Mists. Street lamps lights
are a tug lighting. A moored ship: closed estate.
The crew is sleeping. What are their dreams?
Harbor siren is mute. The world has already shrunk.
News from the neighborhood are arriving.
From very far. From another dimension.
in the season of otherness
the girls have already grown up
behind us traces in the snow
i come out of it all the time
i made up a fairy tale for her
about me and tiredness
but she put on her lipstick
she was glad to see me
and took a bag with things
we were supposed to spend the night
together with the same story
towards the principles
of road traffic
to the lowlands
where have the bears gone
wolves and eagles days
in the glass fixed
of lucky strikes
the boxing punch
long time ago
with the feast
crushed stone rumbles:
seen at scrapyard
on canned soup consumption,
have crammed trolley of oblivion.
The bridges on his back have been
consumed by fire of intentions
measured without strength.
**** is fine! – Heroes
shouted during his last
A warm up
a present day under my armpits –
oh, what a singularity it is not
aluminum ****** out of mother's milk is a spice
and she got married
i’ve become kind of a relic
like sun or time
because we’ve known each other for four billion years
my heart got fat
be able to get anywhere at the last moment
jump into arms
fall in love
crash against compromise
from now on
i'll be always in advance
at waiting rooms
the dream did not come true:
i have a beautiful wife
full of soul
The truth about the world is hidden.
Records about it (because they were)
are locked in the iron mountain by a man.
Iron protects well against persistence.
For us remained only Pythagoras,
But we talk about Icarus most often
because defiantness and falling down
You can hear it (only to hear)
in a swallow's flight when cuts an air,
when puts reality like ears of grain.
The truth is in the rustle of insects,
seasons of the year,
you can see it
in circles on the water
in trees it goes on without moving
just like in rocks,
but in the spoon of tar is the most of it.
The truth is also in the emptiness of the beach:
the sound of waves often talks about it
whenever touch of dunes on the back
tickles with it.
Then you can smile
and not even know
that the body felt the story.
For us it is just a movement of the grass
on the wind.
The short story
about the truth
To this day on
I have not thrown away your photos –
they have invaded the closet;
lie in the company of broken navigation
next to the meetings at places that are gone.
Focusing my thoughts:
I believe in wounds healed by time,
I forget to take out the trash.
As a bricklayer's assistant
he was a farmer's son first:
by result of a school mockery
he has been extracted
from the roots.
Location between distances
to yourself in a safe mode is
the perpendicular engineering
I am looking
at the holy picture as
he breathes calmly
— The End —