A woman never touched
as the truth of God
Comic play
I heard a hiss
from the depths of her grave:
I  never cried..never

How can I win
If all system against me
I think I have to gain
Some ability to say yes..
I have to forget no..
As a river is subject
to the topography of the earth..
always saying yes

I miss you like a secret book,
as a fortune amulet in your neck..
as a sea tongue covered in waves that desert and scatter,
I yearn to invade your land,
country by country ...,
then sail in your body.. forever

Oh dazzling woman
overgrown with beauty ..
and the fragrance of noisy nights
like a chrysanthemum, shaken by the cold
In wild grass fields ..
so you will Emanate from the poems of life ..
you are beautiful
like a whisper hidden between the lips ..

The last monk came;
So
he supported with his stick
what was left of the Lord's skull ... and he left ...

I am a man with no goals
Because my ambitions are greater than my abilities
I want to live as it should
but this is impossible according to the laws of nature.
Nothing can be in two different places at the same time.
But I can sacrifice everything for a small true word of love

O warm woman
O you harvest the wheat
In the golden fields ..
Turn back.
Where I stand in the corner of the universe
  Staring at you from afar ..
Show me your bright smile ..
wave by your promising
my Trekking road is so so long

Why did you give birth to me?
I asked my father
"To give you the abilitiy of dreaming .."
He replied.

Then he left me ..
And I only have dreams.

Everything can wait,
even meeting you
at the stations of escape
from wailing to wailing
Red rage on two cheeks of milk, your plains like breadthness
after death.
And the river,
which was a waterfall in my heart..
dried,
leaving shellfish and fish
shivering like winds,
dying,
farewell to the security of the old homeland ..
Everything is waiting ..
Everything ..

When night comes,
I become a criminal,
a lover,
a revolutionary,
an army commander,
a millionaire ... and ...
but in the morning
I return as I was,
nothing but a Comix hero..

Wailing wall for my soul
O white paper
I cry over unborn love,
I cry over the human loneliness
I cry over misery,
I Cry over helplessness،
with painting, poetry and a lot of grunts..
All that and more
On your tender white body..
thank you

And the blue universe ..
It wakes in the gaze of lovers
The breath of the grass is sparkling.
On the cheek of awakening ..
see her..
And she overwhelms me like sadness ..
washing me with her thesauri
a language that died for centuries.
....

If you are all life ..
then all life after nothing
is nothing but a declaration of defeat with a sad victory,
as an obscure writer
who gets a Nobel at the end of his ninety

Oh storm
The ones that my stagnant waters await ..
The mosses of despair crawled on the surface of the ashes.
Those smoky strings
The high place of ruins ..
They are tears in a tragedy
On the Dionysius Theater
Thousands of years ago ..

something you don't have it
makes people life
otherwise, they start to die
soul needs
push you to action
fullness,
throw to self-sanction
need some anxiety need more distraction..
high obstacles
risks and adaptions
that what you need
realy have to feed
perfict norms
in the human defunction..

Existential defeat ..
Shattered Being ..
Gregor Samsa ..
Kafka ..
And ... I ...

I will not commit suicide
But I lived half a century inside the grave
Not easy
for shadows to creep in from under the cracks of steel doors
not easy
for the flowers to extract their roots in order to be able to run.
not easy
To have the desire to live properly inside our graves.
I will not commit suicide ...
because I am a coward ..
And because I always dream to meet you,
my absurdity love..

Metaphors can be a lie
and could be true too
Because the whole life is like that ..
Like your eyes
Like your tender breast
The universe is falling apart
it declares the victory of the nihilistic spirit
Happiness flutters alongside misery
Like the wings of an androgynous bird.
So, my love ..
you can believe or denie my metaphors
This is not about me ..
but depends on your heart...

those are black nights
in black days
here in africa
just in the voice of wild jungles,
I'm standing by my dry feelings
looking for the stars lights,
I have to run and run
Through the trees of dreams
out of the hell
no mercy
no death
just a great lies
in the black nights

This is my city
Stay in its old alleys.
Spread your golden hair in her sad pillows.
And nap a little
Over the cemetery of wishes
Perhaps a light coming out of the baskets of death
and fills the mouths of wailing women ..

I carry others my tragedy
Peg to escape from the truth ..
God and human beings ..
And when I realize that God is a word
Human beings are a word too ..
I clean my mind ... and I penetrate inside my self  ...
To re-stuff myself
by the guidance of the truth
that I am A word too ..

