disillusioned

Sudden awareness of the reality, —
a pain of remorse.
Of an unconventional amorality, —
for better or worse.

In the night I’ll crawl into your kitchen
and drink all your wine and absinthe.
afterwards I’ll whisper my poems
into the keyhole of your boudoir.

I will posses your body,–
while your psyche is counting sheep.
hushaby, mon amour, don’t resist,–
this morning, an agony will become real.

You heard about pleasures of Heaven
or a suffering in Hell,
but for the soul without body
that doesn’t mean anything…

a murmuration

enough said.

there is no need to hold my hands in yours, —
they don’t radiate any heat anymore;
and love of your fingers has leaked to the soil
while love of your heart denied the toil.

enough said.

time to reattach the wings.
the attic of your memories is full of eggshells
and dry feces,
nevertheless the nest was always empty.

enough said.

our words have turned into the countless birds.
countless birds into the chaotic flocks.
flocks, — heading North.
they don’t care about those who have fallen asleep.

I’m not your fire-bird,
not even a singing canary,
you’re not my golden cage,
not any longer.

time to reattach the wings.
the Big Flood is coming.

enough said.

a meal-is-in-the-life

Like a festive meal:
a juicy piece of meat,
a knife is in the right,
and fork is in the left,
some greens and some appetite.

On your empty stomach,
the past,
the present,
and the future,
and lives,
and deaths,
and Holy Scriptures,
and unholy lies.

a virgin-empty collective mind, —
a peace of mind!

— Fanfares!
— Fanfares and fireflies!
— In sizzling late July!

to chew,
to process,
to digest.

— be careful, don’t rush!
— you know, you’ll better rush and choke!

and die.

— don’t look.
— it is much better be blind nowadays.

Wrapped into napkin,
buried and forgotten.

a maggot in the dirt.
another festive meal
or fest for others.

and plate, —
just a plate
and a few drops of sauce
on it.