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I am a dead blue butterfly I dried my wings I kissed the belly of a blue marble I went into all the cloisters, I matured to all secrets. I died like children without knowing it.
II.
A tailor in the country of mortals Cutting silk, sewing tinsel to the past Weaving hair of the years, Then even the moon will jump on the stage [S]he will be in pain, but continue tango anyway Lost photographs would be found suddenly In the secret holes of life and years.
III.
From prom nights, People will be drawn out like sharpened knives At that moment girls look at the boys Boys who smell like dill. Rain would not be enough for anyone Everyone would get wet with other talismans Ankles of hearts were so thin. Lips were greek, eyes palikaria Life insistently hides its dimples Pedlars sell mirrors no matter what. He wouldn’t put on after-shave then His cheeks surprising and tingling Smelling like eighty degrees lemon cologne Frayed out, Cheap life the picture of crying child! As if time was a blue wool sweater.
PS: The blue butterfly died yesterday Everything finished in Izmir. I’m going to Spain. To write a love letter and to throw play cards into fire!
