DUCHAMP’S PISTON – Binnaz Deniz Yildiz

February 3, 2026

It was merely a dark mechanism. In a coal mine with rusted bolts, I found and extracted the dragons that had been impaled. I gathered them all at the same nexus, within a Gestalt system, and injected them into my pocket. Ah, this frequency! My battling self treated me like a boxer; then, slowly donning his sword like Attila, he constructed a massive mechanism within my hair. My strands wandered like funnels through winding streets smelling of burnt wood. I curled my truncated words around the neck of a mask and screamed into the void: ‘You are mad, you are mad! No, could you truly be?!’ The faces appearing on my puffed skirts began to resemble… things. To domesticate was a weak endeavor; to light its torch, a burden. In the courts established upon my arms, the Devil stood as my witness. History shall never forget this! Then I ascended to the heavens, and the organic ashes of humanity settled upon the necktie around my throat. Mad Sultan Ibrahim took my arm, followed by pagan flowers, and there stood Victor Hugo. We became rebellious statues—never perceived as ‘orderly’ by the system—and Duchamp lined us up, tethered each of us to a piston, and faded into the distance…