Reflection of Nick Drake’s “Three Hours”

three hours was not enough
to save the silence
inside cold concrete
to cling to the wall
to pour out sand into the sea
to clench conscience in one’s fist
to hide one’s temple behind a vein

salt is itching in the skin of a palm
the lines of life have gone astray
if you did not find the master
you won’t find any slaves
life from troubles to turmoil
is measured by rusty scales
why do we need minutes
if we don’t keep the count of time

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a kaleidoscope #3

Fortune telling on a kaleidoscope
for the single pair of hands.
Shards of hope, are mixed up
with the shards of boredom.

Yin – Yang are taking
bizarre forms.
Some already dead, and often
with the smell of chloroform.

Sunny-cloudy-scattered-precipitation.
Ticket in one direction
neither there nor the other way.

Striking yourself in the chest with a fist,
a French kiss.
How do you prefer some mercy
in pounds or in barbiturates?

Shards of hope, mixed up
with shards of boredom.
Gold sand from the sand-clock
into the random hands.

On The Seven train platform

On the Seven train platform is quiet.
On the Seven train platform everything remains without change.
On the Seven train platform a homeless man in red jacket
is sleeping on a bench in twisted pose.

On the Seven train platform is empty.
On the Seven train platform time stopped.
On the Seven train platform a robot woman is announcing weather.

On the Seven train platform you don’t feel any pain.
On the Seven train platform you can’t see the sky.
On the Seven train platform is only allowed to wait,
but with your mouth shut.

To the Seven train platform a train never comes.

a melancholy #5

An imbalance of adrenaline and melatonin.
Circling in pairs
In the North-West direction.
She wanted a crown of pearls,
but he gave her a pot of geraniums.

They lived, yet not long enough,
probably because they didn’t post enough cat pics.
They were drawing the air, but it turned into
a raging fire, and everything around was burning
while the trees were crying aloud.

It’s hot in the city during the second half
of this summer. Asphalt is melting in tired muscles,
And you can hear the mourning of the mute alarm.
While he was looking for Nirvana in the nerves of the subway,
She found her peace in the metaphor of Hexogen.