bachibouzouck – No: 017/ 08.11
(translated by suzan sarı)
if the door is closed, if it is!
if someone threw away the keys into the river
your mind is like an unzipped zipper
what i mention is what exactly you thought!
what nonsense! zippers don’t think but buttons
a secret coolie make the walking stairs walk
if the gossips of servants become true
in fact, all the moving things don’t move
write it down somewhere and go on
the reason your coming home in the evening was in your pocket
in case you forget the harmony of colors, voices
their ready-places in the ear
the standart secrecy behind the closed curtains
as if it were in the most used pocket
a note you would not want to know who had written
an open ticket which make you pass through all the lay-ups
in return of your looking without objection
when your name is called out, with all your determined standing
-i’m sure that what you ment is me
what if you were not the matter, what if you were not the pronoun
what if it doesnt change even you lit all the lights
what if you scratch out all your hair to your brain
even you turn back, delete your marks
footprints, handprints, of knee and elbow
you have left at homes, in the schools, in the streets
in reality no subject, to pretend as it were there
those religions of silence, kaffirs of being-without-you
but everyone would seem nice, and they’re paid in advance
all the sidewalks and parks are for us to be fine!
trick at breakfast, risk at dinner
forget it
in return to two picnics a year, three serenity, one quarter
a note which you could not find in your pocket, and asked it to anyone
revolutionary who has loosened his tie and come home the evening
at night prepared the mortal repetition of the morning
while hanging the ironed curtains, just a second…
remembered of his shoulders
summer comes with the republic of sweating with everyone
the first of the loyalists hating everyone with all
when hamsun have learnt about this, he had to die
nagel’s big secret for feeding our answer
you have fastened your buttons by the same technique all the time, unfastened by the same
by the way been sorry about some massacres, but not so much about the rest
at a friend’s funeral repeated the catchword over and over
« human dies with words »
when i am refusing the dinner invitations, disputing pompously about the bills
the subject is not you, the pronoun is not me
the verb…
the unique possible consolation of grammar
