The sound of sizzle on the stove, where I found my voice.
Raspy in the mornings when the wake up call is the toast for the other night;
Mellow at lunch where alcohol sometimes meets the meat;
High pitched when meetings are with the fire, as pan heats and dazzles with grease.
Oil always brings me home to my grandma’s place.
Where the nonchalant ways of remedy is taught at a single cabinet; and that space is clustered with languages I never spoke, but learnt on the way.
I occasionally speak with my voice down,
Where every single item on the menu, seems fancy.
And I sometimes sit at narrow tables, where people have no faces at all to meet.
They have orifices with teeth to cut, but are tongue tied with twisters of spoonful tastes.
No toast is made, at your service
And meals are for you, your highness,
Courtesy is for the tables that are round,
And an applause is for
The
Chef;
With no taste.
Rasp, sizzle and click.
Rasp, sizzle and click.
The howl is from the belly;
Where it aches with no after-taste.
Again,
Rasp, sizzle and click;
Sipping on famine.
Rasp, sizzle and click.
Chef is tone-deaf, I mean.
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 12:54 PM UTC
Edebiyatın, iki dişinin arasında kalmış.
Dilsizler fısıldarken,
Cümlelerin kifayeti yok, kelimelerin kıyafeti.
Kimsin sen?
Roma, Barselona, Londra, Atina, Ankara
Ve sen.
Dilsizler ıslık çalar,
Yüzsüzler kimlik.
Kimsin sen?
Roberto, Julia, Tammy, Atlas, Hüseyin
Ve sen.
Suskun bir tutsak,
Çıplak ziyafetinle ten.
Halbuki, Pakize takım elbise giymiş,
Cümleleri Arapça,
Yazılan sen.
Kimsin sen?
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 12:51 PM UTC
The charcoal shimmers,
Where the diagram has its roots.
It has its own swivel where the two meets one,
At the density of its weight.
They whisper sweet notes with a great cruise
To
Their
Everlasting
Route.
And the whole ground shakes, two and too.
Haste is now, with or without.
As the crowd dissipates;
It seems, as the smoke of a cigarette,
And shimmers again, before ‘twas a take.
The moment has a greater calling,
And the ground at once breaks.
Where It enters, it lays.
With the even greater cruise of its
Everlasting
Breaks.
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 12:50 PM UTC
She stood before me,
“Are we there yet?”
Your are here, to say the least.
With your locks swiveling around,
While you press record on the stage the world has bestowed.
And you own the stages, where you
Bow before anyone.
And anything else is a whistle on the records you hit play.
You hear them say,
“where are we?”
You are all here.
And you own all the stages, performing on a dead ground, with heavy eyelids.
“why are you all here?”
demanding, not starstruck, not curious to the very last bit.
And the query is a whistle on a ground we’ve never passed on.
The hall is the elongated stage where you bow before anyone
And, again, the ovation is not a standing one
You are the one there.
You are here.
And you stand before anyone else.
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 12:41 PM UTC
In the front yard I borrow of a tongue;
Through condolences I’d never receive
And the sigh comes out for a growl;
Through a worthy couple of deeds.
Thou would never tempt
And as if ever in sheets,
The bed climbs up over a fence,
Where the house gets to cleave.
And the whole litter goes for the latter
As the shoe walks in lieu;
Of a man with bare teeth showing,
And of a woman with no absolute heat.
Hence, the two would make up for thee
As the one makes of two.
Though the fences would shatter,
And the house would rather be true.
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 12:27 PM UTC
Cue upon the shore, through the heaving,
The pull might contrive the sediment;
What subject a mere iota might have strung?
‘Twas a hist upon some certain shut.
What course might have momentum brung about?
The dust through the maneuvers or
The time through the slip of a tongue.
What course might have held that time?
May be a hiss that slithers through the waves,
Or might have been a whirlwind of an abdominal clime;
Man must, therefore, certainly thrive(!)
What hardy keeps might be hither to chime?
Therefore, a man tolerates the bearing
Of an unfathomable crime
Through
Assuming
That
Some
Can
Still
Be
Alive.
