it’s that time again,
leftover relationships
you know,
the second-hand infertile chats.
sometimes you surrender
to the role of foster child
with a shaved head
of the space-filling ambience.
the so-called thinkers’ ‘worthy’ invitations
to their social circus
and
their conceptual masturbation.
genes that can not find their names
being sold on cheap tables
or a value that has taken
its name flies away
without finding a skin to land on.
full of androamoeba in around
with confused identities,
and
marriage certificates in their hands.
to feel like drowning in
genetically distorted meanings
and the hymns of digital saints
in the coldness of the keyboard.
the weight of the past left on a torn shirt
without a latch
hanging on an abandoned porch.
a world in where love is represented
only in the body fluid,
and whoever objects to this
doesn’t even belong in
an unrecyclable rubbish dump.
taboos,
totems,
dogmas,
indulgences,
cultures,
and stale ideologies mingle,
as if they are preparing
for a painful new birth
to unknown hopes and problems.
written by Aşur Horoz
soli 