Good-bye, Turkey.

A Kurd, Alevi (Alewi): I am, by nature, suicidal in Turkey. Nothing is loathed more than a Kurdish Alevi, who happens to espouse leftist ideas. I am a terrorist, thief, black-market advocate, flag burner – and Turkey’s all time hit – a CIA agent.

A nation so paranoid, psychotic; a people enveloped in platitudes… As I paint this word-pic, blue and red dominates the screen behind my laptop – fuzzy from a reluctance to use my spectacles and face, in hd, a perdition of a nation; a cacophony – jarring opinions synthesise and radiate the familiar sound: Utter disavowal. A media so feeble and fickle, contemptible, capricious, posses the nerve to covet, identifiable from their allusive remarks, a result opposed to a reality they’ve constructed.

53.2% Yes and 46.8% say no. Erdogan is on his way to total domination

The Gezi movement gifted us with a possibility: Revolt, attached to a fragrant brotherhood permeating the air that pierced through the gas clouds. Stones were thrown to puncture the years of silence represented by the dark curtain of cops. The party ended within two months, emotions refined and opinions shifted; the generation so ferocious in a foray against the cops, the system, retreated to instagram likes over mid-tier cafe verandas.

We have watched a movie since: Voice recordings implicating Erdogan in fraudulent activities; lies exposed; Kurdish towns flattened; a coup de’ tat – a joke; silence!

‘You are responsible for what you do to yourself’

Je suis Fatiquee! We are all tired and annoyed – hopeless, betrayed. This, the referendum, was our final opportunity to strangle Erdogan (figuratively) with his own whip, send him into depression during his dying days. But fear possessed all. The police state, though ambitious in its aims, overachieved, tamed the critical tongue. Thousands gazed at their desks being cleared without a pretext (you might be a Gulenist, at best); mothers warned children away from protests destined to ensue a ferocious police attack, occasionally live bullets were used; and the rest found nihilism, in-difference.

As the most loathed, and thus having a good reason to fear, I, among others, tried – we did: Carrying life with an arduous attempt to convince folk away from the deplorable reality the AKP and Erdogan has bestowed on Turkey; others located the impetus to dive right in and take political action. Some are in prison – the multitude surrendered and retreated back to normal life. But the Erdogan stench, no matter the flowers, burning incense, blood or fervour, remains dominant.

Good-bye, Turkey, enjoy your senescence, while inebriate with Erdoganism, nationalism and absolute stupidity. I prefer the sap of red wine.


Elle protecting the belly: A milestone for body-positivism, in the form of Candice Huffine.

A skinny array of models stream the runway like a river, some even exhibiting signs of undernourishment: naturally, the mind tethers the epitome of appearance with an unhealthy obsession over self-image transverse in all strata of society. The average citizen and ‘higher echelons’ share this, sometimes creeping and hidden, often limpid, issue. Weight loss products strew our computers and cellphones; our recently accumulated flabs are our first point of contact with friends, family and, even, the local shop-keeper, following a greeting:

“Hello! How you been? You have put on weight,” is orated before our lips move to answer.

The conspicuous aside; erudition is not pre-requisite to observe a hidden ingress of ‘body-image’ obsession. All diet programs and – I hate to admit this –  even exponents of veganism, a movement galvanised supposedly by hypersensitivity for animal welfare, markets their ideas on this basis. Before and after photos are preliminary to “our diet will do this” – and so on; or elaborate and intricate arguments cement advocacy of certain diets.

The issue is not in existence with impunity and neither is it free of criticism. In fact, a recent foray by the fashion industry, primarily Elle, a hot, highbrow fashion magazine, has precipitated a gradual – effective re-traction from skinny models and unrealistic body imagery, which induce myopic, impossible attempts to refine one’s body to match photo-shopped, filtered snaps of models.

Candice Huffine lure potential customers of Elle, April addition: On the shelf, she weill be the only model that considered ‘plus-sized’, without the intrusion of the word ‘plus-sized’ or ‘curved’ over her face, or visible among the tumultuous background.


Attached to an Instagram post, she wrote: “For as long as I can remember, I dreamt of being a model,” Huffine wrote. “So my body type wasn’t ideal measurements, minor detail.

“I refused to be told I couldn’t become what I had always imagined and committed myself to working tirelessly for the day when my size wouldn’t dictate my possibility.”

A multitude of issues remain, of course. One-off inclusions, or only particular examples reached to, will never suffice to solve the discriminatory, and damn right! Insulting, arbitrary inculcation and inoculation of particular, chosen “pinnacle” image examples.

Consistency is required; generic models included;  POC people properly portrayed, or interpretations embroidered to an accusation will manifest and infest: “it is a marketing gimmick” or some other atrocious idea, rendering the venture a ‘dalliance’.

