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Wood Carving

words and tongue thus killed the killed yet again
kelimeler ve dil böylece öldürülenleri bir daha öldürdü

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.....I heard the sound of a broken violin string coming from deep inside the forest, amplifying strangely and disproportionately as it made its way to my ear through all that came its way. It rustled leaves, electrified crickets’ spines, dashed through branches, and took a walk in time, past-present. It caressed over an expired kinship, which expired rather hastily and bitterly and was sealed by a pulp mythology.It whispered to a death forcibly rendered docile, domesticated with distortion, inflamed by asymmetry and unfairness, which left only droplets of breath on a hand-held mirror over blue lips in the nighttime; words and tongue thus killed the killed yet again. It gave a nursery rhyme, non-sense, no-logos, perhaps reconcilable only outside of action and thought that went: “hair-spike, arachnid-hole, bloodsmell, wrestle-dog, brokenail, rusty-kill, ferry-feel, horizon-hole, bee-seat, patient-bore, luna-park, cracked-cob, yellow-kitchen, spit-bough, pine-bug, always-glow.” which also resembled a makeshift incantation shared amongst children or old blood who thought their hopeful delirium would make their friends invisible or turn the tide in favor of them. It sung a one-note song, inexhaustible, through the collosal fault lines and into the foundation of a building built before the great earthquake, which was unaware of its impending communion without destruction with its distant peers. It shook a body out of its thinly spread slumber, made it think it’s the end of its days, and amidst the moment of terror, like pulling hair out of butter, it pulled a memory of a place out of its memory. The solitary walk that the short-circuit re-fleshed was now conductive, and it summoned playful ghosts, and in all its echoing and burring, the sound of the broken string had now started to gain gravity; it grew cartilage, ligaments, and limbs, and at last, when it settled into its temporary form, it buzzed me through the turnstile for forty-five liras before it vanished back into the forest....

Improv steel xylophone designed and fabricated by taking as reference a relief mold taken from the bark of a tree engraved by engraving beetles, digitally manipulated fish patterned mother heirloom ‘temple cloth’ UV printed on polyester fabric, saddle pad made from aluminum coated and honeycombed thermal insulation sheet and bird spikes, a 5m6s long video accidentally shot slow-motion inside pant pocket whilst sky gazing under a dry tree resembling a nosediving mer-person turned into a 112-page book, pages printed on waterproof raincoat fabric, bound through silver coated eyelets with mad max style paracord survival bracelet knot onto a steel plate, gas pipe clamps, 6 plastic ice tea bottles, resin, nescafe, plaster cast of clay sculpture, custom fit white paracord muzzle, steel pins,


Oyucu böcekler tarafından dış kabuğu kemirilmiş bir ağaçtan alınmış kil rölyef kalıbı esas alınarak tasarlanmış ve üretilmiş doğaç çelik ksilofon, yumoş polyester kumaş üzerine dijital olarak manipüle edilmiş, balık desenli ana yadigarı ‘tapınak örtüsü’ baskısı, aluminyum folyo sıvamalı petekli termal yalıtım kumaşından üretilmiş ve üzerine plastik kuş dikenleri yerleştirilmiş eyer pedi, pike yapan bir denizbireyini andıran kuru bir ağacın altında gerçekleştirilmiş gökyüzü izleme seansı sırasında pantolon cebinde, ağır çekimde, yanlışlıkla çekilmiş 5d6s’lik bir videonun üç saniyede birer kare olacak şekilde yağmurluk kumaşı üstüne UV baskı yapılıp, gümüş kaplama kuşgözü ve mad max stili paracord bileklik düğümüyle düğümlenip çelik askı aparatına ciltlenmiş 112 sayfalık kitap, doğalgaz boru kelepçeleri, litrelik ice tea şişeleri, epoksi, kahve, kilden yapılmış bir heykelin alçı dökümü, beyaz paracord özel üretim ağızlık, çelik toplu iğneler


diyar-ı terk (realm’o’bandon)


finger count on setting sun falls false,

its ok, its good news,

the dim-dying hymn-shimmer is yet to come

sun-based still, with a few,

we’re waiting for a wet-set

peakbloom, abandoned calculatedly

and a windbreaker rustles,

gentle as a thought,

but it wrinkles commonstealth,

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