Burglar in a dream.

Mothers with identities of mine in their hands;
Street burglars;
Rapists.
And all the talented violin players,
Hand with hand, with hands on my back,
On my pocket, in my sight
My dreams and every single penny I’ve got…
A piece of identity.
A piece of cake.
And everything I’ve had
With me
Stolen by them.
“Burglars!” I have cried.
Tutors, mentors, irrespectueux!
I have insulted them.
For they have diminished my existence…

Mother can I have my piece of identity?
But for me, you always had a piece of cake to offer…
Mother, I want an identity.
Why won’t you identify me?
Why won’t you feed me weed…

I need.

Dreams and relations form a mixed paradise.
Upon my vision.
My vision is therefore jupiteresque;
It was joy all over.
And more sugar to pour and some trouble.

A boy, my family.
My joy was a boy.
A canceresque;
A joy source.
A boy.
With tiny worlds,
With alterning faces,
I had a lover in my dream
That never showed me how,
He would have came up to me
How would he be a lover?
Without a fourleaved clover…

And burglars on the street!
Laughing to me.
I am naked.
My lover is there away.
So silent…
I am raped.
With their hands on my body,
And bodies upon my breath.
And dreams collide with black pavements.
As the moonlight secretly follows…
Every move that they make.

I cry:
Burglars!
You have stolen my identity!
My fair lady,
They won’t let me be…
They won’t let me sing…
But I am to hurl.
This urge of freedom;
To fly.

I have feared once again the society sparkles,
At nights.
I have feared them.
They would leave me naked…
Just like that,
Alone,
And raped,
And burglars!
Won’t you arrest them my lady?

And a dinner.
And some meal that we expect.
And stale bread we digest.
And joy…
İn a spanish havana
With nights in satin.
And men in different forms

Why would their face change constantly?
Where is my identity?
It has been stolen…

A flash of light.
A flood to feel.
And the eel that has been long inside…
Has been released at last.