Sapped – ruined days

It is, the sun’s slant ray pierces through an iron-clad stratosphere above one of Europe’s most overrated cities – London – a low-brow, commercial, platitude rife town; the same scents permeate the air. The voque riveted to the short-term memory. Everyone is transient, you to them.

A walk suffices to conjure effete imagery, sounds, scents – fused to form ailments in the mind, as said by psychiatry. Inebriate with thought, sapped in hope. Alcohol is requisite for garnish. Booze served in a glass, quaffed sitting on furniture – exorbitant, so you exchange the glass for a can, furniture for a bench. Music marries the imagination – you are free in euphoria; the list is endless, but you are care-free, for the mind is the escape hub. Friends are called, love is declared, another day pulls you towards perdition; the next day will produce more, one hopes.

Bipolar Stream of conciousness

A thought is brewing: “Tomorrow is going to be ok, I think; I hope that thing will be fine. I miss my lover. I wonder what Sontag’s politics was; need to check that out.” My eyes languid, phlegm is commencing, but then:

“This system is terrible: We treat animals like products, and the earth as our infinite source and dustbin. I am going to write an essay on this. Ah! I really like my quirky character. Inoculating a Cimmerian radiance could, perhaps, add a new vibe to the novel, a different voice. All my other characters are whimsical. I wonder if this makes them one dimensional, like marvel superheroes. I should get into marvel and sci-fi; expand pantry of genres. But it could become a plethora. Nothing is excess is good. Oh… I should have slept 2 hours ago. I wonder if my lover is asleep. I should call her… nah, it is too late and you guys are pretty new. Steer clear of coming across too clingy. Hmmm, is she becoming the nucleus of my life… Thoughts of her is vacuuming most of my time. Time is not mine; what kind of egoism is that? There is no such thing as time, anyway. But, could I be some kind of egoist? Oh, no! I do not want to be selfish. Seriously, I remember manipulating ambivalent friends so I could get that coffee I like. Ah! I am so manipulative. This needs to halt. German is a great language, all I know is halt. One of my characters is German, a poet. Poems should be included in the book; it will enrich the story. But what kind of poem. About love, maybe…

‘Her eyes so bright and green, a sheen over my yearning for a beam – of life. Death so unthreatening; her life my armour, and I feel no karma. The strata, just the linage of rocks on a precipice. Her perceptive mind, my delight; My admiration, her contrived smile… The black bile can seep – it metamorphises into words of wisdom…’

Ah! That sounds way too Shakespearean. Maybe something about life:

‘Dwelling in the inner circle of life, awaiting the next abomination: A commercial coffee; hair tided so traditionally, if it was a phrase, it will be a platitude; a boring movie. There is that may sooth me – a new bud, a back rub, a tub – bubbles and water.’

Oh, wait! How did I fall asleep?

Poem: That time

That time when canvatinas died with the seranata’s swig, from his bottle, the musician – drinks. Us drunk, him drinking.
That time on the piazzaz; in Italian we loved; the moon bright, almost full.
When our pathologies, dream world and utopia fused… that time.
That time we fell under Rimbaud’s lindens on the promenade; I with a self imposed napoleon complex, like dostoyevski’s Raskalinikov; you like the lover conjured in imagination within a thousand novels; us like Ali’s Maddona in a fur coat.
That time I knew you were Amelie, and sweet like a French movie, well recorded.

Punching Nazis: Fuck-off, liberals

A spectre is haunting the world: The spectre of battered Nazis. For the brooding liberal, of course. Contemporary liberals make one swoon over idiocies spewed from every orifice: “Beating down a Nazi makes you a Nazi.” The pathetic liberal foray into politics is a venture best averted: It is of no use to the prudent mind to dwell in the morass liberal understanding of reality.

It must be easy; mind opaque with obtuse thoughts, while attention is limited to merely accepting as your reality, experience, as the objective reality of all, side-lining the suffering of others: Blacks, first nations, the poor, conscious women and the rest of us: The Nazi does not pose a threat for the white liberal; he/she is not their end game.

Of course “violence” that interrupts their “safe” cinnamon latte parlours (Starbucks) and “organic beef” burger embed convocations, is an “inconvenience” for them. Surely, the election of a war-mongering swine – a prospect any sane person would prefer over Mr.Orange – would suffice to quell any dissenting beat in the liberals heart – assuming they have one or two. Insofar the liberal can feel save pretending to be the culmination of “progressive thinking”, in their pretentious amenities, via the election of a liberal plated moderate Republican, Clinton, the liberal is fine: In fact, I claim, the Liberal is merely upset that Trump is now emblematic of his nation; his foreign liberal buds may vilify yankee-ism, which may perturb him; blemish his vanity.

