This blog is moving.

Due to problems of accessing this blog from Turkey (where I live) I have moved everything to a new site: http://surrenderhoneypronto.wordpress.com/

Sunday, March 20, 2011

a merciless search is on the way
on the twisting streets of my memories
for a 'happy once upon a time' moment
and I remember:
had I truly liked myself
I wouldn't have spent a lifetime
running away
to become someone else.
but finding myself on the shores of
the ever expanding present back at home
can't help but compare myself
against a mirage of
this someone I once was
and wonder if all that journey
was for something. nothing?

Monday, March 14, 2011

our hybrid dreams
we sell on the short
like some twitter feeds
imprisoned within an
artificial constraint
and then
words fall upon words
hiding their secret
associations
under their false
trans-funk-crip-tion-al
pretenses
line after line

Monday, February 28, 2011

no writing mojo
don't know if this is
because of all the sad
winter mornings of the world
i spent looking at
pictures of the
beautiful people
at all the distant shores
i've been to
but don't regret leaving

yet i am here
watching conan
at the wee-hours of the night
and still no mojo

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

it is the
sound of train-wreck of a life
there preserved within the empty kitchens
and absent women
flowing with dubious extra care
cracked open in old rock concert posters
that nobody remembers coherently
even under a spotty sun
with a hallow core

ain't that fucking great

Sunday, January 16, 2011

threading the night with a feeling 
of something inescapably fleeting
that i don't particularly know 
   but desperately need 
it is a terrible blind fight
in the muddy labyrinths of my mind
under layers of anxiety and
   unfulfilled fantasies 
of the kind
which requires a lot of 
   quiet contemplation and talking

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

hungry for some unwarranted ironic wisdom 
my dim-witted conscience 
was handicapped by a wishy-washy ghost

static was all i could hear then on

but i got all the words you like
  right here in my pocket
with all the emotional content
  and the sincerity to go along with
right here
in my pocket
even if
empty rooms of my deliberate reason
and blossoming walls of my anger
made their bloody business 
to make sure that 
whispering cold waters of
my indifferent reflection were stopped
in their tracks permanently

i fucking hate that!

Saturday, January 8, 2011

am i real?
or am i a bodiless voice
from nowhere
stuck on a rudderless ship
turning around
'n around
'n around?

Monday. January 3, 2011

it is what it is

it is what it is

doesn't matter how many times i repeat to myself
"it is what it is"
the fact that my inner-eyes were
carrying the heavier burden of a sadder soul
weighed in disappointments of unfulfilled goals
makes these words relentlessly cruel and judgmental

and
i am still shedding 
people

still waiting and repeating
"it is what it is"
again and again
"it is what it is"
like a chant
like a prayer
"it is what it is"

it is an impossible sick prayer on the wind
and i don't believe a minute that it is true
deeply afraid that 
it is far from being over

Sunday, January 2, 2011

i gotta get this right
right as the unpredictable fists 
of a gypsy god
who got 
not a night
free of silent clocks
that knock
thirteen thousand plots
together with
some rhymes
that don't fit
quite right

Saturday, December 11, 2010

a sputnik descending in my mind
into a sour moon 
dipped in my childhood memories of 
mercury magic
but swarmed by sequences of numbers
meaningful only for some 
impossibly sharp minds
sitting in their sofas 
watching coldly raising waves 
of randomness and false patterns
yet the only thing i hear
is a weak signal
and waves breaking on
my memories of a yellow nylon ball
imitating that sour moon

Thursday, October 28, 2010

he could see the writing on the wall
his house wasn't his house anymore
he inherited his father's disappointments
and he could not
would not
build a home 
on a desolate ocean of discontent
such as his

Flashback: March 16, 1998

                                                 in
late days                                       and
bargaining late hours                            of
                                         every ache
                                         everything
and anything
besieged by deliberate
sharp edges of burning temper
which is delinquently sore
in every respect                                 is
washed away by                          nothingness

touch

the
absolute
innocence                           lying calmly on

solipsism's ladder of words                    sank
                              vessels of perception
                                              which
is read                                      killed
in one of three
thousand ways

i don't know
which one                                   the way
                                          the arrow
                                            of time
                                                was

Thursday, October 21, 2010

she quashed this family
  without mercy
this ragtag group of people
  poisoned with sarcasm
  drunk to stupor with self-pity
with the ease of an 
  understated gesture of kindness 
  of giving a plumb
to a scared and distracted 
  little girl
  wrapped in city's crazy crowd

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

we penciled our wars in
our fears and insecurities
like a multiple choice exam
a is a rejection
melancholia is a b
bad sex is a c
and d happens to be
sins of withdrawal from
sweaty erotica
and we get to clean 
the museum of individual guilt 
that we build out of our history
our memory
if we succeed

Friday, September 24, 2010

one of the alter-egos i left in my closet
the one with regrets in its pockets
  and a few cats
is what i need now to quash 
this pulsating permanent pain behind
  the unashamed micro truths 
the dead and forgotten feast on
  with memories which don't belong to them
at strange nights when daemons 
  with bras that looked like puffy clouds 
sliced moons and courted precarious comets 
  all at the same time
why 
i don't know

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

far beyond darkness, away from our madness
our crisply folded words have been slaughtered by
the faint images of distant shores of faulty whispers

there, the lowly servants of 
   our disjointed bits of consciousness
grimace at the witnesses of the carnage
and cut down bodies with 
   a glowing delirium in their eyes

the grisly mechanics of our bodies get in the way though
while a confused metaphysics weighs down our minds
   not knowing how to ask the right questions

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

it is the dead of winter
but i am not mad
just that i know all the words
but i can not put them 
  in the right order
as the song foretold
delivering its sadness 
  with such great efficiency 

Thursday, July 8, 2010

my genealogy lies 
  deep within a language
rooted in a tangled web of 
  people, families and kinships
  lost or long dead
except in those stories 
  my mother and her mother share 
over evening tea
  listening to complaining seagulls
    on the rooftops
  looking over a vindictive sea
it's a desperate attempt
  against their corroding fragile memory
  against a vindictive time 
a designated mourner by their side 
her son and her grandson
  all wrapped in one

low flying clouds
  and an ominous sheet of rain 
are approaching fast
the flapping towels on balconies 
  hoisted much like flags
are warning against 
  a nondescript danger

conversation twists and turns
histories collide
glasses empty and fill again
  and tragedies follow:
men, fathers, grandfathers
  lost to wars, hunger and 
  other unnatural disasters
women, mothers, grandmothers 
  lost or left behind 
follow in rank
eyes fill and empty again

seagulls are eerily silent
  watching the sky for a sign
  through a thick jungle of 
  satellite dishes 
but the rain shows no sign 
  of abating

so, my genealogy lies 
  deep within a language 
  spoken by ghosts 
  of a terrible history
alive flesh and blood
  in these old women
witnessed 
  by someone who cannot
by someone whose history 
against the tide
  lies somewhere else

as darkness rolls in
rain and stories both cease
leaving their thunderous
  footsteps behind
towels retreated inside
where vacationing families
  gather over dinner and tv

seagulls received their sign
  they had been expecting
  and left
i am still here

Saturday, July 3, 2010

a true man
exists only in his desire
for 
once that compelling craving
and its acid-like tentacles
do lay waste to the bitter oasis of 
the phantasmal mental pictures of himself
acting upon that urge 
with a ferociuos deep hunger 
right out of his anima
consuming all fantasy 
scorching every conscious 
wall
barrier
and years worth of 
social conditioning
they leave behind
no desire 
no man