After a thousand strokes of
moth wings,
a universe will change.
There won’t be me or you anymore,
and our place will be taken
by other you and me
so similar to us,
yet not knowing the smell
of the foam in which
Aphrodite was born
that moment.

And the sea will whisper –
now,
and the sun will warm
our wings.

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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.

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.

The cannibalistic axolotl

I knew a girl,
she wanted to lick everything she liked,
everything she wanted to behold if
she couldn’t reach a full mental grasp of it
using other senses.

I knew a man,
he ate his dreams, while he was asleep.
Once, he became so hungry
so he ate his soul;
and at the dawn of next morning
he died.

The cannibalistic axolotl
is a king of the night.

He knows everything in the world,
because he remembers the taste.

He knows when you need his experience,
but comes only to destroy
your paragons of virtue.

a salamander’s dream

​rummaging in the warren of my consciousness,

searching for an ore-like-inclusions
into the fabric of time
for some recollection
of how it was when I still could grasp the meaning of pain.
… a thrist
… a rage
… a ravaging tide of phantom emotions
(I forgot how to breath under the water)

I’m the sadomasochistic axolotl of my own deceit, —
cutting myself: a piece, after a piece;
then swallowing those pieces,
listening to the hissing of a gastric acid.

yet they regenerate in a jiff.

… and so on
and nobody can’t stop this cannibalistic paraphernalia.

all the memories are only a multiplication of the same recollection of an untangled
chromosome.

a rigor mortis of time.

and all the cracks on my lips, —
are matching your scars.