alijan-ozkiral - Hello Poetry

It is three a.m.. My eyes chanced to open And across my bed, outside my window, From this side of the horseshoe hotel, Were lights cascading onto The facade of the inner outside hotel wall. Were the red; white; green; yellow; blue; white lights a sign That the aliens were here? -- probing This particular hotel for their next cornfield victim. I did not rise to check outside For fear they would take me next, And turn me into a probéd husk. Is this what happens when we sleep?

0

Apr 25, 2018

Apr 25, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC

alijan-ozkiral

Witching Hour

It is three a.m.. My eyes chanced to open And across my bed, outside my window, From this side of the horseshoe hotel, Were lights cascading onto The facade of the inner outside hotel wall. Were the red; white; green; yellow; blue; white lights a sign That the aliens were here? -- probing This particular hotel for their next cornfield victim. I did not rise to check outside For fear they would take me next, And turn me into a probéd husk. Is this what happens when we sleep?

13

Together, we woke up In our secondhand metal bed. Fell asleep together, Wrapped up in our ash gray sheets. My piano hands held yours as we slept. I had this addiction to living our three years of pain, Where we were at our best, our most ecstatic, Our hands grasping tightly at the other’s And becoming strangled and clammy. We could have fought through anything. We fought through our first trip to New York City, When we came back to our home, Our shiny, chrome bed was there – ready to carry us in our sleep. After you moved out, I looked for the polaroids we took. They were hidden beneath the mattress Which has been stained a dull red Because of the rusting on the metal of the springs. I didn’t look at them, though I wanted to. I imagined that the photographs, too, have rusted. Lying down on the chilled bed- Devoid of the warmth of two lovers, The cold air circulated around me, slowing the opening and closing of my hands. And it filled up the stagnant vacancy in them. I grabbed the edge of the bed and The rust scales flaked off onto my hand. I wiped it off on the mattress, And wondered how much redder this bed could get. A cradle of flame enveloped the bed. I ripped up the floorboards- Scratched with your nail marks and dented from our play fighting. The blood from where I hit my head staining the wood, Matching the boards to the red scales on the frame. I boarded up the door, Trapping the remnants of a bonfire bed. As the crackling of the burning bed quelled, I pried the ashen nails off the shielded door. I lied down on the ash-metal frame, pretending we’re still there- And I started dreaming. Images appear of you and I, sitting crossed legged on a queen-sized mattress- Holding hands- And a polished metal frame, Lined with astral sheets and a hand-made quilt with our initials patched into the top-left corner, Discussing the plans we made together, Of how you’ll travel and see the world, Maybe Dubai, Amsterdam, anywhere but here, really. And how I would wait here. My wishful eyes open across from what should have been yours. But all I see is the emptiness in my piano hand.

0

Apr 25, 2018

Apr 25, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC

alijan-ozkiral

The Bed on Bottleneck Lane

Together, we woke up In our secondhand metal bed. Fell asleep together, Wrapped up in our ash gray sheets. My piano hands held yours as we slept. I had this addiction to living our three years of pain, Where we were at our best, our most ecstatic, Our hands grasping tightly at the other’s And becoming strangled and clammy. We could have fought through anything. We fought through our first trip to New York City, When we came back to our home, Our shiny, chrome bed was there – ready to carry us in our sleep. After you moved out, I looked for the polaroids we took. They were hidden beneath the mattress Which has been stained a dull red Because of the rusting on the metal of the springs. I didn’t look at them, though I wanted to. I imagined that the photographs, too, have rusted. Lying down on the chilled bed- Devoid of the warmth of two lovers, The cold air circulated around me, slowing the opening and closing of my hands. And it filled up the stagnant vacancy in them. I grabbed the edge of the bed and The rust scales flaked off onto my hand. I wiped it off on the mattress, And wondered how much redder this bed could get. A cradle of flame enveloped the bed. I ripped up the floorboards- Scratched with your nail marks and dented from our play fighting. The blood from where I hit my head staining the wood, Matching the boards to the red scales on the frame. I boarded up the door, Trapping the remnants of a bonfire bed. As the crackling of the burning bed quelled, I pried the ashen nails off the shielded door. I lied down on the ash-metal frame, pretending we’re still there- And I started dreaming. Images appear of you and I, sitting crossed legged on a queen-sized mattress- Holding hands- And a polished metal frame, Lined with astral sheets and a hand-made quilt with our initials patched into the top-left corner, Discussing the plans we made together, Of how you’ll travel and see the world, Maybe Dubai, Amsterdam, anywhere but here, really. And how I would wait here. My wishful eyes open across from what should have been yours. But all I see is the emptiness in my piano hand.

