if I told you that life is simple
ordinary bunch of misery,
you would respond in nonchalant manner
Yet remember, there's always few strawberries

I still think I would hear on a sunny day
your lively response
you will finish my pessimism
with lethal optimism

going around I talk to everyone who listens
I talk to wind, sun and to the streets I talk
nonsense, plain nonsense
while waiting for smiles

when I'm overwhelmed
by your kisses then is al the same
how we look at life
misery and strawberries and strawberry and misery

After long hours of maneuvering through a group of performers in a vain ambition circus evening show I got in my time vehicle. Directed it eastward and randomly determined time in the past. I have not gone too far in the darkness of the night, just so far to remember love, whose signs have become dust on the road and whose heat long ago vanished like the flame of a match, maybe lasted one minute, one year, one life, somebody's, past. I pass down the meadows of freedom by the groves of fresh hope. While I'm welcomed by the parading masquerade, I wave them with my cylinder full of lost dreams that bounce with every movement. The East is far and cool place of my ancestors. The path led me to the river of my youth on the boulevard of smiles, where hurried steps of memories resound, and the east wind brings chills and freezes fragile human bone structures. In the east, the mirrors are flat, enigmatic glances crumbling far away and sweet smiles have familiar scent. There, the sun is warmer and blue sky softer, color of hope reaches through the dense fog of deception. On the edge of the world there is a dam. Above it rises the white veil and obstructs views to penetrate the future. On the other side there is silence and nothingness or another undetected quite ordinary world of human misery and aspirations for a better, nicer, easier, more ordinary life.

I worshiped her as much as ideas and dreams were worshiped. Only sometimes when I met her at the passion podium wearing my true self, Harlequin with a thousand names, a shadow of my lip is lowered down her pearly neck. She sighed passionately watching my coal eyes as my breath of fresh forest moss and violets stroked her. My ideal desires turned into worship of the forest elves towards slender birch trunks. As easterly wind with words I bent the branches of her smile, touched her imagination with pictures of needs and trembled the leaves of her youth with seductive rumble. She had no chance. I chose her as a single flower, she was not mine and therefore was nobody's. Hypnotized by my silence she awaited for black hole of fate to drew her in and convert her into the shining star of my worship. She will become mine even if I kidnapped her and imprisoned as my Harem slave, I promised myself the first time her shadow fell on my path. At that point she was wolf's hunger at the buffet, she was rainstorm in the desert summer, electronic sight for the blind. She was a mountain of Christmas gifts packaged in a slight *** appeal. I thought it will last forever, that love, and hanging her picture among the portraits of forgotten lovers I watched her as last after many. With remote thought I left a little room on the magnificent wall of romantic freedom knowing that Harlequin's love is fleeting as smile on his face, transient as grimace on his mask and changeable as a form of drawn tears. Love of Harlequin is fantasy fiction story in which one woman does not stay for long.

metal machines
steel words
automatic movements
free from humanity
we sink our own instincts
walking aimlessly
down the park of moments

we became vagabonds
in unrecorded moment
while the time grabbed
with its scrawny long legs
hungry we stuffed
love without flavor
with bony fingers
in our gaping mouth

I'm not a brave woman

I'm a coward at heart

In love with the darkness of the longest night

In love with the silence of the words left unspoken

In love with the coldness of the touches left undone

In love with the mornings of the days to come

In love with the memories of the time long went by



I'm not a brave woman

I'm a coward at heart

for the shortest word makes my tongue turn to stone

for the shortest look makes my eyes turn to water

Wobbly legs carry me down the sidewalk, slowly treading, with trembling steps over confessioning stones polished with tears and pitted with sour smiles. Icy wind breath wanders tricky streets and breaks on my face painted with mask of unreality. Feelings fade into the background under persistent personalities, crisp white lines merged into reflective rock, polished reflection rejects smile tyrants. Gossamer web of lies covering the gloomy square and bystanders carried by industrial superstition. Shadows of electronic slaves are trailing down realistic borders of suspicious subconscious, their plastic smiles touching me. Pouring out of houses covered with leather useless wallets and paved with extinct bills. In the middle of the square of lost stands the well of career guidance. The reflection of toxic siliconised water  deceptively shows false images of an imaginary future. If I were harlequin I'd remove this mask of nightmares, step through the ****** eyelids curtain and walk on the blinding stage illuminated by the light of reality, but I am Harlequin, my mask is permanent.

Evening is the time when the shadows come alive and become crisp in a flickering light, that it is no longer yellow. White, neon, unnatural. No more it resembles candle flame. It looks like a ruthless moonshine which scatters from a ghost lantern. I wake up, not from a dream, but the reality of life and get up, not out of bed, but out of the chair of common life convict. I slip out of clothes and shoes worn by ordinary man. I released the tie, honorary sash won on vanity competition that made me tight, suffocating like a noose. It is not merciful to assassinate me in a flash, but squeezes the breath of life out of me every day, bit by bit. I put my true outfit, specially sewn soft seams on blue silk. My neck is naked, free at last, adorned by corrugated blue organza collar woven by hand, each thread is a smile and a tear streaked with golden sigh. I smeared my face with white paint to hide the traces of blush caused by shame over the living, high capillary pressure of too many emptied cups of bitterness and dark circles as a result of each conscious decision. Hiding clues of eyebrows and transforming into myself, the Harlequin. Painting white to cover the everyday life and return to the carelessness, to the easy present. With the practiced movement I put away my pomades of transformation and close spell cabinet. Last look at the silver reflection and I'm ready for a trip through the deserted streets of the matchbook labyrinth.