Friday, August 12, 2005

Whisper of The Night

The world is round
The life is plain
Bang-bang is a sound
But its essence is a pain

The knife is blunt
The cake is hard
The life is a cunt
A traitor of my heart

Till when I gotta drop
Bombs of sorrow and regret?
Do you think this facken soap
Is gonna wash the dirt I've shed?..

Bitter Honey

No, I'm not going to that house anymore. The dull and soulless house suffocates me.

The other day just the image of a fallen pot with a withered flower in the backyard darkened the entire world for me and squeezed my throat to produce a tear or two to roll down my distorted face. My birds were not around to fly over it and to look after it. My nightingales are looking after other flowers now in a dearest remote part of the world… I’m craving for that sweet headache caused by their giggling, swirling, shouting and laughter.

No, I do not enjoy my life anymore like this. Despite the fact that this sad being is still addicted to sorrow that stirs up his internal world to bring up something new. But the new is not always the wanted.

Have you seen a restless bee striving to taste something new in variety of flowers? Have you noticed how it leaves a flower indifferently for another one just because either the experience wasn’t that new or the new experience was not wanted?

But still, it does not reject to try a new experience. And still, it produces the same shit that we love so much…

Am I ranting now? Perhaps. But that’s the honey I produce.

…Loneliness is the mother of vice. I don’t know how other bees assess it. It might be the mother of creativity to a few; nothing distracts their attention from producing some sweeter honey. But certainly, I don’t belong to that category of bees. Loneliness is a ghost that leads me to the Sinland.

Can you feel the revoltingly sweet taste of the chilli pepper white wine in my mouth? That’s another flower in the garden I am visiting right now and lining up these nonsense sentences to find out the quaint-essence of this flower…

The customers of this Irish pub are lost: who’s this weirdo lost in his thoughts with a broken pen and a torn piece of paper?.. I am lost too indeed. Lost without you, my nightingales…

It’s not the whole yet.

A narrow neck keeps the bottle from being emptied in one swig.