Ballad of Owl

night-owl1
Everyone in sleep. Just like every night. My life isn’t like clubbers. It’s my turn for living during that time. Nobody can see, nobody can hear me. I always hide at corners. I am going to fly between their high buildings and stop on the roof of a tree. Little kids may afraid of my tweets but I sing the song of nights. They won’t know the joy of flying birds. Parents say “If you wouldn’t sleep, Owl will come”. I am sad for kids. They will never see in real my wings are so much beautiful. Because they can see me only at zoo or on TV.
Nightlife guys wearing masks. Richmen stealing the dreams of children. Those wines they drunken goes to canalizations.
All those prostitutes, transvestites fucking right now. For what? For to live better.Hey you! If you’re listening my ballad, respect them! They never lied for to live better.
Page will turn…

Ballad of Owl

Decayed Leaf (starring A. Camus)

tumblr_n7uj7be7AH1qa0t74o1_500
One night in Marseille, I met my friend from university. We talked about our days at university. He was a goalkeeper and I was the stopper of the football team of university. We started to argue about what’s the assignment of footballers in the pitch. He was goalkeeper, that’s why he had seen a wider area of the football pitch than me. After that delighted arguement we lit our cigarettes and walked down to the port. The autumn wind blew the orange leaves on the port. I was staring at laughing young girls. He was looking at the sea and paced on a dry leaf. He stopped through the rustle, and he asked “What’s the purpose of a leaf?”

I: In 4th grade, my teacher asked “what’s the purpose of a leaf?” at an exam.
C: What did you say?
I: Not to fall.
C: Oh my gosh! Not to fall…
I: 0 point.
C: What a shit. He gave 0 point for this answer?
I: Eeehh… I didn’t say something like photosynthesis.
C: Why does a leaf photosynthesis?
I: Again same answer. To live.
C: But how to live? There is a life and there is another life. Our kinda life. If it calls “to live”.
I: What do men live by?
C: By the code to hurt others, hurt and destroy.
I: In that case, a leaf decays on tree.
C: Although it decayed, it stays on there.
I: It’s like the heart of a human. Look! I think your heart is decayed, and stinky.
C: Merciless…
I: Loveless…
C: Unfair…
I: Bland…
C: Heartless…
I: Deficient…
C: Greedy…
I: And alone.
C: What do men live by during their life?
I: Their business is to hurt, to steal, to beat it. Thus, you can live in this world.
C: Not like this.
4b76043caa5eb7d21a445958c361fee7

Decayed Leaf (starring A. Camus)

Howl

IFeatured image

For Carl Solomon

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blur floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
II
What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
III
Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland
   where you’re madder than I am
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you must feel very strange
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you imitate the shade of my mother
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you laugh at this invisible humor
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I’m with you in Rockland
   where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I’m with you in Rockland
   where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I’m with you in Rockland
   where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I’m with you in Rockland
   where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself    imaginary walls collapse    O skinny legions run outside    O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here    O victory forget your underwear we’re free
I’m with you in Rockland
   in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
Howl

Joker vs. Batman

6

Which one is bad? Which one is good?
A man who laughs? Or a rich man who knows martial arts?
Firstly, laugh not bad act. Colourful clothes, childish but sensitive. His painted face may look horrible, but also may not. Irresponsible parents and not a crime of the child. If his dad cut his cheeks, he is innocent. Asylum doesn’t where bad people visited. The mad clown robbed the bank, but later? The clown distributed the money to charity. He is kinda like Robin Hood. His genius comes from madness. His jokes aren’t funny? Ok, I agree. Sometimes his jokes can be disturbing. But if life is a short joke, you turn to be a mad.
That sounds like nihilism.

