Midnight Salvation

Four men in the wind, on a hard day’s night
Eight gentle steps crossing inside
Lover for a day carves her edge-less shape
Pure in black and white

Seventy-eight years, never listens
Only the reflection on the vinyl shrieks at her
Forefinger dying to erase the dots of ink on those pinkish eyelids
Carved

—without black liners
They try Tom Ford liquid, but she keeps blinking
How could one blame her? Please don’t
Blame her

Chased by the tilted squares, she wails
Every other minute turning hastily
Seeing that damned arcades of light
Loud and subdued

Only if one could poke out that wicked eyeballs
Of the running specter, leaving her with nothing
But a soft pair of rubber-like padding
Resilient, smooth, and elastic

The reverberation of resting footsteps
Ingesting the faint mayonnaise of radiation beams
Now blending into the still silhouettes of her shoulder blades
Enfin, senses the sweet-sounding of elegance
disappearing.

 

Artwork by Hülya Özdemir

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