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

Dearest, as the sun sets
mist gathers in the valley
night slowly spreads its skirts

Dearest, thousands of stars
in the night sky above us
and moonlight caressing autumn roses

Dearest, under our steps
rustling leaves break into the dust
Fall running it’s symphony

Dearest, seductive lights
hugging the sidewalk and tree branches
while the breath freezes on the lips

Dearest, warm words ceased
only wind-driven echo
reminds us of the long gone spring

Dust returns carried by the wind and rough footsteps of
thin heels kilometers across

Deposits on the glasses and big screens
in gossamer layers

Dust disappears under rainy tears
of funny clouds

Passes through the fingers, elusive,
even if we hermetically seal ourselves dust always finds a way

Love, dreams, memories ...
in a moment they become dust

My tears are gone
My fingers are cold
Morning crisp air
Makes my skin crawl
 
I hate you 
Your small fake smiles
Angry thin lips
Long, long list of lies

*******
Just *******
No good mornings
Can change my mind
When evenings bring
Clouds to your eyes

You're walking around 
In your huge baloon
And I'm sending you small dart
In the color of *******

You'll understand
Better than others
What the hell ******* is
You're master of the art 
You wrote doctoral thesys
In the field of *******

Oh *******
From me all right
**** of
Same old me
Morning and night

***** snow melting
in the long winter shadows
sun slowly growing

backyard birds
singing spring to life
wake me too

time skating short road
no bumps to make it slow down
flowers are blooming

Not all my days were white and not all the nights were black. Groggily whiteness I splashed sometimes with smiling brush in an abstract marble, and nights illuminated with a fire in the wolfish eyes. When the walls became too blunt, and the air too dry, I took mindless walks. My long legs loping tirelessly along black paths, and a friend was making me a company. While talking him, my voice still trembles and my throat scratches sharp dust of compassion. My friend was the one-armed elf. He lived in a large, abandoned, dilapidated shack near the circus tent , fed by the grace of great circus Masters of Ceremonies. When they were in good will he performed for them trinkets, collecting their garbage, all for small coins. Circus visitors avoided him or pretended not to see his pointy ears and tortured eyes. We rarely talked, this friend and me. Sometimes I went to the magicians to get some of the green, sometimes purple potion for him to sleep better. Once I bought at bartender a pack of cigarettes. We had a pact, him and me. I wasn't a fairy brother, neither circus water-bearer, nor merciful sorcerer. We had a pact, he doesn't ask, I don't ask. We wandered the city in the small hours, under the adrenaline of flaming street lights, in silence. Someday a steel dragon stumbled and with his tail swept the hut, I saw him no more, neither his pointy ears nor his tortured shoulders . Only sometimes during a quiet walk, down the path lined with quivering birch i remember the long shadows under his eyes .

Magnificent blue tent is spread over my head. I look at it without a word while the audience throws unleashed cries of encouragement. "Go, go! The net is under!" . Hands holding a long pole. Providing a first step towards a string of fate, felt my face turn white as a mask on it. The sudden touch of metal wire under my feet breaks the breath from my lungs. One blink and everything disappears, my steps are steps of fate that slowly sneaks maneuvering between two abysses. My hands have grown together with rod and turned into a solid dragon wings. Through spread nostrils I am breathing in sweet smell of victory, and exhale fire of disappointments and saliva of defeat. The audience is still unleashed: "Fly, don’t you see you have wings? Fly!". I move slowly, like a white panther whose fur is embellished with blue diamonds. I walk slowly, coping with every step, feeling soothing palpitations, it was just a short-term earthquake which shook my knees, elbows and fingers. The epicenter was reported somewhere in the abdomen, waves of heat and uncertainties have slowly spread to my limbs, passing with from my skin through electrified air to the audience. The earthquake, which I've already forgotten strongly encompassed thousands of rosy faces and bright eyes squeezing out of them delighted "Ooooh," while I slowly crossed my way through streets covered with traps. Heavy load on my back, large stones of tedious requests, cramp biting my shoulders, neck and bending my spine, as if all this is gone in an instant, while I safely walk under Dragon armor down the sunny street of bravery. I arrived at the other end of the wire ordeal and with the final step I realize that there is no place for fear, nervousness, that I'm not an amateur in a professional competition, Harlequin has survived another day. Tomorrow when the load again rises to the scale of the iceberg, when again I become stray ignorant in acrobatics exam, tomorrow, if it ever comes, I'll think about it. Perhaps there is sun and melts the icebergs, might come truck and drive my loads away, I may again grow wings to bring me over the abyss.

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.

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.

I woke up from a bad dream trembling under the strength of deformed uncertainty. On this quiet, sweet night I dreamed that my mask is melting. Nakedness beneath terribly surprised me, I felt bare while disgustingly beautiful pink skin stuck out from beneath magnificently repulsive layer of white chalk which ran down my face in the beans. In single moment thousands fluorescent drops of days passed before my blue eyes and thousands of miles of  pictures mixed as psychedelic assemblage. I was hoping that I would for ever float on silk of big circus tent, the place between sleep and wake and that I will never be touched by reality pedestrians or nightmare riders. Returned from a long journey dedicated to the cult of friendship riding on a brass beast sentenced to a breakdown. Return is a successful escape from the curious conductors who wear chains and key, maneuvering between spacecrafts driven by hesitative captains, sliding in between hot geysers of alcoholic delirium on the crystal surface of Arctic ice. Sweet and bitter is the view over always the same icy peaks that cast always different shadows, while the foamy rugged hillsides are blurred with the haze of responsibility, sunny with the light of honesty, depending on the morning. I rub my eyes while my mask, of which I am very grateful, still persistently covers the lines of my face and I wonder whether kilometers traveled last night were part of a dream or reality?