Let’s get to know the so-called hero. The one and only son of a rich family. Living in a mansion. Good study. Wearing beautiful clothes. But one day a thief killed his parents. Why did the thief steal? He needed money. What people have money more than they need? The rich ones. Go ahead and take a cup of tea. He learned martial arts. On top of the mountain. He wears a mask, a black costume. Fighting against the criminals. Ok, somebody punishes the criminals. Does a rich man effects the lives of poor people?
We don’t play the thief-police.
Both can’t choose how they were raised.

Joker vs. Batman

Democratic Raccoon

zooportraits18

All the leaves are brown and the sky is grey. Sounds of the leaves, trees and songs of the swallows… Sometimes a wind comes, silence awaits when it goes. It’s not an ordinary autumn day. Like the ones showed in movies and tv shows or written by a poet. Real autumns are as fucking boring as politicians. I have a friend who is a politician. He wanted to see me again because his leadership ego finished. He welcomed me near the dirty river. Crocodiles and frogs left the river years ago. They moved to city canalizations to live a better life. Although all of these, he’s chosen by all animals. But nowadays nobody behave him like a president.
I am talking about my old friend. Raccoon Ricky.
He gave everything up to wear a tie. Because the animals immigrated to cities. There are just old animals in the jungle. Years ago he defeated the Kingdom of Lion. Lion was a bad president. Everyday he was sitting and some animals sacrified for him. He was managing the Jungle with nature laws. Coyotes were helping him. But one day a rebel was started. Raccoons, crocodiles, bee colonies, bears, flamingos, tigers, monkeys…
They wanted to make changes. Renewed hope brings changes, but they didn’t realise… The changes came but now Ricky doesn’t want to be a president anymore. Now he wants to be free.
First rule of a raccoon.
– Everybody should believe the excellence of justice
But after a gazelle was killed by a lion everything changed and almost all animals left the Jungle. Lion was hungry and couldn’t find any food. After this happening, the family of the gazelle have gone to law. Killer lion paid the cost of being free. Money talks. Money brings justice. The animals aren’t rebelling anymore. They don’t pay the tax. They don’t need any services of the Jungle.

Ricky says “I didn’t want to be like a mafia organization”. Now they live as they wish. No government, no money, no justice. One day a rabbit lawyer told me what justice is.
“If you build the biggest courthouse of the world, it doesn’t mean the government has the best justice. A book filled with millions of rules by some educated animal doesn’t mean that the best laws of the world are in this book.”
Ricky is sad because he wanted to work as a president everyday. He is sad because he wanted to dance as he wished, without official wearing. He is sad because he wanted to play like little raccoons. He is sad because he wanted to live the lovely feelings of all creatures.
The jungle doesn’t need a president. The bees share with pleasure their own honey with the bears in the caves. Bears pick up flowers near the rivers to give to the bees. No problem, no fight. They’re in peace.
Some of the animals just live between home and work. They work and get some money. They think about this question. Working for what? They decide to serve for whom and what.
Life isn’t fair and some creatures make it more unfair. Democracy or justice are never a friend of equality. Who created democracy? Somebody needed to get more and more…
The unlucky raccoon is the sacrifice of democracy. He lost his own freedom.
Politicians can’t be free.

Democratic Raccoon

Stairway to Heaven

maxresdefault

I’ve taken my place on my bed. Suddenly door of room opened and a young guy entered. He was shining just like sun. We’ve started to chat like friends. He’s talking with my brother, I was washing my hands and looking to the mirror in toilets. After 8 hours sleeping and 5 hours wandering in the city I had needed to feel relax. I made my hair and back to room. Because there were a few sexy Polish chick. I was sure there were another girls too. Which boy doesn’t want to seduce a beautiful Polish girl? Only gays may be…
I entered the room and met another guy. My brother’s talking with them. First guy from Ireland and second guy from Brazil. St. Patrick and Sao Paulo. Some meeting and talking about football and they had gone. I was chilling on bed and asked to my brother.

