***
The morning after Death
turmoil in the house
nights mixed with stars
you lift up your soul
sweaty armpits, broken glasses
a bug buzzes gently at the ear
of the tranquillity ‒ that would be
the encounter with the Eternity.
Love is softer. The years elapsed.
***
A café with tables on the sidewalk
a striped summer Sunday not professional
prostitutes, not necessarily moneyed
women tourists, but nymphets wee on you.
You may as well die of hunger, it’s a matter
that is of interest to you. Here you can kiss
where you want and all of them around
have a weird smile. Here live misunderstood
passions as in a water closet. And the hungry
people are happy here and make a face of monkey
like the frogs on the bank.
***
The wind of solitude blows
your panties white fabric write
the line of the return, you fly
farther, you join the ram with golden
fleece that breathes out through his
nostrils the white dream travelling
on the clouds so you should drive
your thinking away ‒, luxurious
suicide, delicious dissolution.
You’ve discovered the art of driving
away my body, my being, my mind
herself because you begin to destroy
yourself, it’s growing melting
from the feet upwards so you may
choose the sweetest of deaths ‒
you must set your body and blood
on fire, you must empty your mind.
What a dangerous journey mastered
by the horse that studies the self-annihilation.
***
Up in the oak
the golden fleece was aflame
in the middle of her a birdie sang
the flood was growing
resolute and happy, we were advancing.
***
It is supposed that the shaggy cannibal
comes to look for workforce. The hard
and cheap workforce and that’d be
the threat that poses to him and will
squeeze him that will arrive precisely
no delay when the one with big arms
stays starved like a weird machine:
the workers are some machines taken
out of use, which can everything
and gnaw at everything. People are calm.
If these cannibals pay the workforce better
as the last glass of smoke he constricts him
in his part of a slave where this dream
lies, practically belonging to the soul ‒
a loaf of bread dropped by the Bolsheviks.
The cannibal of the furious anthropoid
shuts both of his grottoes.
Between the fingers sinks the shadow,
the Death is very long between desire
and spasm, between the end of the world
and two pence worth of this life, will-less
stones whimper in the walls and the whores
have emotions, colourless ghosts unable
to see their spotted skin.
***
The visible life ‒ air
descent from inferno,
emergent to the sign
they offer nothing
but blood, hard toil,
tears and sweat
as punishment to be
not only echo but also
something essential
crawling decisively
to say or not to say
from your core of fire.