47

A windy writer's pen scratches on mute paper yielding black branches.

0

Apr 16, 2018

Apr 16, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC

alijan-ozkiral

April 12, 2018

A windy writer's pen scratches on mute paper yielding black branches.

3

Standing across the table (there were no chairs in the house) was my father, Emilo. The table itself was a sturdy rosewood, and one of the last items in the home. We had sold our belongings after mother had died -- my father said it was to help pay for school. We had each kept one tattered shirt and one nice shirt which I would wear to class every other day (we were shirtless in this moment, no need to sweat in clothes unnecessarily). We had one pair of jeans each - both tattered and mended with old quilts taken from the tailor's trash can. We also kept three of mom's blouses - one for me, one for father, and one for her. We were close to pawning hers, though. On the table, near my father (and, away from me) was my semester's grades and a polished bottle of amber liquor. His skinny arm swung across the table, smashing the bottle of gasoline-smelling alcohol against the bareness of the dry, wood wall. The liquid seeped into the pores of that portion of our home leaving a dripping stain. It never really dried. Two weeks and three days later, my father would flick the ashy edge of a cigarette **** into the wall. He was too drunk to know he wasn't in Hell.

0

Feb 16, 2018

Feb 16, 2018 at 8:54 AM UTC

alijan-ozkiral

Notes of Wood and Smoke

Standing across the table (there were no chairs in the house) was my father, Emilo. The table itself was a sturdy rosewood, and one of the last items in the home. We had sold our belongings after mother had died -- my father said it was to help pay for school. We had each kept one tattered shirt and one nice shirt which I would wear to class every other day (we were shirtless in this moment, no need to sweat in clothes unnecessarily). We had one pair of jeans each - both tattered and mended with old quilts taken from the tailor's trash can. We also kept three of mom's blouses - one for me, one for father, and one for her. We were close to pawning hers, though. On the table, near my father (and, away from me) was my semester's grades and a polished bottle of amber liquor. His skinny arm swung across the table, smashing the bottle of gasoline-smelling alcohol against the bareness of the dry, wood wall. The liquid seeped into the pores of that portion of our home leaving a dripping stain. It never really dried. Two weeks and three days later, my father would flick the ashy edge of a cigarette **** into the wall. He was too drunk to know he wasn't in Hell.

1

The tinge of secondhand cigarettes fill the air, Meshing with the scent of a stale motel. The waft of solitary *** lingers on the unmade beds. The dilapidated roofing, cracked and chipped, Threatens to fall on its ghostly residents, Who care little for the subpar shielding, Which lets in the acid rain and crumbs of insulation. The outside, which was once filled with children Blowing bubbles, filling the moving air with floating life, Now rests as a statue grey, unnerving in stasis. Behind the front desk stands the concierge- As timeless as the cobwebs in the corners and Dust on the grandfather clock, long since unmoving. "He was once a great man, as tall as Yggdrasil itself" Residents were once told. Now he stands grey and hunched, As his residents lay sedated and soft.

