poems, poetry, naked matador, kerem durdag


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Explosions of the heart

The horizon is coming near, the birds are flying
away from the whispering curses from the killers
who paint the roads orange with flame and blood;
and the absence of belief nauseates us all, the burning
smell of our skin on a stove where dreams are cooked
for the dinner table of the devil... if there is an escape then
none of us know about it. And on top of it all you say that
the journey to understand has just started, that the wars
we fight have an end; and even more that I am going
to plunge head first into an appreciative water pool of
words and clasps. The glow from the base of my spine
is separating the world into two and I don't care if it
splits me into two, three or more. Humming at the
lips of my neck, naked flesh at the precipice of my finger
and I believe, oh yes I believe, my soul has no place to
rest. So my friends, isn't it enough that the man who
is on the street asking for a kind donation for a dose of
crack, or a bowl of soup, is the reincarnation of all those
souls dead before his time; this is our legacy, our punishment
for the deeds of pain, death and loss of grip on the rope born
from the wombs of our mothers. You say, you want a blue sky,
you say you want a grass green with the stories of your children,
and you say you want me and my love, but I say, I am going to
die right in front of you for reasons I do not know,
for reasons that will never end echoing in your ears.

By Kerem Durdag

tomorrow will come

when you look down below
from the window seat 26A,
from behind two glass pressurized panes,
you are thinking
the world is so big
that you will never see it all
and all of it will
never know you.
then ten million other things
rush into you
with a bullet impact of blue
and blue
and you find
you are telling yourself
tomorrow, there will
be a tomorrow
without the demons.

By Kerem Durdag

somebody bombed Agha's Supermarket

in Karachi
there is no hell
just the fires that burn
after the bomb
and leaves all the memories
in pieces
over the asphalt
in the parking lot
under the gaze
of the eyes
of the shoppers
and me
there is really
no one
is there
all of us
did it
bombed it to pieces
together with all the
of my life
of your life
because we hate
remember the word
each other
but and I both know
we will continue on
in other aisles
under different gazes
bombs are like ejaculations
of sperm
born from the titillation of rape
it is all about

By Kerem Durdag


it is the shrapnel
that digs into my
my language but
I think of my leg
blood on my toes
my mouth
my leg, my leg
save my leg
my words
doctor, doctor
I must be able to run,
poet, poet
I must be able to live,
I feel ok
my leg, it will be ok
I know
I believe
we will all live
we will all be alive
trickling away
I am not going to remember all the punctuation marks in my life
jesus, did you see that bomb sail
over the wall as if it was a
message from the lost angels of
Bosnia gliding smoothly in an arc
riding prayers that no one hears
leaving behind the face that
raped my sister (who is dead now)
ate the life of my
parents (who will not seek revenge now)
fucked me without consent
to spawn death
doctor, save the leg
I have to run
forget the shrapnel
it does not hurt
will you save all the other Bosnias that are
napalming your skin

zecko, I can feel the shrapnel...

By Kerem Durdag

The Naked Matador is a collection of Staring At The Sun, Listen Baby, My Insides Are Red, and Songs for the Fools of Zen