The Nazi will be punched: FDR sent the whole army to bomb the Nazis into oblivion  – the man who symbolises the best of the Liberal democrats; yet, your own nation, embedded with ignorance a kind never seen, dictated by crypto and Neo-Nazis, and you, the liberal, are concerned for the welfare of the likes of Richard Spencer, who was punched and others who will be punched? Please, don’t make use vomit sideways.

Violence is the only skill worth sharpening to combat and quell Nazism; the whole ideology is war; as its core it radiates with notions of ethnic cleansing, prudery, dictatorship, war and genocide.

Ergo, liberal, fuck-you.

Passion Nada

Nothing I feel passionate about:

Cold showers against my inclination to warmth and comfort;

Summer on my mind, while the external is below freezing;

Chairs too unsettling. The bed cascades into perdition: Desolation, dejection, its fuel.

Whining is off the table; only wine diminishes the diner’s useless parable.

Hidden notes located, out of date, in the pantry – forgotten.

Ideas from the past, images no-longer relatable; the glow’s sheen etiolated: dead inside.


You caress the notion ‘passion’, finding warmth and comfort.

But all is ominous; news troubling; friends obscured.

Then love arrives, perhaps to kill you again: A death worth finding.


Yet the prospect does not hurt – because all passion is ad nauseum henceforth.

Go back to bed, the chair is uncomfortable; wassail with wine, drench the thoughts in chemicals… re-furbish your pantry: You are dead inside.


Wrote freely

I was asked to free-write, advised rather. Well… I am writing freely, while my mind is in some self imposed prison, penancing: Some kind of atonement for something – I do not know what.

I am now a bad person: Angry, easily agitated and in-different. Thus – unable to locate an amenity in the space(s) in my mind, I must leave to save others from my dejection, desolation and despondency. Venture out to a world to never return. I have to be alone, possibly for eternity or until death, rather – I hope the latter is soon.

The woods, a forest – also ‘the woods’ – a tiny shack on the land-side of the promenade, obliquely located on an escarpment: My hands hanging from the balustrade, body vibrating with the dis-integrated particles of a mind/body altering chemical… Possibly I could die gazing at Sun. Hoping the rays may blind me permanently before I die.

Perhaps all the aforementioned is falsehood, for my life now is not presentiment of anything.

Emiety – Short, pop story.

All felt like a shackle. She pushed and pulled, attacked and retreated: The fetters that attached her to life frayed; what she hated solidified, the chain’s locks tightening, un-tethering her soul and passions from the everyday stroll. Perhaps Emily sowed colours and ideas that simply would not match.

The tiring effects of the light, radiating from the pretentious chandeliers that hung at every opportunity and space the ceiling presented, matched Emily’s senile movements. “Hi, sir, would you like anything to drink,” she said, contriving a smile incongruous to anxiety vibrating inside… “No, thank you,” replied the sullen face, his now loose skin imprinting a permanent ‘sulk’ for his temperament. Though she knew it was an affront to her, even though it was not. “Ahh, why am I met with such reactions.” Her hand’s skin fraying unremittingly with every bleach soaked scoop of the dark brown tables. In fact, Emily’s hands were wrapped in cloth most of the day; her limbs functioned as a mop. She hastened to lay the scooped dirt on the cleaners, emancipating herself from the responsibility, a benefit that emanated resentment among co-workers. The skilfully sustained room temperature pierced with every swing of the kitchen door; a rush of heat with each shimmer of the saute chef and jarring temperatures accompanying the impressive work of the kitchen porters: Fluctuating temperatures intensify as the distance with door narrowed. Fellow waiters shifted from table to table, replacing each empty glass and answering all in-considerate demands of customers, smiles seldom abandoning their faces. The door swung on more time, the air crashing into her face, strangling, metamorphosing into a harness, enslaving her… Heads move to and fro on the other-side of the door’s circular window, etched with dark-green lines, forming tiny boxes…

A motley mixture of faces – some sad, most manic – almost converged into one: A diamond-shaped face, with angelic curves – reality and loss of it crashed into each-other… Sporadic bursts of lustre images and colours battered every thought and pierced every attempted interaction with reality it converged with – incessantly moving towards being a constant. A shudder passed through her body, shaking her limbs to near-numbsness as she pushed open the kitchen door… not her mind detached, her body moved without her consent… The image of a beautiful angel, a creature with glowing, ever-changing colours maintained a static imprint in her mind… She wanted to smile, her heart aching; but her mouth did smile – not with her free will – without her consent. The apex of her mouth enjoyed the image as much as the heart. She did not want this to abandon her, though anxiety culminated, her body flushing with the Siberian cold and the North African deserts’ heat wave…

To be continued…

My bed, my world

My bed is the vessel that punctures the most vicious of waves

The mind alive; I am stasis, organless in the cave.

Days and seasons pass in my wake; then a dish of change bakes: The ingredients confused, the chef on a break.

Let’s wassail to health, until the flavour is fused to define my stake.