It is difficult for the sea
to hide its fishy scent,
and it is strange that it is the wine we enjoy at noon hot,
and that we all get high with it all the time.
The sea has no meaning without its fishy smell,
and it is funny to imagine it with the smell of cloves.
The sea will die at that time and will desert visitors of sadness and visitors of sweet memory

dark hollow orbs
are crossed by the simoom of ignorance
The ears are not enough
And where there is neither day nor night ..
they Creepingly
Fumble with sharp rock heads
To draw a map in touch memory.
Great horn laments
So they point their ears towards the sky ...
The lovebird flies, running away, breaking leagues of flame like a black arrow
To pollute the purity of sadness
orbs sign without no goale
Confusion pours out of the sweat of sins
and horn laments
Behind the crowds
There are mountains of skulls
And in front of them the darkness of their orbs
And above them the horn groans
And below them are Fangs of rocks like butcher knives.
creeping slowly
Ants overtake them
Lizards, spiders and birds
And the monsters prey on the last of them..and keep howling and besiege them ...
Sometimes they leave them to propagate
Desert hurricanes accumulate sand particles inside their orbs..
They wipe it off with their swollen fingers.
it comes out with some blood, mucus and pus.
and worms that grow in the hollow of exhausted bodies..
They are still productive despite everything ...
Still

who is need three dimension,
if we live in one?
look around you,
recognize trees and other things.
just shadows trick
that makes you feel a shallow feature is embodied.
exactly like love.

We are not naughty
We are rich.
All we have is to feel this world
To sink into existence ..
Homeless people do not have closed boxes
called it an identity.
They do not have little goddess idols that do not match the enormity of the world ..
We have our feelings ...
We are swallowing the world morning and evening ..
We are staring at the sky for a long, long time ...
We are not poor my friend ..
We have nothing
Because we have everything ..
We own the world ..
And in our brains we have the imagination of a woman whom we will never meet.
And when we cross the small river ..
as a hungry homeless guys..
We cry over the fish we catch ..
Then we eat it and laugh.
We are not poor my friend ..
We possess the treasure of our open feelings without end.
did you understand me?

Lovers' gossip; Its meaning is in its lack of meaning.

When the black plane was flying high
She was a lefty teen on the ground
She was writing her response to her first love letter:
"I knew that our souls would meet one day...
Now I am more sure that we will definitely meet ..
I am in Nagasaki ..
you too..
Isn’t our fate a genius, baby?
I didn't know that the ... ''

The poet complained:
Metaphors in all things
In all places ..
Even in hush..
In the stillness ..
In the void .. "..
I Saied to him:
Close your eyes so that you do not see them ..
He said: And in the Blinking, all metaphors of the universe flow.
Then I saw him jump from the top of a high mountain
He swallowed all the metaphors he encountered ...
He died of satiety poisoning
Before he reaches the ground ..

The lakes transform into a huge mirrors
So the sky is naked ..
As well as black forest trees.
their images are reflected as the face of Narcissus.
Oaks wear their white hats
The fleeing bird moans from the winter.
That eternal winter is in the heart ..
That heart that never trusted its heartbeat ..
it did not trust that it was throbing with the correct musical note.
...
A winter in the heart ..
Its broken fragments turn into words ...
Words without purpose ..
As a prosaic metaphor ..
Like a child stutter ..
Like the twitching of dew drops on the leaves of roses.
...
A winter in the heart ..
Gave birth to utopian philosophers.
And the Jesuit Philosophy of Tolerance..
And being lost in the frost of futility ...
...
A winter in the heart ..
Creates creativity

Three months of hard work
To enter my first ontological exam
Dollar night ..
That wild horse
Inside me and her..
Dollar Night
Where a human being dies
Under the quarries of capitalism and skyscrapers..
People silently exchange benefits
Like a dumb trade in the Stone Age
A giant sadness in modern cities ..
I am only eighteen
for the dollar night

Freedom is a constant escape ..
Where the fugitive never returns to his girlfriend.
he is just mobilizing longing in every step forward.
he carves paths of hope ...
and wishes he would never arrive

Riddle bird
With an Alabaster leg‏ ..‏
kneaded by candy milk
With lost idea from the mind of God
So it remained as a spectrum Of the Holy Spirit
Crying between the fingers of tender roses
That leg is still sending its revelation and miracles‏ ..‏
For poets who displaced‏  ‏
because the  Death of alphabet‏ ‏
And painters .. without brushes and colors‏ ...‏
And a soldier .. saw a bullet assassinate his glory‏ ..‏
And a  musician crosses the wind without flute‏..‏
‏..‏
Something there‏ ...‏
God‏ ..‏
Supplying some emanation to slaves‏ ...‏
Alabaster leg
They shout‏ ...‏
Oh God, if you manifest to us‏ ..‏
‏ ‏all hearts will fall apart .. then Who worship you‏?‏
He said: Well done‏ ...‏
All fruits are obscured .. in the groves of darkness‏ ...‏
‏.‏
‏.‏
‏ ‏sparrow witch that colored by riddles has chirped
Then she fled to heaven‏ ...‏
‏... ‏to enjoy calm crying‏ ..‏

slowly
cells of the sky absorbs The septic blood
slowly...
Memory rots.
And slowly
Lavender cuts oneself.
Preferring to die until tomorrow morning ..
slowly...
We are standing like spiders in our dark rooms.
And spin the trap for ghosts of the underworld ..
slowly..
We rot with the septic blood of sky ...
We cry without tears or weep..

