I associate the song “A New Error” with my sexual identity
Since I have realized I have become “A New Error” in this “Old Error” world
And I have been fighting many wars – between me and outside, between me and myself
And there is no unity, no peace, no satisfaction, no sign of rest
While I am bleeding and breathing hard,
I feel something – long gone forgotten –
It’s my pulse; my heartbeat
I – AM - ALIVE

































Thus I declare my self-independence
I declare my independence from the gay scene
As I, blasphemously, question things that run on this superficial surface
Things that govern our identity, like we are the slaves
Things that quality-control, so that we will be allowed to use word “LGBTQ” on our mask
Things that haunt us, since the beginning of time, and frontline since the 60s/70s -
Something that our ancestors went against, and we rebuilt –














And this is not an act of surrender
To Berlin, to the gay scene
That always wants a piece of me - tries to break my self apart – redefines who I am,








Because being “queer” means “to open and accept the difference”
Because being “queer” means “to share and take care - of the fallen and the risen”
Because being “queer” means “to be freed – and to be loved”

There are still many battles to fight – even more, after this declaration –
But I will do, following footsteps of our ancestors, of those who died for our rights
If you read and listen to my voice,
Let hold hands together,
We are all to blamed, for this curse – that we constructed,
That we imposed on our identity

From now on, I will let myself be guided ONLY by “love and care”
I will feed the society with my positive vibes (in my own way)
I will take responsibility on my shoulders – although none other do
I will feed the hunger with my lips – the hungry, sex-addicted bodies, with my wild freed soul
I will love, and love, and love – and accept, and respect, and fight

Homo Manifesto

This is written, as a reaction to Hustlaball Berlin 2017,








Why should I let other people decide what should I dress, which color should I fit?,
Other than black, leather, latex, sports – while the LGBTQ flag is rainbow?
Why should I let them bareback, or play me like I am a toy?
While I was born as individual intellectual human being – with heart and soul?
Why should I follow your inner fetish bodily commands – while mine is more about the soul?
And why should this heart and soul be called “old-styled” or “romanticism”?
As they are always part of us, what defines who we are – and our preferred pronouns?
Why should I follow the whispers into the wild night, to consume, more and more?
As they slowly forget how to be satisfied with what they have – especially, appreciate what they already have?
Why should I let my identity be defined by your system of identity?
As identity can’t be shaped by someone else, but by individual self only?



- And not through clothes, not through parties, not through drugs, not through sex positions,
not through music, not through lifestyle, not through culture, not through the outside things;

Identity is defined by ME – only by being ME













No more – I won’t let it.

I will try to stand strong, I will raise new against the sun and neonlights,
I am tired of faking, I am tired of the surface – like a snake longing for new sheddings,
I will open my mask and let the sunlight in, so I would feel the warmth – of humanity (if it still exists),
of friendship, of sharing-and-caring, of multicultural multiracial multi-identity diversity,












































This is me, this is my voice
I am gay, and I am proud to be gay

Buddhist Monk

(6/8/2013-2015)


That is, again, a provocation, itches in their enduring silent bald

Forcing someone an order, and sacrifice your own humane?

How and who, can a man possibly grab such halo?
A light, a blacklight -
How can a man possibly retrieve semblance,
the flow of dead silver veins down river;
to join with the mad, the fool, in the wiser’s mind
where heart is located, at distance
on big lotus pedal
dropped by gold’s salt,
to transform beyond gold’s blood
And all else will be done before
it turns silvery and slips

Back in, smiles?
Smile of the rich, smile of the poor, the glowing teeth,
of satisfaction, up for man’s deliberate contempt
meditating their own kind
making senses circle of irony all over

When they cut his hair, it’s his throat
When they wash away his soul, Is it cleansed?
or colden?
In that courtroom, by judges; I really want to ask;
ask what whether is he a man, or beast painted
or fleshflash skin?
How can you let someone, another unknown,
criticizing, perjuring our own type?;
What you are, causes you to be not

You walk, and you slow in front of me,
No worry I have no harm – and you have none,
Since I have hoped so -
Until we see the knives, in your own
pure hands, majestically white

I try to perfect my craft
While you lay legs across
One hand teaching me obedience
Twist the stick and throw
I’m in order to catch up with better phrases
For it’s my fault to kneel
That I’m once a noble
With umbrella
To satisfy you well



Light will turn off soon before dawn
My heels will meet into
Pouring sand
Shapes like smiley face of
Passengers
Who stare at my nose
Or my expertise
One-sided fur, perhaps million euros
Wet full, heavy with rain
Spring tears in my eyes
To see clearly
Who is right and who has right
Which is not the case
For I am the satisfying
and pushing myself hard to be



It has been a while
We sit together sewing machines
You deliver your pastcode
And scroll down
Continue desire to desire
And I, reckless sleepless creature
Haunting in black cage
All-sided blinding
Yawn loud
Majestically
Subliminally
As the lower shits
Back fort, front back
Smack, suspire, your fist
And your cock cleavage
broke my umbrella cords
breaking apart details we needed to confront
no more




My paws pelled off this nails
And tanned back call
Operation desire
If I indeed had thousand wings
I would know where to go
Only if I’ll freeze midair
Break apart
As if I will
Shatter
To thousand more prisms
In your goddamn rainbow stripes
Over the laughters
Curse



But these claws are too calm
at peace and even vulnerable
To worth given
By archaic voices
I’m not hearing myself
I’m not hearing you
Nor even sound of the rain
Pouring right in my ass



Gone into pixels and partial self-explaination
All such muscles deserve self-exclaimation
I’m but just an ignored dried leaf
in floating plane weary
My voice could contain certain
Decibels of freedom
If there was nay at all
As a craftman