

Ne fais pas parler cette bouche silencieuse

 

 

 

 

 

 

Night Verses

Posted: September 1, 2017 in Uncategorized

Hello everyone, here are the verses of all of us…

One day you will hear my voice Amongst all the endless noise I will then know for sure That your tears fell on my words I broke all your walls To make my heart yours My words your own To

Have a wonderful weekend…

A Coward Cop

Posted: August 31, 2017 in Uncategorized

Have you ever met a coward police man? Well I have…

I happened to call police station very often ever since I moved to this apartment where everyone’s head is between their legs. Yes, that is right. That is what happens when a quasi- Islamic country tries to westernize itself. First freedom they want to have is to freedom of sex. Well if they had a little brain they could have seen how Mohammed had that before, during and after Islam while prohibiting it for others. I guess he was good at legitimizing it…yes that is right he tried to protect all those little women from the war which he started to spread his own thoughts and beliefs.

 

I said to police my neighbour is fucking loudly, he said so what, we cannot do anything about it, it is her privacy. I said no, she is doing it deliberately because her psychopath partner screams like a lion, too. I can tell they do that to harass me.

“Well, you have to deal with it, we cannot do anything about it, it is their bedroom, it is their privacy,” said he.

I said her privacy cannot fuck mine…that is how we define freedom and draw the line between everyone. He said, just go and sleep somewhere far from where they moan and shout. I said there is not much room to go far and the walls are too thin. He said he could not do anything apart from advising me to move out. I hung up swearing.

One day when they least expected I decided to fuck their peace of mind. I turned on the TV at 6 o’clock in the morning. And the next morning and the day after next…they started to think that I was mad and they moved out.

police man

 

And one day I called the police again. The same police man answered, I felt sick before I started.

I said my other neighbour knocked on my door with a glass of whiskey last night and tried to walk in without my permission.

“Why did he do that to you but not to other neighbours, ask yourself,” said the police with his little mouldy brain.

He said he had fallen in love with me, I replied. “You must have done something to make him fall in love with you then,” he said.

“Well, I did not walk around naked as far as I know,” I said and asked: “Isn’t that a crime?”

“It is but there is hardly any punishment…did he hit you, no, did he stab you, no, did he point a gun at your throats and asked you to love him back, no…so you will never get anything even from the best judge,” said he.

“How interesting,” I said and hung up.

 

And just yesterday I called the police station again. Of course he answered.

I said, last night someone called me just after midnight, he claimed that I was such a psychopath just because I did not call him for months and months.

“And what?” he asked.

“Is that a crime,” I asked. He laughed.

“Why would it be a crime?” he then asked.

“It disturbed my peace…I have been contemplating who is right…is it me, you or him,” I replied. He laughed and said:

“I, too, am in love!”

“With a psychopath?” I asked.

“No, with you,” he replied.

“Cool, what did I do to make you fall in love then,” I asked at his surprise.

“You kept calling me for little things,” said he.

“Little things….well they were not little things,” I replied.

“They were,” said he.

“Then deal with it coward…I don’t care about how badly you have fallen in love…it is just a little thing,” I said and hung up.

 

 

 


It is red hot outside and cicadas are singing …or are they screaming, I am not quite sure but I can feel the joy in their tone. There is a middle aged couple in the pool trying to challenge time but I can see the pain in their love…Children laugh with fear of their dependency in the corner of their eyes with the most beautiful sparks…I look at the immortal mountains and walk back inside…

I always write at the table,I don’t want to do that anymore. So I am sitting under the table on the hard floor and typing. No I am not trying to be different or crazy.I am fucking bored…no maybe not bored but maybe a little tired…no,maybe not even tired but sick…sick? No, maybe not even sick but all of it…tired of chasing love and end up with disappointment…bored of hearing the same talk everywhere I walk…sick of games little creatures play to feel superior to each other…tired of the hot weather that makes me sleepy in the climax of my dialogue with the Infinite Consciousness…I mean I hate it when I find myself hugging an angel as soon as I close my eyes while trying to go beyond consciousness and wake up screaming as she turns into a murderer. I constantly feel betrayed these days…yes, that is it…I feel betrayed…

fire of life

No, I am not yet enlightened, I know that. They say if you think you are enlightened go and spend a week with your parents. I cannot stand to hear my mum’s voice even over the phone. Yes I have forgiven her but what she did to me still hurts…it hurts no matter how much I grow…Well, anyway, let’s forget about that…God must have chosen the wrong angel for me when I arrived in the world…maybe it is too soon to say that because I am not in the end yet…but I am ready…cause I never hurt anyone unless I had to take revenge…yes, that is the only feeling I cannot resist…God how will I learn that?

I have been burning with the desire to sing Adele’s song as fiery as her ever since I heard it without knowing why. Here are the lyrics:

“There is a fire starting in my heart,

Reaching a fever pitch,

It is bringing me out the dark,

Finally I can see you crystal clear

Go ahead and sell me out

And I’ll lay your shit bare.”

Now I know why the song has been burning me every time its notes reached my ears. It is about everything I have been feeling about life and love…it is about disappointment of love, betrayal and revenge…obviously an angel has turned into to a bloody murderer in her life, too. She is bleeding…but still there is a joy in that… I can feel it. Joy of expressing her heart, joy of making art…even cicadas want that, too. They scream all day long…maybe they don’t make art but they are the art…but if they have heart they have fire…so they have to express their fire…fire of being…fire of love…fire of life…they have to tell us how it feels to burn…