And when death is manifested;
These are the ruins of old dictionaries ..
Sponge language ..
And eagerness to displace ...
From its mean blazing winds
Death is not a thing
O ****** slave in the old cities ..
It's your crooked line
In the papyrus of the rainy deserts ..

I said: You and I are in the same boat;
because we are not exist..
The Lord said with a laugh:
- At least there's a boat.

All ancient metaphors
Old photos
Old memories
the old love
are just the wealth of the perplexed man
in this gelatinous existence

Your eyes
On the edge of meaning
Take nihilism away from my heart
And while I relive the past
I see you as Noah's ark
carrying pairs of lovers
And transfers them to a new existence.
We are the dreamers
who Stuck in the game of death
And the blessed love trick

The Story of Gypsy of Wind





dust has dissipated
When it rained
Gypsy sang
With his guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
The last farewell song ...
As he crosses the Earth
Without thinking of a terminal to reach
...

A fugitive from modernity.
From every paved road ..
Of all the twinkling constellations ..
From the noise of cities ..
From the gloom of government buildings.
The gypsy diverges,
Evading sandy roads.
He meets the boys of the villages ..
He sings and they dance..
He passes near the peasant women with red hair covers.
He plays love tunes for them.
Until their cheeks flush ...
He meets the shepherds ... and avoids them ...
he receives the wide plains
With bright eyes
And on his back
He hung up his guitar, which he inherited from his father.
.....

The gypsy meets the girl of his dreams.
But he leaves her to continue trekking.
Gypsy knows no boundaries ..
He does not know what warm rooms mean.
He does not know what daily work means.
He does not know what school means ..
Because he does not want to learn ..
Rather, he should live on the road.
....

The gypsy has no identity papers.
But he does not know what the meaning of stained papers and seals.
The gypsy does not know power ..
when he meets the mayor of the village
he Whoops:
Why do they obey you when they are free ..
The gypsy knows no hunger ..
Because he eats anything in nature.
Flowers and butterflies ..
Rivers mud ...
Then he pulls his guitar from his back.
And he goes on trekking
He plays a song that tells about a dream
With the warmth of a beautiful woman's chest.
Gypsy travels after the spring.
as if he tied with a rope..
He does not like winter ..
He does not like summer ..
He does not like autumn ..
Like birds in the sky ..
Gipsy follows the scent of silt and nectar.
He points with his finger to the distant horizon:
- It rained there..
He plays a rain song ...
.....

What do you have, gypsy?
The bar girl asks him
In transit hours standing
He says: What do you mean by the word "you have"?
The gypsy has nothing ..
Because he has everything.
He has his freedom ..
A girl spends a night with him
Then she expels him from her arms in the morning
So he takes up his guitar
And he sings in tears over his broken heart.
Passing through plains and mountains ..
To where he does not know
....

Truck drivers meet him
They offer to get him to where he wants..
But he refuses ..
He doesn't want to miss a moment without being in the heart of nature ...
Sings
Consuming time with his guitar
His guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
His father who does not know him ...
But what his mother told him before her death
when they were traveling on the way ..
He buries her ..
And he prays for her soul..
Without knowing which god he is praying to..
He smiles ..
And he goes on its eternal journey
.....

When crossing forests..
He is surrounded by hyenas.
He pulls his guitar and sings.
The hyenas watched him in amazement.
they remain amazed as they snaps his flesh..
And he is still singing
Playing his guitar
His guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
His father who never knew him ..

Drawing in the dark
___


I often ask myself
Is it possible to draw in the dark?
There you always glorify me ..
As a great idea in the head of a submerged novelist
As a metaphor, a poet wrote one poem and went on ...
In the dark you hide the tender spirit
And songs for Spring that never comes
I'm asking my self..
How do I paint you in the dark ..
When I ****** your features from the Wish Nebula ..
imprison it in the memory of meaning.
How do I document that confused moment
To be discovered by an archaeologist after thousands of years.
In the ruins of my skull ..
My laughing, sarcastic skull ...

Night Scattering ____


The poems of the lovers ascend to the sky before their birth, and the fragrance of silt scents the delicate fingers, when the earth was water .. And in the cliffs of tears the sunset grows, shivering from the cold of dusk. And the perplexed in an unprecedented existence, spinning like sea pearls, looking at the stars. The crimson blood shines in the vines, and the choir of angels sings a sacred melody for the shoots of kisses .. “Love is born here” .. “In the most holy of the holies of the Lord” ... the poems of lovers rise to the sky, carrying from the earth the mourning of the deserts, the desolation of the cactus, and the breaking of the branch at the riverbed And he drew the weeping clouds on the roofs of dormant lakes. "This night is full of beauty." The two lovers say, "This night is full of beauty," they whisper