Friday, 18 August 2017

Paint off the Mannequin


A man with a high forehead
a woman with fine flat hair
each day absorb a particle of venom
from the dead past.
They pat down days into weeks
they tamp down weeks into years.
In wet autumn you read
antediluvian letters wrinkled by tears
her handwriting like slanting rain.
Let’s drink in winter the dry wine
of soughing vineyards.
You close your eyes like an infant
the flies buzz when someone
you wouldn’t like for a neighbour
touches your throat with a razor.
He brushes her white hair
warm snow on the Christmas tree
she peels an orange.
Skin not grazed with an arrow poisoned with love
still clear is the river close to its source.
You pass by a man with difficult to remember
features flowing down with the drizzle
paint off the mannequin.
The silhouette is a shrinking heap
of thawing snow in the vague shape
of a person of unblemished intelligence.
In June the fields burn with golden-green light
the music of wild flowers unfolds in the meadows.
We stand heads down as wheat bent by the wind.
On the days of morning we are awaken
by a premonition of December evenings.
The night after which daylight
makes no change.


Thursday, 3 August 2017

A Pointless Point


You’ve been hanging in the closet for too long
moths have eaten the gown of the body
on your bones.
A pointless point
of a broken story.
A nervous laugh
in the middle of an anecdote.
An imitation of happiness that wouldn’t
turn into the original.
Life was long
as a June afternoon
though no perfume could kill
the smell of death
just overblown sticky catchflies
darkness was driving sleep from the room
every day we used to lay precious time
like a golden egg.
Thoughts projecting from the head
tousled hair when I met you
a well-fed cat’s fur.
We used to glide through buzzing meadows
after anointing the miserable’s feet
with the mucus of charity
we used to slide like everyone.
In essence you devoted
too much time to reading.
Writers possessed the gift
for conveying sound by means
of a lawn-mower on gravel.
Other exciting activities
not fully filled the void in the head.
Glass in your eyes when I said
you can do good all your life
but it is Pol Pot
who goes down in history.


Thursday, 13 July 2017

Detachment


coming across an abandoned child
in the form of a hungry skeleton
I am like an old master
I pass it by without even so much
as giving it a cuddle
or sparing it some of my food
I am full of compassion
it is wrong to blame me
for lacking in sympathy
I am merely detached
from the familiar polemic
over whether or not
self should be allowed
to look back at young women
now they no longer
look back at me
kneading the putty of life
until it is soft enough
to enter anywhere


Thursday, 6 July 2017

At the end of now


You puncture the wall with your head
as soft as a cobweb
sticks to your face
wet from the dew
that hasn’t dried yet
your day has barely started.
Thoughts differ by taste
the one about you is salty.
The gravedigger kills the time
between one burial and another
in the back room of the mortuary
TV is on
a livid glow in the evening.
As though parted
from an anchor of death
he voyages through dirty life
having drunk a sea of pure vodka.
Minutes get longer
years are shorter and shorter.
Time assumes a clumsy shape
floating like a swollen corpse
down the river
stops when caught on something
returns with the back current
speeds up with the mainstream.
The bridge built over that
which is invisible is old
wobbling and it’s time to close it.
Dust clogged the slits through which
emptiness entered.
The stairs are coming to an end.
Further steps on the steps
of a prolonged silence
inaudible.
You go to see what is
at the end of now.


Thursday, 22 June 2017

Peeking


I peeked at a woman on the train
she was giving herself over
to the reading of a romance
her anus cleaner than her mind.
Opposite was sitting a fulfilled man
his life was the realization of his mother’s ambition.
A puddle on the platform looked like a well
they sank their sight in it for refreshment.
Old ones were lumbering in
gasping for air like carps before Christmas.
The train moved off someone went out to the loo
came back smelling of toilet water.
A pot-bellied man with an expression of a crocodile
was watering from the corners of his eyes
a converted party member he was
as Catholic as he was Marxist
neither Capital nor Gospel.
The fulfilled man unglued his eyes from the smartphone
glanced at me with loads of self-affirmation
kept silent when I told him
he was a fucking prick
his face said well so what? Do you envy me?
Seasons were flowing through me
residue in the ponds of a sewage treatment plant
on a summer day in the suburbs.


Wednesday, 7 June 2017

The Nest


A bird’s face with pockmarks
a head in the shape of a lying egg
ruffled feathers of wheat hair.
Groping with a foreign tongue I read
in the twilight of a barn
the straw romance of her tanned skin.

In the sheaf of honey sun
whirl the gold sparks of dust.
The divine mons veneris
the triangle in the corner of a temple
half-opens the eye watery with thirst
the vertical pupil of a faun.

The neck of the bottle of water
bites into the mouth. Seed on hay.
Dusk in the fields is heard a call
the mouthless echo repeats dumbly
a word with no meaning on the wall of woods
a sleepy cuckoo.

Eyes closing over the book of life
in the dark corridors of a lake
a silver fish is strolling
the sickle of the moon.


Wednesday, 24 May 2017

The girl moves her finger


across the broken backs of classics
runs a shiver.
They read the drawing
of dermatoglyphics
on her soft bulging tip.
She would like to utter the world
soaking behind the library window
with the warm wet
ticklingly coarse tongue
of the original.
Faster and faster she repeats
voiceless clusters
of fricative and plosive consonants.
The tie between herself
and that place where he
as tight as a tether.
The worn-out homelessness must ripen
a green snow pear.
Pie in the sky.
The girl opens a new chapter.
She talks about the future as if she were
the spokesman of the dead.
His hair under her fingers
as hard as a brush
for scrubbing the wooden floor
with green soap
where bubbles are made.
Diluted in the air
blood dribbles into a lake
straight from the fading sky.
There falls a pale cold
of the dead day
reflected in the mirror under which
the depths are drowned.
Someone wakes her up
and asks if she is sleeping.