20210402

Aysegul Yildirim


Your friend is the air


Sea it. 
Above it. See
Level underneath
         The skin
of your 
     lip
The curvy 
	       movements tell
how fucked 
up the way your
Life, lies: 
anxiety lines
	         lick up 
the dreams you can’t even dare
	Speak. 

Kill it: 
The moment you 
Long for it 
	swallow
that curse 
Go up
and breathe, 
	           or mere breath
will be left 
At night when you dive into
       Spit it. 
       


 

The Master and the slave
Something’s resting on the page. Something’s melting on the page. Something’s bubbling on the page. Something’s rattling on the page. Something’s standing on the page. Something’s moving on the page. Something’s twinkling on the page. Something’s trembling on the page. Something’s sinking on the page. Something’s growing on the page. Something’s piping on the page. Something’s leaking on the page. Something’s annoying on the page. Something’s happening with this page. Something’s wrong with this page. All good in the page. I am sitting in the page. I am boiling in the page. I am jumping in the page. I am shouting in the page. I am lying in the page. I am walking in the page. I am spitting in the page. I am frozen in the page. I am suffering in the page. I am cutting it in the page. I am burning it in the page. I am watering it in the page. I am carrying it outside the page. I am throwing it outside the page.
STRUCTURALIST POEM The number of poems that can be written using these is infinite: An umbrella. A cup of tea. An orange. Sea shells. Circles. Shoes. Keys. The number of poems that can be written without these is none.
Aysegul Yildirim lives in London, UK. Her work has appeared in The Maynard and Trouvaille Review.
 
 
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