by Ece Apaydin
It’s night is just beginning. the cyclopser of the filling signal
is flying to another roof
with copper and conductor wings
when the houses inhaled him
we have silver salts at the dinner table
and enough sin
to commit
When kneed down in the heart of the carpet
I’m giving error towards him
separating darkness from nudity
an iron hook
its the pain of being left in the middle of nowhere
So exceedingly graceful leaves its water
the soil. we fly horse-head like mad
in the act of competing. to become ashes and dry
to flourish and burgeon. the sweet references
of the leaf - for being accepted
to that crystal clear nudity.
Mourning tulles that shadows my face.
what do I look like. face to face with the roundwoods
when running to untie the sound that is surrounding me
what do I look like! - as far as he can see -
in the lens
I’m picking up a stone from the ground throwing to him
besotted each of my fingers. in the air
there are eighty words. giving error. solidified within
his own excreta
being read in a poor ceremony
eighty words inside of me
I remember a sharp stone is walking
and my clarity
that is taken from the real piece
of which that stone is splitted
Oh there is no return to entirety for a slice of yours!
ECE APAYDIN
Last updated June 12, 2016