Friday, 15 December 2017

Airs and Graces

One day you are born
with the umbilical cord around your neck
a slight hypoxia
time flies for some time
you take the child in your arms
he leans backwards like a woodpecker
on the trunk of a rotting tree.

Retouch on the young faces of old people
while they live in sepia fog
underlying the hope for not dying.

The grey tulle of cobwebs round the lamp
a streetwalker of August nights
a darling of drunks and dogs.

One moment later a moment of tepid heat
a listless sun warms up
the withered skin of October
the painted lady drinks cold dew
she needs a satyr smelling of estrus.

You don’t run away for fear of disappearing
evaporation sublimation never mind.
One after another pass away pedestrians
in different stages of decay.

The swelled sky wants nuclei
of condensation what a relief
even if unbecoming
the rain highlights the blue veins on the stone
its unfathomable internal life.

On a January morning you cuddle
a mug of hot coffee behind the window
a senile oak hangs around
in wet socks of moss
the winter will go by
as everything else you and me.

Friday, 1 December 2017

The Rat-Catcher

The world is full of suicides
who don’t want to die.
They float about the earth,
poison the atmosphere.
With their backs to the September sun,
facing potato soil.
They rest in peace,
lose track of it,
stop counting on anything.

In the meantime,
time runs without division into parts.
Decorations change.
The sun shines, clouds overcast the sky.
It starts raining.
Lanterns and windows light up
in the afternoon dullness.
It stops raining.
Wet stars shimmer in the sky,
the moon comes out from behind a cloud.

There’s eternal simultaneousness.
Days of the week, months, and seasons,
years, hours, and minutes
are all at once.
Now lasts all the time.
Such words as always never mean anything.
Joy delights you.
Laughter makes you laugh.
Sadness makes you sad.
You cry over tears.
You grieve for grief.

But it triumphs.
The rat-catcher leads it out of town,
flings it from the Tarpeian Rock.
Rat death.
He’s an ointment for rats.
He takes it by the tail and throws it behind him
over his left shoulder as a dead cat.
He spits three times on his left
in the graveyard at midnight
getting rid of the warts
that cover your face.

Friday, 24 November 2017

So as not to look

so as not to look
at each other we look
in the same direction
autumn sundown
we have aged
at the speed of light
split and refracted
bitter dampness settles
on the parched lips
let my bird into the nest
lined with down
the squirrel’s tail got thick
fat nuts in the hole
they say there’s no
returning to the past
but we have yet
to leave it behind
in a scriptorium a copyist
silently corrects the loud world
with spelling mistakes
the nightmarish foretaste
of eternity

Friday, 10 November 2017


I run my fingertips
over the smooth texture
of a newly issued invoice
lift my fingers to my nose
the invoice clerk purses her lips
like an anus.

In the window of dusk a motionless old man
doesn’t try to get out of the glass
levitating weightlessly miscarried
in a pale yellow light of formalin
he has dark sockets pressed deep in clay.

The smell of drizzle raises spirits

You observe that small people accommodate
surprisingly large amounts of evil.

‘Close your eyes’ I say
still stuffed with serotonin.
‘Not those. The ones you have in your head.’

You say that in such a case
I could become a nostalgist.

Abyssal experiences
in a word the pits
they announce with solemn dignity
the cause of death of a ninety-five-year-old
and other things hard to bear
the weight of a water column on our back
so that we do not fly up among the stars
which turn the night into something strange.

At dawn she rises with one elbow on the pillow
the dark lid of night bares the sky’s blue iris
the blood-shot whites glowing.

Friday, 3 November 2017

Fresh Corpses

so fresh that still alive
with beating hearts they were panting
the wind stopped it started to rain
flags collapsed under the wet weight
he’s playing the role of a swine
without breaking the rules of etiquette
she’s speaking childishly
as if she’d gobbled a load of helium

don’t look for an anecdote
poetry’s long ceased
to be literature
post-coital nostalgia of a long cigarette
stories are letters
of words of languages you don’t know
the world you see
a pixel of a picture
without frames

Friday, 27 October 2017

Nothing Special

she didn’t do anything special
made love to a husband
she didn’t love
brought up children
who didn’t listen
went to work
she didn’t like
met friends
she had nothing in common with
watched television
which irritated her
read books
which bored her
professed religion
she didn’t believe in

or alive
blindworm in the sun

Friday, 20 October 2017

Old Age Suddenly

In the beginning
there is only the smell of fire.
Time when time
did not yet exist.
The spring sun
licked our faces
like a puppy.
Already September
mushroom picking
moss between pines
a spider spinning reflections.
We exchange glances
that have seen too much.
We stare goggle-eyed
as a deep sea fish
brought to the surface.
I want to comfort you
but your tears
tickle my cheek.
The dislike of life
is born and dies.
Old age suddenly
falls upon us
as snow on the head
the grey will not thaw.