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i made up a fairy tale for her
about me and tiredness
(about us?)

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
my heart got fat

i won't
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
train with
crushed stone rumbles:

   plant chimney
         of flight
                                      too far
   i’m hooked
     with thoughts
the dream did not come true:
i have a beautiful wife
one leg
left eye

full of soul
the clock
is ticking
and i
still wear
this jacket
from school

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
a present day under my armpits –
oh, what a singularity it is not

aluminum ****** out of mother's milk is a spice
from day
     to day
          becomes bread
there is

like with
the boxing punch
in time

it reaches
the pate
were washed
long time ago

when a
the bulb
goes on

and off
with the feast
of flashes

happy new
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,
not sometime,
but sometime
I forget to take out the trash.
towards the principles
of road traffic

to the lowlands

where have the bears gone
wolves and eagles days
in the glass fixed
by burnout

of lucky strikes
and she got married
gave birth
i’ve become kind of a relic

like sun or time

because we’ve known each other for four billion years
He was
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
to fight.
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.
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
are exemplary.

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
and honeycombs,

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

it was.
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
of toughening.

I am looking

at the holy picture as
he breathes calmly
during sleep

my father

— The End —