I sink, my feet slowly becoming part of the earth softened under the heat of my body and a shy sun rolling evenly on horizon. Lazy sun slowly extends his arms stiff from winter reluctance and expanding them into a hug. I see green meadows, still poor with colors, pale spring messengers and Harlequin's face in the glass reflection. Eyes full of ice slowly melting, just as piles of snow hidden in the spring  shadows. I sink deeper into the trap of needs. My hands have become bare spring branches and wait for your smile to bloom touches. Delicate greenish flowers and young leaves will slowly wake up your eyes from the winter gloom, gentle kisses will tickle your throat and nostrils. My hands are empowered, illusive fingers gliding over your breast. I feel the beauty of the Snowdrop and already lured with memories of Violets. You open slowly like a red Tulip. Tulips are too simple for you. I see beauty of Cyclamen bathed in dew of hidden alley and I think only of sweet kisses you give. As I dive in you the Earth is not just a lump of mud in the universe and the water  is not just a matter which makes it blue. While tears running down your cheeks you say they have decided themselves to come and not knowing why. Then, I stand little before you. The boy filled with dreams. Then I stand bigger than the Earth before you as you are more than water.

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.

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.

****** be freedom in blue
in the blue sea the waves carry you
in the blue sky you float on imagination
in a blue uniform seriousness you're pretending

****** be freedom in blue
in the blue bottle bunch of pills
in blue pills dreams
in blue dreams emptiness

**** freedom in blue
in the blue diary tear stains
in blue ink unintelligible words
in blue words silence

**** be freedom in blue

Pickup line was short
one long, hungry look
one short, voracious sigh
gently twitching of the upper lip
brief movement shakes the hair

Incognito quiver of fingers
mild shiver running down the spine
moment passed
only love, with the T lasts

Impossible are desires in red
red lingerie sign of personality
on a red bed the passion
in red sunset touches

Impossible are desires in red
red is the face of anger
rede asily fades, unstable color
red stains difficult to wash

Impossible are desires in red
red rose hidden among thorns
red blood drops trail of thieves
red sun reveals all

Impossible are desires in red

Sometimes we float on a surfice
Of a calm sea
Silent tenderness is lulling us
Back and forth on a watery bed
Pumping blood slowly
Other times we rage and scream
Loudly and messy
Lungs filled with passion
Hands itching for touch
It's a dark night again and lonely
Sleep avoids me
Just a slow hunger eats
Coldness and fear
Love and lust

breaking rituals
of ups and downs
encounters and separations
peacefully we roam streets
paved with hopes
they hide mud of distrust

in conflict with the wind
with the sun and the rain
we carry umbrellas
sunglasses
and wind jackets

always on alert
we walk
step by step
sometimes with our head down
quite unaware
and suddenly stand amazed
as if facing the abyss
just a step from loneliness

We were known to rise our voice
high from time to time
To throw the things
And break loudly around

But we're never known to truly hate
We're never known to run from fate
We say it's just passionate nature

We were know to be afraid
Of the dark and lonley alley
And to laugh out loud
At the wrong moment

But were never known to run away
We're never known to sleep the day
We say it's just passionate nature

We were known to scream
With no obvious reason sometimes
To turn around in the middle
And stomp away

But were never known to cry
Were never known to hide
We say it's just passionate nature.

ordinary day at dusk
on the bench, just one in the line
persistently trailing view
of calming river
slow passing boat

estuary is far
won't write about it
the river is so interesting
just as words are not

I'll talk about the steps
your brisk glide
without impact and noise
daily stroll
as through my dreams

to catch sight
warm and wistful
to remind me
of red and blue
favorite colors

bitter are tears
raindrops in the desert
loud sadness
requiem for dreams
sighs rubbing balm
on memories

let it flow
bitter liquor
and angry spirits
two enemies

I'll tell you tonight
memories
instead of dreams
and hold your hand
let thanks
be greater than the will
deeper than obligations
thicker than the blood

sleep tonight, sleep
tomorrow, tomorrow I'll wake up
and re-print the words
many, unnecessary,

candles red
on a coffin
red candles
instead of dawn

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

Light touches
On my skin
Dancing game
Like candle flame
Kisses and whispers
Tangled hands
Love, love and dreams
Slow walk on paved path
Hoping odd stones
Avoiding cracks
In the narrow old street
A thousand year old wind
Tease a milion year old sea
Just as you tease me.

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

Thick snow
covered the hill
hand of white
birch he took

Merrily flirted
slender fir
teased playfully
mighty pine

High hill
cowered snow
paths bestrew
of lonley village

you think
I have romantical heart
fragile soul

never see underneath
practical mind
heavy stone

again we're at the same spot
me unconditionally loving
you lusting for someone else