Night's Poem
by Ayşe Tekşen
I don’t know how to live among humans, why to survive, what to breathe. And thorns I spit, accidents. It gives and receives, the life of yellowed flowers, and meant meanings lack the forgiveness for which I plead.
Drum rolls or beat hands on hard thighs. The nervousness, the passion. And I plead more even when night is, shut your mouth and fuck me fast and easy, and he does without peeling me and not touching.
The walls surround and surrender to my impossible shyness and the creative pleasures of nights much ahead. Out and away I rise whence I fall when they look away and I want them to, and they do, because they always do.
I pocket every hand and release each eye unless they drop the white toil in red weather and blue sky. The thin line between stares as of between hope and expectation.
The line or its string draws me from my him.And they may swerve or whirl half-winged as much and long as they need.
I can’t stop.
Neither can they.
Such continues.
And then.
I don’t know how to live among humans, why to survive, what to breathe. And thorns I spit, accidents. It gives and receives, the life of yellowed flowers, and meant meanings lack the forgiveness for which I plead.
Drum rolls or beat hands on hard thighs. The nervousness, the passion. And I plead more even when night is, shut your mouth and fuck me fast and easy, and he does without peeling me and not touching.
The walls surround and surrender to my impossible shyness and the creative pleasures of nights much ahead. Out and away I rise whence I fall when they look away and I want them to, and they do, because they always do.
I pocket every hand and release each eye unless they drop the white toil in red weather and blue sky. The thin line between stares as of between hope and expectation.
The line or its string draws me from my him.And they may swerve or whirl half-winged as much and long as they need.
I can’t stop.
Neither can they.
Such continues.
And then.