0

Apr 10, 2017

Apr 10, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC

alijan-ozkiral

The Second Lightning Rod

The tinge of secondhand cigarettes fill the air, Meshing with the scent of a stale motel. The waft of solitary *** lingers on the unmade beds. The dilapidated roofing, cracked and chipped, Threatens to fall on its ghostly residents, Who care little for the subpar shielding, Which lets in the acid rain and crumbs of insulation. The outside, which was once filled with children Blowing bubbles, filling the moving air with floating life, Now rests as a statue grey, unnerving in stasis. Behind the front desk stands the concierge- As timeless as the cobwebs in the corners and Dust on the grandfather clock, long since unmoving. "He was once a great man, as tall as Yggdrasil itself" Residents were once told. Now he stands grey and hunched, As his residents lay sedated and soft.

17

Most of the snow has cleared except for the ***** piles on street corners. A black car treads behind me, it's driver on the phone- distracted but keeping pace. I cannot help but focus on the phone, black all over it's surface except for the screen, which is so brightly lit it is as if the sun were in the black car still behind me- and still distracted. My car continues forward under the sun above, which has long since shifted from yellow to red. An engorged tide crashes into my side like an eighteen wheeler. Or, perhaps it's a wave of indifference, merely crashing down upon me- pushing me beneath it's apathy. Though, it could be nothing and we are all simply drowning. The sea has calmed. The swell and crash has died down to a gentle, rocking ebb and flow. The driver behind me has left his black car behind the green sun. He is still on his black phone, ushering frantic words and numbers. Red and blue moons pull me from the water, away from the moonlit rise and fall and into a dark, entangling thicket devoid of clarity- locking me in place. And, on the body- my body- which lays ensnared under Sirens, is an anxiety so large it is responsible for the currents of the ocean.

0

Jan 15, 2017

Jan 15, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC

alijan-ozkiral

Car Crash

Most of the snow has cleared except for the ***** piles on street corners. A black car treads behind me, it's driver on the phone- distracted but keeping pace. I cannot help but focus on the phone, black all over it's surface except for the screen, which is so brightly lit it is as if the sun were in the black car still behind me- and still distracted. My car continues forward under the sun above, which has long since shifted from yellow to red. An engorged tide crashes into my side like an eighteen wheeler. Or, perhaps it's a wave of indifference, merely crashing down upon me- pushing me beneath it's apathy. Though, it could be nothing and we are all simply drowning. The sea has calmed. The swell and crash has died down to a gentle, rocking ebb and flow. The driver behind me has left his black car behind the green sun. He is still on his black phone, ushering frantic words and numbers. Red and blue moons pull me from the water, away from the moonlit rise and fall and into a dark, entangling thicket devoid of clarity- locking me in place. And, on the body- my body- which lays ensnared under Sirens, is an anxiety so large it is responsible for the currents of the ocean.

35

Doe-eyed girl across the bar Acting a shy two-step in the corner No doubt this is a night not for you - a night where one must evade man. No doubt many wish to remove you from this venue - Wish to feel the wetness of your lips - Wish to hear the squelch, slap, and drip of intimacy. I am no different than many. But, doe-eyed girl, I also wish to join your shuffle - and turn acting into dancing. Doe-eyed girl - We can hold each other in a swaying upright embrace 'til the dye of your red shirt stains my hand, and the blue of your jeans rubs off on my finger. But, for now, I admire in between my own act - in my own corner.

0

Nov 6, 2016

Nov 6, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC

alijan-ozkiral

Deer in Headlights

Doe-eyed girl across the bar Acting a shy two-step in the corner No doubt this is a night not for you - a night where one must evade man. No doubt many wish to remove you from this venue - Wish to feel the wetness of your lips - Wish to hear the squelch, slap, and drip of intimacy. I am no different than many. But, doe-eyed girl, I also wish to join your shuffle - and turn acting into dancing. Doe-eyed girl - We can hold each other in a swaying upright embrace 'til the dye of your red shirt stains my hand, and the blue of your jeans rubs off on my finger. But, for now, I admire in between my own act - in my own corner.

17