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 7:50 AM UTC
As the vivacity of entourage seeks to proceed
For the rivalry of no lead;
As it cleaves through the restated deeds,
And then, the attributes come to hold no chore.
As the dusk flees over the sediment and
Over to the sheets that cloister not,
The promise of another wallop seems obsolete,
Because it clings to a phase of no strike.
Once a thread back than, goes for the thrice,
And solely rebels;
If the desultory crowd lies between the creaks,
And If not,
A breath still teases for too much.
And as the rivalry becomes the leading act,
the day is made of the weavers,
and the night after that,
Seems to simply appear.
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 2:47 PM UTC
As thou leap in lieu of a lay,
Would i be eminent within a brawl of the sane?
Or,
Art
Thou
Insane?
Would I see the dilemma of
Impostures
From the very own standards;
Am i prone or mayst thou not?
One adopts too much of that haze.
Am i in tone or canst thou not?
Till the loop becomes a tease,
I acquire a bit of a bitter taste.
And like a confusion teetering a jelly cake,
I blow the candles with no such sense.
And the sheets shall not tolerate(?)
The breaths of a complete phase,
But rather a heap of the mind game;
Like an unimaginably,
Ironically,
Wandering nightmare.
Though age counts the years,
I heave for the confusion on the jelly cake;
As thou leap in lieu of a lay.
Nov 4, 2019
Nov 4, 2019 at 2:42 PM UTC
Attires of a closer regime,
Closed in on the muddling assets
of a light,
Flickering.
On a dead end street,
Through a meandering
There’s an eventful animus.
Past eleven,
P.M.
“To lobby is to redeem,
Apparently(!)
For I sin and repeatedly sin.”
Only by 1 and only through one
Single flock of wind-blown sediment,
man acknowledges life and
It’s dreadful stripe,
Laid upon a landscape;
Full of faux images of random schemes.
Well, there the ongoingness goes
Of moments that are no way chronologic
Where one plaster over another
Seems like a perfect match.
When the clock strikes to 3
A.M
Merely a sigh passes along,
Yet another minute,
On the cold street
The light knows no acuity at all.
It means for another tick,
Yet does not wait for the tock;
Tick-tock(!)
Tick-tock.
There lies 3 hour worth concurrence,
Confronted for each tock, for half a minute,
But only the seconds pass.
And with each skip that matters,
and only that matters nevertheless,
The clock goes back to
Eleven
P.M.
There(!) the gutter calls for another drink,
For another trace
On another strike.
However mournfully,
Escort of a humanly maze,
The muddling sort,
Births confusion.
The attires seem gone by now.
The heaves; quite impeccable,
The path adopts another protest,
For a much tackled breathing
Time overlaps,dreamily,
On a spectrum,
Laying as a single faceted imposture;
Mocking a postering of shed upon the pavement.
For another street that seemingly differs;
where the marching will always depend
(Regardless)
Solely on the counts of seconds
By the potency of motives
That merges as to defy
The years accounted
On the flesh and bone.
Now there goes another strike,
Audible over the plane
And
It carries on as
“To lobby is to redeem
For I sin
And sin
And sin
On a 3-hour worth strike,
Starting at 11
P.M,
Over another man’s bearing.”
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 1:51 PM UTC
Thou tangle the mortality
And seek the mourning of its course,
With an outrageous cloak that falls adrift
To have its custom afloat.
The decorations, thereof flatters this turmoil
That has its doubts and moments,
A longevity beheld upon the chores of the subject,
Never cognizes its everlasting trials,
For those of which handles the elation
Of successive falsification.
I know not of the clumsiness of hymns,
That sighs the mourning of a course,
The chaotic iteration of single pauses
And the faltering of a mere slope.
I know not of the turmoil
That bedecks the frostbitten clavicles,
Onto which no sigh wavers
A petition of no faze and any dome.
I know not of the cloak
That nestles around a haze;
Bringing confusion that betrays every vivid sense.
Let it be the matter, ‘tis a matter of time(!)
Would it morph itself around the mourning mould,
When it dries away with the mud?
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC