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
Some already dead, and often
with the smell of chloroform.
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 broken collar bone
an explosive laughter
that colors night with
of many dying stars.
A phantom craving,
A wanton burning
on the skin.
And as you crawl into the shell
of ancient skull.
in a squirm of fear,
of ‘our lady’ twisted beak of lust.
That will extract your soul,
from your disintegrating body, –
a blind hungry maggot
that just learned it all.
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
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 don’t know
how to lose.
how to win.
in both cases
they will eventually go to sleep
and then they will ignore their own reflection
in the bathroom mirror,
because they are too angry to look
and they will have bad dreams.
and will cry through the night.
in the morning they will be too ashamed
to look at their own reflection, again.
they’ll forget how do they look.
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,
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.