I: Can we find the Jesus in Krakow?
B: Fuck off. I need to rest.
I: But we met Saints.
B: You don’t believe in God. What the fuck Saints?
I: You’ll go to hell.
B: Go to market, I am hungry.
Silence…
B: Don’t forget to buy Pilsner! (He shouted)
I: Oookeeey

I was in street and beside of hostels door. I heard loud voice on my back “STRIP CLUB!! TWENTY GIRLS! CHAMPAGNE!”
I didn’t look even. Because I remembered those Saints. They had wings and bright faces.
I back to room and brought sandwiches and beers to my brother. We’re eating. Suddenly, door opened and St. Patrick shouted “omg! I visited worse Strip club until now”. He was telling his strip club adventure like a comedian. I was thinking “what a Saint! God must allow his sins.” And he said “Hey fellas are you going to come to pub crawl tonight?” I was surprised and accepted. How could I reject this kind offer? He is a saint! I can go to heaven if I’d live like him!
In the evening, I and my bro went to the market. We’re searching good beers. Poland must have good beers but we couldn’t find which beer we want to drink. A fog and a light. Sao Paulo came to market. Nobody understood that he came. Just I and my bro would have see him. He recommended a blue beer. He said “Other beers awful, you should try this. I missed to drink Brazilian drinks” he bought own beer and gone.
We started to drink on front of hostel. People were coming. I saw a guy with Native American eyes. He was talking with my bro. All party members were walking to the tram. I was talking about girls with St. Patrick. My bro called me and I met that Native Indian eyed guy. He will have been our best friend in Krakow but we didn’t know this yet. We’ve met just for 10 minutes. His name is James. Looks like cool as James Dean. He has a vodka bottle on his hand and dancing always. All night he drank this bottle and danced. Tram came and we got on. Music, drinks, girls… Everything was awesome. Like a heaven.
St. Patrick was wandering between people and meeting always to new people. I was drinking fourth bottle of beers and I felt my head like a stone but I was feeling brave that’s why I started to dance and talk with a brunette Polish girl. Katarina. Kasia. Katzaryna. I didn’t know her name. But it starts Ka… I put my hand on her shoulder and met with my bro but she didn’t like me. Finally tram was stopped. Pee break. Oh I can’t tell how much I felt good with fresh air. Smoke of cigarettes makes me awful but it works sometimes. When I piss, I sing “rambla pa ti rambla pa ja es a la rumba de barcelona” or Gypsy Kings songs. I tried to piss between trees but there were two girls who speaks in Spanish. I shouted “hey Espantoso girls I am shying because of you are very close to me! Go please!” and we started to talk. I don’t remember what they asked to me but I was speaking good Andalucian accent and I understood that they’re from Catalonia. Probably they liked me. I was pissing and talking with them unwittingly. I finished the pee break and when little girl walk to the train, I said “high five!” and she shouted “noooo! you touched it!” I convinced her “noooo! I pissed without touch”. Girls believe me quickly because I seem very innocent. Although how I seem, I swear I didn’t touch it. She laughed and told something to other girl. They asked my name and we met. I don’t remember the name of little one but I remember other pierced lips girl. Paula. Till’ we arrive to first bar, she was mine. I stolen her by a German guy. It was stupidly theft. That German guy has a friend and he was shouting Turkish swear words. I heard those words and went to him. By the way, his name is Felix.

