How could you commit ******,
but it be called two different things?

There was no difference in our actions,
only the side of the battlefield we were standing on.

I knew the truth though, I always have.
I was just like them, a cold-blooded killer.

The only difference was the uniform I wore and the man I pledged allegiance to.

note: this is not a poem but an account of the mental aftermath of Hanau, where ten people got killed yesterday. one of them was the mother of the killer who worked in a bank, was paranoid and believed in conspiracy theories.


a turkish guy whose name means "justness" was shot to death by him. in the community, he was popular for his kindness.
he was killed because he was an immigrant, a muslim, and because he hung out with his friends in a shisha bar to enjoy his leisure time. got hit by bullets. died, leaving relatives, friends and an entire muslim community, the entire world, in daze.



met three uber drivers today, all of them muslims, two of them know some of the victims personally.  

the first one of them was desperately sad today. i asked him "how are you?" he answered "not well" and told me everything. i was very concerned because i can't deal with such inhumane cruelty.

the second driver was from pakistan. he argued that germany is an open-minded country and that he had left his country due to religious lunacy that is lived by some people there.

the third driver was interestingly humorous. as wired as it may sound, he thought positively after the assasination and said that the relatives of the victims should live on as if their people hadn't been killed.

i don't know about that; yet, everyone deals with terror differently.

hanau is just a couple of miles from my home city, frankfurt am main.

in my heart, my spirit and my soul, i am with all the victims, their relatives, friends and colleagues.

MAY GOD BLESS ALL YOUR SOULS. MY CONDOLENCES. MAY GOD BLESS US ALL.

MUCH LOVE FOR ALL BELIEVERS OF ALL RELIGIONS. LOVE IS THE ONLY WAY TO DEAL WITH THAT.

The killer killed himself after the crime.

OH GOD, GIVE US STRENGTH. WARMTH. HOPE.

i smothered the flame and i
let it strangulate, slowly
i stifled its breath as its
sparks licked at me
like a shrieking victim kicking
and kicking

but the fire was hushed, always;
i would strangle that
brilliant crimson gold
before it roared, before it even dared.

it didnt matter if i
burnt my hands
down to their britle bones;
the fragile self ive built is paper in the wake
of knee-**** fury

Year after year
--at daylight savings--
he kept moving his clock backward,
but never forward,
until he wound-up in the wrong century.

He then slept in masks,
his dreams repeatedly
disbanding and reforming,
as if in someone else's show,
but it was his hallucinating set-list, for sure.

He lived at the call of the void,
feeding off peppermint sticks
and clusters of chokeberry,
to help ease the pressure.

One phantom summer,
he read The Joy of Euthanasia
from cover-to-cover, over and over,
until he could recite death.

He poured his heart
into his new work
as an artist of tacenda,
--yes, he kept a lid on it.

And when the pretty young bees
buzzed about underneath
their brazen parasols,
he'd smile up at the sun
for her complicit glow:
the warmest days
always drew them out to him,
like honey on the tongue.

Now naysayers may keep
him out of Canton,
but one day, like most serial killers,
they will name a school after him
and his hijinks.