Not a day

Not a day without news and a change of color,
as a cartridge after a cartridge
in the barrel of machine-gun turns
out of the verbal participles.

Inflamed Blitzkrieg
in swollen veins
on the back of  palms.

Outside the window is hanging
electric moon, on the sweaty mirror –
a look – like a forgotten word.

She-said-no, –
he said yes,
and then – like trains on a stretch.

It will hurt and will pass,
although, – sometime it will remind
a Raven’s Eye

pupil to the pupil, –
on the edge
not moving.

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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

a sentient

I almost failed to remember
my obligation to see myself
withdrawing from my mental exile
in a self induced coma.

a State of the Union
Pharaoh’s Dance.

All buses are sponsored
and waiting under the bridge
away from the Eye of the Beholder
away from the Thunderstorm of Hail and Fire.

The path to the dystopian future
is laid out through the parting of mind.

(Sea of Reeds)

Don’t jest and perform miracles
while stuck in limbo
frozen in salto mortale
over abyss of self awareness.

some wrong schematics

My intentions and my goings
are on the constant opposite paths.

I thought they’ll schematically look like wings,
but they looked more like cockroach antennas,
arching back.

I thought they’ll annihilate,
when they’ll collide behind, —
lifting me up to the Celestial Spheres.

Yet, they didn’t, —
they are only dangling like a court-jester hat.

Ding-Dong.