Murder on Consequential Child Street by küçük İskender


i saw items draped in dust sheets

on the breast of the woman in my last play

so engaging was the hawk in her gaze

that had I turned my face away for just a second

the shotgun gale inside me, that innocent traitor,

would have blown out the candles on her lips, one by one,

I unflinchingly believed this.

slowly i rose

and descended the mountain on which i’d sat

and as i passed by the beautiful whores

beat on by rough men

my soul rang with the

afternoon prayer-call of a funeral with no followers

my soul held a half-formed kernel of panic

and a chill of april smiles

and they held out their hands to me

nothing but their hands, and i descended

from those casually remembered and forgotten balconies

into a city’s roughest watersides.

if i say a word, if i can speak, if i dare

summer would flinch back into infinity

summer would be pull back into infinity and

no season fill the void that summer left

and whatever summer means

whoever, whatever makes it summer

would stand bared

i unflinchingly believed this;

i wanted to tell her about my beatings

the magic looted by bandits

the sleep stolen from me and carried to another

to tell her of dream, the son of sleep

my dreams, my sons


the feelings that call to me

the painters that draw me and color me

i wanted to tell her of the architects who

used me as a sidewalk

all i wanted was to tell her some things;

as for her

she was sleepy and had no forest to run to! what’s more

the horses she would mount

and ride off on were ready;

her body was a charm

pinned on nature for luck




a witch still on fire, never to go out

her eyes were a spider stooping down to water;

the eyes of a loving one won’t let you pass

for a loving one’s eyes can ambush time;

i picked a flower from my palm

i got closer

and closer

the flower gave me to her, i believe this completely

and i said, and i could have said to her:

– i’m dying my love

you play another hand!

the thought that he could laugh like that

never skirted the edge of my mind

at the edge of my mind stood my childhood

if i’d have touched it gently

my childhood would have fallen off the edge

i would never have saved it

it really would fall

him, there

heaving out huge odd laughs

my mother held me tightly my father cut my wrists

the eyes of a loving man won’t let you pass

for a loving man’s eyes can ambush time;

i was pouring blood

all my being turned to blood and i was pouring

now i was bleeding from who knows where?

to who knows where?

i was never going to stop

if i were to stop i’d form a stain that never came out

i would be the blood of sacrifice smeared on his forehead

my blood would be painted on his fingers like henna

i wanted that then, i believed without doubt


as i skidded and slumped

from the punch i’d been swung to the floor

i saw with my own eyes, with my own eyes, with these

the white veil i had pulled from the shapes

and there lay the body, there on her breast,

of a dead female snake

later i choked that woman with it

hung her with the snake

with the snake I swung her filthy corpse from the balconies

from those casually remembered and forgotten balconies

i screamed!

i screamed!

i screamed!

let none of the uninvited

come to my opening night!

don’t let them come, not even for a minute!

küçük İskender  (Manalı Çocuk Sokağı Cinayeti)

 SEL Yayınevi 2004

translation Caroline Stockford

First appeared in Assaracus Journal of Gay Poetry Feb 2016