Poets

This screwed-in nerve, these skinflakes of yesterday, and the fatigue continues. Down through the urban pastures, this heavy body I carry along the street of masks, flux of ink hardening between harsh fibres of iron,

An autumn in Istanbul. An indefinable sadness: all attempt/experience is but a sketch. Sleepwalker city, awash amid the mist, rambling around in the haze, sprinkling a sheet of vapour over the lamp, which nowhere there illuminates...

Slowly, at your leisure, the feast of a kiss, a smile the colour of the sun, tourists in the land of dreams, rainbow, how beautiful you are!, two bodies casting one shadow, my tounge/my language melts, and I close my eyes, and I fall silent;