Father Istanbul by Elion Guitarfish
I. 
"Why do my legs hurt, Bapou?"
I have wandered too far and thirst for a drink
But only ketchup and wienerschnitzel for miles around, here at Costco.
The queer howl of this emaciated, fat body.
For the fields of essin goyim, oğlu, and ugliness
The Greece fire and arson-reflux of our stolen youth, our shared gastronomy.

II.
The opium dens mean nothing to me
My carcass crackles like pop rocks and watermelon
Let me, let me lie awake each night
With burnt-up eyes and gangly limbs
O! Büyük baba!
I am no longer a citizen of the world! 
Relinquish me now, brandish our gun, Bapou, before the bullet hits me!
I have consummated the mirage.

ghosts by Bahadır Özdemirhan Bahar

dance now or never dance at all
hands before and after the fall
hold my ribbon close and bait me
now the ember sparks alight, around me like
i like it, i'm fire, and i burn
smoke gets in my lungs and you cough
and oh, we dance alight, we light the fire
till you die, phantasmic, orgasmic,
though your friend, call you again
play in the yard, play in the yard
then say, alight and proud
"we are no longer married and gay" 
flee the town, flee the town, flee the town,
look around
there's nothing left for you in the rubble
so smoke and repent, smoke and repent, smoke and repent
"i have no anxiety" you say
as we fall forward

And on the yellowed page
That megalithic dream
Neglected, forgotten
Cared for by a mind swept up and cast aside
For its sane dream, put to sleep amid the demented

These cold rooms, stiff cots and stale water
Comforts gone, bare floors stifle the queer howls of inmates
Painting, painting, painting; more
Sixteen hours of painting amid fitful sleep, restless
Countless watercolors, nine years on your oil miniatures
Your gift to the world, your manic labor of love

The sponge of youthful life,
sopping wet and set to dry in Atacama sands
Where no wolf dared to go
Where the reptiles ceased to lay their eggs
No rain in a million years, and yet,
You persisted

He makes his home here, home of the nutters, ward of the profane, eyesore of all creation
One among them, yet set apart from them
He paints and pleases his carers, men who do not know minds, men who do not know art

The Late Richard Dadd
Dead to the world yet oh so full of life
That feverish, rambling existence
Sanctified by the masterful renderings of one misplaced talent, to live on in infamy for the rest of art history as the schizophrenic beast who murdered his father

Oh prince of poetry, oh thou mad saint and sober monk of Bedlam, my Lord, Richard Dadd, master painter, mad visionary and true artist, our feller of fairies

​

There was no order in the nonsense except for the monotony of shouting, from the very instant when the summit moved below the hill and a tantrum of thunder shook the fire-womb-prison. The hammer hit the spine and the crack of an eclipse crowded the tapering of the jeweled prison: a mountain, a mime, and a prisoner. Before them a rose and a petal with no thorns and then there was an apple that shone red and ruby roaming the darkness, with a head and a hammer and a happiness that muddled subtle shades of gray until the guffaw of hearkening hammerings rose to a thunder pitch and the birch sighed and all was nuanced and the greys of the earth and images of lamb and man became a soothing hiss of the snakes and the firepit and the eternal hiss, all mooing with the sounds of laughter and old roads and farms, now living only in far away highways and in dreams of old carnivals hidden underground. ​

​Peering out, atop my bismuth tower
At the village below with its surrounding crags
The night time smoke, those boisterous and sultry taverns
Elderberry wine, sharp cheese and some crusts
In a homely cottage, a ravishing and lonely man
Taunt me from the phantom heights

I, the overman, so have I been blessed
Nuit can bed with Ra and Zeus
In an ugly box shall they remain
The phantom pain, the spoiled fruit

Choking on the ashes of the Persian prince
To fall off the mountain to be with my flower
K2's summit was a pipe dream; in the end I did lose
Boots wrecked and voice hoarse, in need of a shower

Getting drunk off this faulty syllogism for years
It cost me a lover, it cost me the best
The rage and the beast and the id and the madness
For what, then, does Holden Quixote now quest?

