A Picture is perfect:
Mola! Don’t close the book, more to read, more to write, here where we had left the stories, stories inside stories, never get tired to read it again and again. Don’t close the book, here where we had left many lies, Lies inside lines, never get tired to repeat it again and again. Try a new orange lipstick and you can do your lip service for your new stories.
Zanirza’s last few lines from her last short story “Back to my lines”.
In this story, Mola passes many comments on her dream experience. Her dreams are more into forming a new world. Introducing new colors that can be determined by any minds. Her thought were polished and sharp nails were not the exact start to draw the lines, until to get the distinct. Length of the mind has to follow the steps, but it occurs due to the forward watch. Bewitched symptoms were already dissolved not to connect with polymer. The literary attention always termed as slant, as I think so. Heartening is to rewrite the programs to sip another name of coffee. Wondering and appreciating them for the invention of binary codes. Ventured into the world of silicon chip and random access memory to find the exact evaluation to get the result. Driven by the syntax to enrich the lines and to occupy the space in points. Never seen by dancing doors to agnize the dilated seasons. Mola! There is a room inside a waterfall, no questions are inside any dying bubbles, charisma chromes into the bulb of wicked spleen, double side mania sick with the echo lame. A pinch of sound sliced in a violent validations. Sucking the thumb in the sweetness of saliva tempted to grow another sky. Forced water makes to feel the chilled touch of day time ghosts. The picture of pirates burnt to lock the neck of rhythm.
Mola’s constant dream:
Constant voices are floating on my mind, unspecified methods are melting, cruel touches were stopped. Warning my mind to stop spitting words on my dreams. Pinching kisses and ragging lust developed to form another episode. Lazy geek I am to fly over the clouds. Changing rhythms in my music notes, no one yet realized. I am crying and crying and crying, and stopped to wipe my tears. Heights of happiness, the feathers are growing day by day. Designs of face changing at its own choice. Met the time at first time to manipulate the lines. I am laughing and laughing and laughing, and stopped to wipe my cheers. Painted the shadows of lights, my gills are waiting for poison water to lie inside the colors. My sweet poison dragged me to the edge of mountain to show me the light inside the stone. Caressing strange fingers, unknown doubts trained to pull outside the colors from me. It obtained to be nothing. One last time the mountain invited me to pass the truths and ruthless truths. I wish I could talk about the another meanings, but I am not revealing it. One animal’s blood stains on my face. Aroma of pain in my mind. Peel the hard skin of my mind, stick it on your body, laugh like thunder. Never free my soul, tie it on your leg, spit on my face and give me that rational look. Slice my sound by your vicious nails. Can you? You can carry my fleshes to feed the animals inside you and me. Their tongue, hungry tongue, smelly tongue, felt the heights of lusty tongue. That’s my bone, my tough bone, made up of hard metal bone. No dog teeth can bite it, crush it, chew it. It’s a shining bone, no boner can hold it, laughing at those boners. It’s not too late to swim from this world, water world. Filled up with green leaves and white clouds, floating above my head. Dead heads are grinning at me to bribe me. One last chance, if not, there will be some one to continue from somewhere. Calling moods, chanting the same names to remember, that is waiting for the day to forget. Splitting the minds to find the different paths, in fact, it has to be done. In the time, in a specific time, is there any specific time to call? No is ruling the questions. The situation is pouring all the essential decorative acts and makes it more dramatic than before. Here, consolation of preparing the ends. End of all in a cerement.
Mola waiting for the first line:
Waiting for the first line, waiting for the words to shine. Sitting alone on the grass I am waiting for the first line. I heard a voice behind me. I didn’t turn to see who it is, that voice is taking a chance to make me happy. Tomorrow the inner face may change to make me shabby. That voice is asking me to go right away. Now I felt the voice fade. I know it’s leaving far away from me. I can feel the paining shade. I can think my life without that voice. I can’t think my love without that voice. I turned back. I saw the nature’s tears in the tip of the grass. Let it be there, to see my real face. Looking for another touch that will be the last breeze. I am not turning my eyes to see the lost breeze. I will never give up, ready to talk with the voice. But I am waiting for the first line, waiting for the words to shine. Sitting alone on the grass I am waiting for the first line, always.
