I wanted your face, I touched velvet
you came back to me as a tumor
it was love at first sight
my teeth were born to your flesh
you were helpless and happy in the face of life
you came back to me twelve stitches
I have no money mind, I wait for you quietly in the dark at home
you came back to me like an installation
you leaned into my ear
You said the big bang continues
you came back to me like a quantum surge
I sat in silence named I wish you were here too
I wanted to be in art history and mythology by doing these simple things, I wanted to sell
you came back to me as a sociopath who started the middle age
I wanted a mystical guide
I wanted the mystical guide to kill me, so I can continue to live
I saw an old poet saying there is no contemporary poetry
you came back to me as contemporary poetry
I waited for a porn free smile, came, put it on my face
The mafia in your bright eyes, when the music rises and the violin bows stick to your face,
what you came back to me, I think you came back to me as me, I should have understood anyway, when I thought,
I was always given a chase when I stop, a man armed over and over again, when I stop and look at them, when you become an observation bitch.
Writing down IDs
I would wait on the soft side of the bed
you would come back to me as a registrar
while writing another legend among the clouds
among audio recordings, documents, opening invitations
I'd smile and buy myself a drink
I would love to be in the wild
I'm writing because I had no other choice
With desert stimuli that stir up genius
I'm writing because fighting is everyone's right
I write on the trunk, through the fig trees
For children who want to stay dead
girls waiting to sail
I'm writing because every day in my bed
The day of armed struggle that I was waiting for has come
I'm writing because I didn't want to have another chance
I'm writing because Mohammed would have wanted it that way
night watches and bandages
I've been the subject of people's documentary prayers
I went down to the river and stared my wild eyes at my victim
My victim was a beer-loving alcoholic liberal
It was easy to fool him, I don't know if his meat was delicious
But giving him his dad was a piece of cake
He was a secret fascist boy who wanted to crave his desires
they had creative ideas, they always had creative ideas
and they had projects, of course they always have projects
give him his father and he will come back to you father
give him literature and it will come back to you as literature
I'm writing because life made up to forget nothingness
I'm writing because records are too expensive
I'm writing because he gave everything
popped plants with love and nomadic peoples
I walk in sign language, chasing shadows, living like an auction
in masses in a mother's womb away from her womb
I'm writing because I don't care about class-based ethics.