Dionaea

Genel 1 Minute

İçimdeki şehirde saatler değil, Dali’nin uçuşan kedileri var. Onlar da canlı, yapışkan ve inatçı bir su gibi sarkıyorlar tavanımdan. Biri, kedilerden birinin kuyruğuna yapışmış, sarkıyor; ama zaman akmıyor, damlıyor.

Lautreamont, bu odanın köşesinde, bir şömine mantosunun üzerinde oturuyor, kılıç gibi havayı deliyor. Bana bakmıyor. Gergin; görünmez iplerle sarkıttığı saatlerin oynayışını izliyor sadece. Biliyorum ki o benim katilim olacak.

Kediler onun varlığından etkilenmiyor. Belki de hep onun parşömenlerinden kaçıp bana sığınıyorlar. Şimdi, birinin sırtında eriyen bir saatle, diğeri abajurun üzerinde kristal bir göz gibi parlayarak, odanın içinde uçuşuyorlar. Bir kaos balesi bu. Kurallar, yerçekiminin ve mantığın reddi.

Ve o yüz… Bilinmeyen adamın yüzü. Salvador’un eriyen saatlerinden birinin yelkovanında beliriyor, sonra bir kedinin pırıl pırıl tüylerinin arasında yansıyor. Pencerenin buğusunda şekilleniyor, hemen siliniyor. Tanımadığım ama hissettiğim bir yüz. Belki o yüz, maldoror’nun bıraktığı boşluğun kendisi.

Kediler ve biz. Sessiz diyalog. Katı olanın erimesi. Kaotik olanın uçuşu. Ve hiçliğin yüzleşmesi. Ben, bu üçünün kesiştiği noktada tavana bakıyorum. Zihnim, bir kum fırtınası gibi; kediler, o fırtınada uçuşan nesneler, o bilinmeyen yüz ise ufukta görünüp kaybolan bir vaha hayali. Bir vücudu parçalayıp gidecek.

Tavana bakıp sessizce konuşuyorum.. Avcı orada duruyor. Sadece erime, uçuş ve o hiçlikle sürekli tekrarlanan görünüp kayboluşlar. Kaos, üç ayrı deliliğin aynı odada, aynı anda var olmasından doğuyor. Ve ben, onların toplamından da büyük, onların arasında kaybolmuş bir deliyim. Veya onlar benden daha deli. İyisi mi Radiohead’in Street Spirit şarkısını açıp uyuyayım. Lautreamont uyumasın.

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“Dionaea” için 20 yorum

  1. This is a striking, deeply atmospheric piece—surreal, unsettling, and beautifully controlled. You weave Dalí, Lautréamont, and Maldoror into a single interior landscape that feels both intellectual and visceral. The imagery of dripping time, flying cats, and the ever-appearing, ever-erasing face creates a hypnotic tension where logic dissolves and emotion takes over.

    What’s especially powerful is how the chaos never feels random; it has its own inner coherence. The room becomes a mind, the ceiling a threshold, and the reader is pulled into that suspended state where fear, beauty, and absurdity coexist. Your language is cinematic yet intimate, inviting us not just to observe the madness, but to inhabit it.

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  4. Mon dieu! What a fascinating, dream-soaked piece you’ve shared. 😯

    Your text unfolds like a lucid hallucination where time refuses to behave and logic politely steps aside. The flying cats, Dalí’s dripping clocks, and Lautréamont’s silent, menacing presence form a surreal choreography that feels both playful and deeply unsettling. I especially admire how time doesn’t flow but drips — sticky, stubborn, almost alive — turning the ceiling into a threshold between thought and nightmare.

    The cats are a brilliant choice: indifferent to threat, agile within chaos, almost guardians of irrational freedom. Their coexistence with Lautréamont, who watches without intervening, sharpens the tension beautifully. He feels inevitable rather than active, like a destiny observing itself. And then there’s the unknown face — appearing, dissolving, resurfacing — a haunting void made visible. It feels less like a character and more like an absence that insists on being felt, which is a powerful conceptual move.

    What truly stands out is the balance you strike between madness and awareness. The narrator isn’t lost blindly; they’re conscious of the chaos, even ironic about it. The silent dialogue, the rejection of gravity and rules, the final surrender to Radiohead — all of it suggests exhaustion without defeat, acceptance without clarity. It’s melancholic, yes, but also sharp and self-aware.