Mola’s celebration of missing:
Deeds are interrupting in a small room and your calls were missed by my pathetic ignorance. Not intend to hear your defensive voice again. It gave me a lot of pain that you can’t notice it in any time. Time is nothing, our ‘isms were all ruined already before ages. It is the only presentation of our pessimism. As an anti-altruist the point of my mind pointed out not to spend. Burnt over ninety-seven books after reading with biliousness. They are all lying by arranged truths with some manipulated ‘happened’. All the days has its own successful lies, it will take a lot of time to realize it. Playing only with my insiders by my corrupted, disgusting, filthy mind. It would continue up to the level of natural possession. Our words are still burning, let them. Dear Fishing Mind, There will be a chance for everyone to overcome someone without knowing the moment which is always against us. Still we like to elaborate our scenes with some slight distance and with political correctness. Can you remember the time when you acted like a head-shrinker to measure the brightness of my eyes, my acting, my artificial intelligence? Anyway you do always. Your waxed legs really tempted the savage inside me. Then the promised knowledge of mine taught me that you are a waxed genius. Dear Comrade, Fame is the mate for us. Killing all the glittering stars. Sometimes it is not easy for me to propose my rusted offers to help you or share or care. Sticky mosquito, will stick on your body if you try to kill me. My bad blood would spread on your body, it might grow day my day on your belly button with lots of black and orange words. A day is keenly waiting to ask you to say my dialogues. Like every day you will melt your smile, you might write or read an unfamiliar poem, you will crush your dead cigarette by your sexy toes. “Fleshes are floating on the island, there is no ersatz trees. The place is covered up with calm clouds and birds are in different colors. A miniature volcano is melting into the beauty of orange. Children are playing with stars. They are trying to catch the light to trap it in their pencil boxes.” This is how my novel starts. Elaborated with palindrome theory. Have we discussed about the possibilities and lineament of ancestry? We should discuss that subject next time after ordering a pitcher in that smokey place. But don’t compel me to take more than one mug. Beer is only to extract a large content of urine from our body. Last time, without conscious that particular situation dragged me to have one and a half pitcher and my body became so tired running to rest room for several times. Remember, it’s not a calculated mail. You can easily observe the tricky shots of it. Consider “This is one of the” or Smile with “I know you, dude” or stare at my words and correct the errors or decide to say “You are not up to my mark” or remember my weight or borrow a book or ask a question that you know the answer already or tie up your hair and go to sleep and try to skip the question, “Are you talking to me?”.
Mola hates ghosts:
The same sea, still heard the voice of that dead person. Here it is, this was the place where that person committed to death. Smiling at that place to feel a smile on my face. Full of salt water, washed my face, my legs are trembling in that cold water. It’s so wet, so cold to get through my scary heart. Slowly walked into the sea to bury me. Tough for me to believe that I am standing in a place where that person died. Blood from the nose, that eyes were laughed at me, long hair floating upon the water, fingers were very short and beautiful. When that gorgeous body was floating on the water is like a kite, a pinch of silence killed the peaceful act, a genius circle in hard head. Ghosts are the only link between the parts of notes. Staring ghosts’ eyes were clear edged versions, double cut motivations due to the simple method to run. It’s a great sequence to consider some delicate positions. In the sunset, ghosts were sitting along with their lies and some truths. That orange sky never taught anyone to fly to sketch the clouds and birds. Decorated frames and finger prints ate the dust to spit stars once in a while to find some partners. This ghost stories have been wished by the plants not to be in secular state.
Mola’s lime tea with honey:
Whence the poem lost between my muteness! In the midst of the silent watch, between the touch of leafs, between the pinch of light, those all dissolved in naught. Went upon the hill along with an old witch to taste the cherries in the mood of nights. The days and nights are watching our breathe, sound is crucial to win over the cruel sound. Rising towards the end of silver lines, that is not really enough. Bubbles, it’s all bubbles on the steps, where all the drops were kept. Waiting for a wet touch of yellow rain at the left.
You are right where you left me.