your body has attacked me
from all four sides
of my defence
and my blood shaking heart
doesn't dare
even
to surrender

friday evening
people drinking in the pub
people with friends drinking beer
noisy, smoky, ***** pub
women in tight trousers
men in tight pants
23:30 am, Yerevan, Process
much has happened here
much is happening right now
pub full of people
friends with friends

me
sitting here alone
me
the happiest one

i met Bukowski
in the empty streets of Tbilisi
it was nice to see him there
dead on that wall
like an old friend
tapping your shoulder
from behind
when you are busy
with everything
but
him

i travel by trolley
whenever I get a chance
to meet my old friends
mostly elderly people
once artists
writers
scientists
bums
drunkards
once mad
people who have been
true to themselves
people who never really got
how to get
RICH
you can talk to any of them
without even looking at the faces
because they are people
who cannot afford a bus

they are
the
best
people
those elderly ones

i waited for you tonight
searched the corners of my room
searched inside my ink
on my walls
on my head, my hands
under and on my heart
i overwhelmed
blurred the ink on my face
yowled yowled
scrabbled the walls
hashed the map on the wall
country by country
destroyed it house by house
took my heart and hung it
on the wall
painted a new map
where I wait for you
in none of the houses
but
we are still strangers

cold
frosted
body

cold
lonely
cold

faithless
cold
damp, wet
cold

ordinary heart
ordinary hand
ordinary leg
cold

ordinary body

a frozen dead child

ordinary

this type of disrespectfulness
that all the idiots of all times
have called *******
an essential irony
affecting the taste of instincts

are you revenging?
are you making a soldier out of rationality?
don’t seek reasons to confirm
these feelings
eventually we fake ourselves
and accept the testimony of feelings
in the face of the enemy
in the face of the unfound truth

the aim of the artist
is ideological
an thus he is a human
he saves his own
morality
from being mutilated

the world as a mistake
a disgraceful yearning
with an instinct of self-preservation
which seeks nothing

refusing wars
against the impotents
and this type of disrespectfulness
coalesced with him
call “love”