15 March 2014

The ides of March, beware the ides of March!

Whence is that knocking?
How is’t with me, when every noise appalls me?
What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes.
Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green one red.

 MACBETH, William Shakespeare

In your repetition, in your ranting, you bore me immensely and to tears.
Yet in your supernatural excess, you never fail to astonish.
Now a hunted man, who curses stars for giving light to darkness,
you cannot control your rotting tongue.
There must surely be some divine disgust coming.
You should be pitied, such an inhuman piece of wreckage.
But in your deceit you transcend pity.
The condition of your end surpasses words, except perhaps one–

Nine months ago you murdered a fifteen year-old boy.
It took Berkin Elvan nine months to be born.
And nine months to die by your hand.
Nine months in a coma, tubed and hosed, draining away in a hospital.
A hospital where, the day he died, you gassed and beat his mourners.
And that night, you gassed and beat his mourners all over the nation.
And that night I wrote about rage and outrage.
“HEY YOU!” I shouted… “HEY ERDOĞAN!”

That night I asked you, “Tomorrow, will you attack the boy’s corpse?”
I felt so strange asking that question. Who would do such blasphemy?
But true to your deceitful form, you would.
And did.
And without qualms, so cool, so cold, so devastating your style.
Every religion, one way or another says, never speak ill of the dead.
But you…unspeakable you…What in hell is your religion?
And the next day you continued to defile the boy’s corpse.
You went to Siirt.

Your wife’s hometown.
And how courageous you were imitating the home-grown liar and thief Jet Fadil whose parliamentary seat you occupy in historically perfect irony.

Imposter! Charlatan! Infidel!

The boy was a “terrorist, you yelled to your mob of bootlickers in the plaza at Siirt.
Clap-clap-clap went your mob.
He was carrying a slingshot, steel marbles and wearing a scarf, you lied.
Clap-clap-clap went your mob.

Yes,true to your form, you lied.
The picture was photoshopped by one of your corrupt cops.
Everyone knows this.
Everyone except your Allah-dazzled mobs.
Clap-clappity-clap went your bedazzled bootlickers.

Then you insulted the boy’s mother.
“I couldn’t understand why you threw steel marbles and carnations into your son’s grave,” you yelled.
Booooooooo! yelled your mob in avid, oblivious agreement. Booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Who? What? When? Where? Why? …..
I mean words fail…a head of state talking such abominable trash, such profanity…
Booing a dead child’s mother?
Your mob, your perverted followers.
Your mobs in plazas where no light ever shines. YOUR “people.”

What idiot advises you to say and do such things?
The guy with the pig-greased hair?
That peddler of slime and subterfuge?
The one who is ready to die for you?
Lead by example!
Do the right thing!

Or do you advise yourself?

Or was it Egemen Bağış, your thieving ex-minister?
The pervert who called Berkin’s mourners “necrophiles.”

Or was it Mehmet Ali Şahin, Turkey’s greatest verbal defecator.
In Ergenekon, as he had so vividly explained,
Turkey is defecating. Turkey will continue cleansing its intestines.”
About Berkin, he was even less sensitive.
If Berkin had died after the election, he blathered, the funeral crowd would not have been so large.

And for all this, and for so much more, you will all soon go forever.

The door is knocking.
Can you hear it?
Your advisors won’t tell.
Only the knock tells.
The knock that appalls.
A knock, and you disappear.
Somewhere, beyond the sun, beyond the touch of humanity,
Beyond the light. Beyond thought.
And all that remains, all those “things” of yours,
will be razed, destroyed, plowed over.
And the land will be calm.
And your hands?
Your bloody, thieving, deceiving, murderous hands?
They too will be food for worms.

Listen well, for it has already been written:

Your worm is your only emperor for diet.
We fat all creatures else to fat us, and 
we fat ourselves for maggots. 

HAMLET, William Shakespeare


James (Cem) Ryan
15 March 2014

yigit bulut   bagis   sahin

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