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.
Take my hand and lead me through these long isles
of human desolation;
over burning bushes and forsaken altars of pride.
Carry me over of Sulfur rivers of guilt,
while thousands of zombified adolescents
bemoaning their implanted memories of glorious past.
I traveled from Providence to Death Valley
in quest of those who knows The Meaning,
but didn’t meet any single soul occupying living bodies.
The resurrection of Lizard King was cancelled by the unions.
Prayers exfoliating in tinfoil scales
while undermined street sweepers cabaret dancing
between piles of dung.
I peeked through the gates of abandoned cities,
whispered wishes through the cracked windows.
I drank with sailors in bars of Portland Maine,
but never met Epione* sitting at the bar.
Listen to the neighbor’s radio playing Lacrimosa
while he’s frying eggs with veggie bacon.
Lay me down into the artificial womb
and feed me with milk and honey.
‘Till the spaceship will brings us all
closer to the event horizon.
- In Greek mythology goddess of soothing
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
a rigor mortis of time.
and all the cracks on my lips, —
are matching your scars.
a vision of the delirious sprockets operator:
Alice falling down the rabbit hole;
buttons of the various colors,
burning candles falling in slo-mo.
throbbing cavities, —
inevitable coital incontinence.
violating geometry of your soul.
a second hand nightmares for sale:
“one for the price of all”.
“did you ever loved us?”
“What difference does it make now?!”
I cover myself with an old blanket,
with a picture of Hanna Montana reading Pravda.
(end of the reel)
Captain’s log, entry #1032:
All the butterfly wings–
tattooed on the elbows and back
can’t longer lift body up.
Eyes can’t transmit happiness;
tongue, — to express dissatisfaction by tutting.
Hands can’t no longer shrug,
buttocks, — to articulate anger.
Time to get transform back into pupa.
Hasta la vista!