kernel, reflections

though the fact that they were terrible did not mean that they were necessarily truthful

Month: May, 2014

If you and I aren’t from the same land,

then tell me how do you know that the remains of brewed coffee are silent storytellers of my future,

how come you know that jasmine’s smell on morning mist shouts summer

the same way the smell of burned oil means kefte is today’s lunch.

 

If you and I aren’t from the same land,

then tell me how we both say rusfeti when we waste our time discussing this island’s politicians

tell me how you yearn for lemonade during spring

and was it a coincidence that a red cloth was wrapped around your sister’s waist on her wedding day?

 

If you and I aren’t from the same land,

then how come we both come from Nicosia/Lefkosa/ Λευκωσία

and how come we share the same history,

and how come it hurts when we cross?

If you and I aren’t from the same land,

then why everything you say is so familiar?

 

i read through you,
your million little stories
that made you, you
and i love the way i feel your breath
on my naked skin while you dream.

love is not a ring, not just a word.

last night,

I dreamt of a map

that would lead us to each other.

finger on the map

Travelling solo, always. Loud music in my ears, hot, strong black coffee in my hand, the feeling of anticipation, smiling to myself, busy airpots, women’s magazines, hugs and goodbyes, knowing you most definately will miss them

but then again

it’s new beginnigs and andrenalin rushes, it’s the magnificent unknown and the new people you will love and laugh with. Sleepy eyes and more coffees and babies crying, one boarding pass, airplaine food, ding dong sounds.

Touchdown, excitement, new places, new smells, new friends, new kisses, new sites

a whole new city before my sleepy eyes.

Hi, unknown.

 

 

 

 

love is

your black sock hanging next to mine
and my travel mug in your car
your photo in my wallet
your figure in my dreams
and my favorite chocolate in your hands.
love is,
you and I
babe.

A whore named George

She had the look of someone who was done with life; as if life as a whore was plain. She had tasted the fluids of many men, heard the names of many women as they came. No one had called out hers.

“I’m not tired. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I would have killed myself by now if I did. I’m a man who wears make-up and skirts and high-heels, I had to sell my ass to pay rent. Would I have done it differently? I don’t know. At 17, I only wanted to be free. I didn’t feel free as George, I didn’t feel free at home. I was nothing more than a naïve little boy who thought that people wouldn’t mind that I had a penis behind my skirt. I feel lucky though, I’m still alive at 53. None of my friends made it. Some took their own lives, others overdosed, others threw away their skirts and killed themselves while pretending to be happy. Was I ever happy? I’ve had my moments. I even fell in love. Four times. Four times I believed I had found the one who would have saved me from this life; that was before I turned thirty. I didn’t work on the night of my 30th birthday. I blew out three candles; one for each decade I had endured. I blew out another one before I slept; it was a sort-of goodbye to my lovers. And that was it. No more love for me. Do I love someone? I loved everyone who was ever important in my life. And my parents, I love them even though they are gone. I used to go by my house in the early hours of the morning, after work. I still had my key and sometimes when I was hungry I would sneak in and have a taste of my mum’s food. Six years after I left home I discovered my sister had given birth to a little girl; I saw the picture in the frame. There were still pictures of me in the house but the one I took a few weeks before leaving home had a candle next to it. Every time I went in the candle was lit. I think my mum knew it was me who sneaked in, she would have changed the locks otherwise. She would still cook my favorite dish every Saturday. I mostly sneaked in on Saturdays, not only because of the chicken though; men went holy on Saturdays; they’d go to church on Sundays. I sometimes went to church too, I wanted to see my parents, I wished they would see me so they could see I wasn’t dead. Maybe they did think I was dead, I don’t know. They never saw me, but I saw them a few times. I can’t blame them for not accepting me. God had given them a son and they loved me so much. They had dreams and expectations; a wife and a career and kids and grandchildren and family Sundays. At least my sister fulfilled their dream. You know, I didn’t even know that my father had died. I sneaked in on a Saturday and there was no chicken. I thought my mum was ill so I sneaked back in the following Saturday and there was no chicken. But there was another frame and another candle and my father was smiling through it and I smiled back and I said “I love you”. I knew my mum would soon follow. My dad was her everything. I bought a newspaper and I flicked through it till I saw my dad smiling again; the pain was unbearable; I had been selling myself for years and I had endured abuse beyond your imagination; but my parents’ death was the most horrible pain I ever had to go through. Sometimes I even wish I will die soon so I’ll get to see them again. And we’ll all be in paradise, screw God, I deserve to be in paradise. And when they see me there they’ll know that it’s OK to love me when I’m wearing skirts.”

ήταν ένα μικρό μικρό φιλάκι τόσο δα
που βρήκε μια φωλιά
στο πλάι του κορμιού σου
κ’ήταν κ’ένα χαμόγελο πλατύ
που ήρθε για να μείνει
κ’ήμουν και γω κάπου εκεί-
το παραμύθι είπαμε να φτιάξουμε μαζί
στο σπιτάκι πλάι στη θάλασσα
με τα παράθυρα στη δύση.