Cold and alone, my life now lackluster
Who once was a lover is now just a friend
The gales howl and bluster atop my lonely tower
I can't put humpty together again

Consult with the madman, the pious, the doctor
Consult with the jailer, the guard, and the mice
Get down on your knees and beg them to consider
The release of this prisoner from these phantom heights

The doctor, the philosopher, and the professor all know
The physicist, the astronomer, and the poet likewise
Negating the premise is no risky gamble
The "sane" and the "sober" gain comforts in life

Maybe it was said best by Oscar Wilde
I haven't got it now so it won't come to me
Why do I feel sad? Now I truly am living!
Who would perform twelve labors to let me go free?

morphi, stoner lady aunt recluse
olive leaf and milk thistle healing
bulimic to alcoholic to health nut 
dead at 58

saw Bapou's ghost in the garden
proclaimed herself a hardcore Pisces and a witch

mouth of the south
spreading family secrets
five feet tall
voicemail said: “You have reached sweet bitch”

billy mitchell, love of morphi’s life
southern dude almost as weird as morph
had balls to call a mean state trooper dickbreath
gifted his trombone to a young guy in Louisiana

reefer rick
your dealer in ‘83
gave you the joint you showed me when i was ten

bobby sue, your rusty pickup
jessie james your goofy yellow dog
you baked box cakes for the raccoons

ur friend big al got drunk and
revealed his baby-carrot-sized penis to you
he somehow had children, years later

never ashamed of her pointy nose 
a proud witch handing out candy at Halloween

saul belz, hitchhiker creep
the black sheep of the peabody hotel dynasty
he threatened to kill my mom, so you married him
you still made light of your escapades

sauli's friend died in your car
you laughed, recounting the tale
driving about town with a body jiggling about the backseat
your laugh was crazy and infectious

you were 19 when saul was driving and you got hit by the train 
a doctor was poking your brain in awe
“i can see your brain” the doctor said
you lived to tell the tale, cracking up at all the bad news
morphi you were a major badass and you laughed in the face of hell every time
you were mugged twice in your life 
more than an aunt, you were my best friend

coaching me through my young adulthood over the phone 
my first memory of you:
the lady upstairs with the buckets full of crayons
gossiped about the boys I chased and gave me bad advice
you encouraged my singing when no one else did

bowie freak above all else
you sang mother's little helper like a dying goat
stressed the importance of street smarts
despised drug companies
you were a witch doctor with your supplements
keeping bapou and yiayia alive and healthy

you said i could talk to you about anything
and i did
never pretentious, uneducated yet sharp as a tac
you were on food stamps 
yet, you were classier than Warren Buffet
in your own sailor-mouthed way
you let me drop the “aunt” and just say “morphi”
I picked out “flower child” as the words on your grave
wherever you are, I know you’re raising hell.

​

What else can I say about uncle Marty?
He really isn’t all there
He’s always at the dump digging in the shit
I try to offer him a Pepsi and have a chat with him
But he won’t utter a word to me except
“Come on, Paul. Lets hitch a ride in my buggy and see what we can find”
And oh, the treasure there
Lots of bottle caps, wrappers, the occasional gold ring
He gets himself so filthy in there
He lets the shit and worms onto his skin without flinching
And he tells me stories of the war and the golden boy he used to be
Back in the good old days when the boomers were all little cherubs
And I say “Uncle Marty, it's been an hour”
And “Uncle Marty, it's been 3 hours”
And shoot, we’ve been there all day
And he can’t get enough of it.

I look at him with all his enthusiasm and all his beautiful rings he’s found
And we get home, and of course, I have to polish them for him
He’s forgetful in that way
Barely holds down a job
Barely makes intelligible conversation
Unless he’s at the dump, where he can be himself
Boy does he love that dump
He’s obsessed with that dump.
Eenie meenie miney moe
He’s caught good living
He’s happy
And after all,
He’s family.

​