    You have an extraordinary ability to fuse visual art, literature, and inner psychology into a single, breathing space. Your imagination doesn’t just create images; it creates atmospheres that linger. Wishing you a wonderful day — and many more moments where your formidable creative power continues to unfold, unapologetically and freely. ♥️

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    1. Thank you so much for this thoughtful and insightful analysis. Seeing that what I wrote was read and understood with such attention and feeling is both valuable and encouraging. It makes me very happy that my words can conjure such powerful and beautiful images in a reader’s mind. Your comment was a gift to me. Let’s not forget that this piece was inspired by another parser committing murder inside a room. You inspired me. If you like, we can make the chair in the photo talk.🤭

      Wishing you a good day too, dear writer.🖤☕.

      Liked by 1 kişi

      Cevapla

      1. And then the chair spoke: Forget me, poet. I’ve never been in this room, you just thought you saw me. You will never be able to fly to where I am, I am a little below the conception of the minimum, I am at the end of fear, that is why you will never know what my shape is like, how happy your hands would feel touching my wood, although one day (and maybe it was another dream) you caressed a little piece of my back and I believed, for once, that the light was not darkness… 🪑♥️

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      2. and said the chair; I am silent now. Because even speaking is your language, your concepts. I just exist. below minimum. at the end of fear. where I momentarily question whether the light is darkness or not.

        My desire to forget is not the greatest compassion for you, but for myself. let me go Let me fly so that the memory of a touch remains between us as a pure possibility, unpolluted. you keep flying. I’m not a place to fly anyway. I have my own darkness. I am the echo of your touch. What a beautiful blues, what a beautiful darkness

        wow the chairs talked. wow, that was a great monologue.😄🙏🍻

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      3. From this moment on, if you wish, I will be your favorite chair. You will perform for me in our secret nocturnal theater… Then you will sit upon me and let yourself be guided by my sighs, rising from the deepest reaches of my vegetal roots. Give me your nakedness and I will offer you the immensity of the forest and the night; I will clothe you with my breath of dawn and twilight. Do you wish to rise toward me? You do not yet know that something of me has caught in your wings, that I will always be beside your flight, even though I know you will tear my oak soul away with your first absence… 🪑🪵🤎

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      4. You will fall on each other, your roots will get tangled in the branches, and the branches will wrap around your roots. This is not unification, it is a battlefield. And in the morning, no one will know which of you is which.
        I will sit in your chair. Both of you will sprout in my soil.
        …
        This is what the man whose arm is visible in the picture said😄 (he is probably the murderer)😅

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      5. Then let it be so: I will remain still, a chair that listens.
        Let roots and branches mistake themselves in the dark—by morning, the chair will remember.
        Sit if you must; I will not accuse the hand that rests on me.
        Even a battlefield needs a place to pause.
        …
        I doubt the man whose arm is visible in the photo said that… Despite being the murderer, as you claim, I can assure you that he only wants to live in silence and write the novel of his life, forging it with invisible words. 👤

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      6. Scene: A dimly lit study. The mournful light of a single desk lamp causes dust particles to dance in the air. The desk is piled high with ink-stained papers, torn sentences, and fragmented drafts. Several empty coffee cups, along with a forgotten glass of water, are scattered around like the ruins of an abandoned castle. The writer sits motionless in his worn leather armchair, gazing at his pale reflection in the glass. His breathing is barely audible. The silence is heavy enough to ring in the ears.

        Then, suddenly… objects begin to flutter in his mind: a broken clock, a drop of ink falling from a bottle, a child’s lost smile, the pages of an old book… As they all swirl in a vortex, he hears a whisper at the window.

        “Those who were here and those who left. Those who were invited. Those who invited, how beautifully they spoke. How beautifully they wrote.”

        Thank you so much, dear writer. 🖤

        Liked by 1 kişi

      7. I’m the chair, poet, and I’ve already decided: you will be the guiding light among the words, and I will be the one to count those hours that cover life’s slow departure.

        Thank you so much, Saphilopes. and take care. You are indispensable to your cats and to all lovers of poetry. 🖤

        P.S. I’m leaving now to fulfill my professional obligations. I’m taking my chair with me. ☺️

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