by Ece Apaydin
They sleep on the table with their faces that is irritated by the freedom.
as a pet with a yellow seven. good luck kiss
is aware of the defeat it asks what is my lack
the watching being staged in the fire and turning into ashes on me
what is my lack in the vote of blood and love
a mind kept in a gem of a ring
the grounded bones will not bring luck
the dusts of my painfull days are on the books.
the grief that is spinning its net. sugar basins and copper
samovar which its emptiness will never be fulled
what is my lack asks that good-humoured memory in the frames
which makes us listened to itself
a rowing boat so that it was absence-covered
and it was glittering when my mom close the curtain
a night piece that is bled by a meat of a migrated bird
that honeycombed sliced time
elapsing from stone to stone moment and moment
what is my lack asks the last rank of the fatherhood
that tired men with overcasting. like this. men like this
from green phobia on my face. bean sticks. where there is no fire
smokes. smokes. Smokes
ECE APAYDIN
Last updated June 12, 2016