F: Son of bitchess! Fuck your ass! Fuck your mom! (he was saying these in Turkish like a German metal vocalist)
I: What’s your name bro? Ahsooo all what you said. Your pronounce awful, you should be more kind when swearing just you need true mimes.
F: I’m from Köln. I’ve maaany Tuuuukish freeeend. (he was really drunk…)
I: Ok meun freund. Keep calm and say not “orospu çocuku” you should say “orrrospu çocuğu” ok?
F: Orrospu çocuuu!
I: Strong r man! Strong r!!
F: Orrrrrrospu çocuuuuuu! Do you know German swear words?
I: Arschloch!
F: Strooong man! Arrrsschhloch!
I: Arrrsschloooch!
F: Let’s drink to all assholes
I: Let’s drink to all son of bitches.
I&F: Salut!
I: Who is that guy? (I am asking that boy who wants to fuck Paula)
F: My friend. Hey …. german german german….. he is my new friend.
I: Sieg hell bro! (Left handed Nazi style)
F: Mein freund, you shouldn’t talk like that we’re in Krakow. People can fuck us.
I: Über alle Deutcchland! I am not German. This is your problem.
and Paula heard our silly chat. I guess he was bored of that German guy.
I: Hola Paula. Que la que?
P: Hola cutie ….spanish spanish spanish….
I: I don’t know Spanish, I need a teacher.
P: But I am not teacher.
I: Bueno, what are you? (nobody know Cem Yılmaz at tram)
P: I am actress.
I: Heeey that’s wonderful. I need an actress.
P: Yeah, and you?
I: I am independent director. Short moviemaker. But I can be Julio Iglesias tonight.
P: ….spanish words…. (I guess, she thought that I am so romantic <3)
I:  Blablablabla (damn! I really said blabla…) Would you like to play on my movies? We can be famous just like Tarantino and Uma Thurman. (I am so romantic cuz’ thinking this —  3<)
P: Blablabla (damn! she liked it) Ohh do you like Tarantino? My favorite director is Pasolini!
I: Sodom!
P: Gomorra! (she’s taken my bottle)
I: Blablabla (I really didn’t know what I’m gonna say)
P: I liked you!
I: Gracias! wait I’m gonna take a bottle.
and I back to her with two bottles.
P: I missed you.
I: Honey, I’m glad to hear that. Why don’t you sit on my knees? You’ll be my actor.
P: If you want to fuck tonight, you should tap your bottle like that. (she showed a drink move)
I’ve done the same move…
Until now she is the third Paula from Spain who I’ve met. Without cause, I have met three girl from Spain and all of them Paula. Coincidence….
I wanted to take a cigarette and she gave it. I learned that she will be an actress. I have a diploma about cinema. Can’t I be a short movie maker? Of course, I can be just for one night. We talked about Passolini, my favorite actress’, her favorite directors and movies. I haven’t directed any movie except at university but I was her favorite director at this night.St. Patrick was wrestling with a boy and jumping like a rabbit in tram. He jumped and joined to chat with a girl “Hey bro are you having fun? Who is this angel?”  and supernatural something happened. We’re at nightclub. But I didn’t see Paula. But almost all hostel was at there. Then, I found two Ukrainian girls through St. Patrick. We chatted at outside almost a hour about Jack London, philosophy, why they are in Poland, war in Ukraine, my Ukrainian friends. In the end, I was thirsty and  wanted to go back to the club for drink something. I kissed them and say “We’ll never meet again probably, have perfect life and live it!” and I left them.
In the club, St. Patrick was playing drinking games with other boys and girls. He was slapping our chests… I joined them but I was bored quickly. Again I went to outside. I found James, Luke, Etienne and my bro. I taught them what “alone man” means in Turkish. They learned very quickly that easy word. “Sap” in Krakow streets 4-5 guys we’re saying “Sap! Viva Sap! We’re sap!”
We’ve lost each other. My bro and James were with me. We walked to hostel for sleeping. My bro’s gone to sleep. James had flu. His throat was terrible because of cigarette although he didn’t smoke. I was reading my book. Kerouac. Good choice for travel. I finished the book. I don’t remember what about we talked. Time was passed 5:00 AM. Sun was shining.
I’ve gone to bed. Sao Paulo and my bro were sleeping like a drunk. I slept.
At 7:30 I opened my eyes. St. Patrick was messaging on phone. He said “good morning” and showed his chest. Purple and finger marks… I said “oh man go get some sleep”.
He’s lost his wings. In the room, thousand of white furs on the floor.
But we had been in heaven…
Stairway to Heaven