an anatomy of love

heart is:
a muscle
a pump
a motor
a sacrificial artifact
a symbol.

it doesn’t have any feelings
neither any sense of belonging.

whether you’re living
or dying
or simply not loving.

pumping blood.

bleeding.

reflection #9

​some don’t know
how to lose.

some, –
how to win.

in both cases
they will eventually go to sleep
angry.

and then they will ignore their own reflection
in the bathroom mirror,
because they are too angry to look
at someone.

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.

and eventually
they’ll forget how do they look.

yes, indeed.

keenness

The moment when some will learn
how to grow wings,
as their new limbs;
they’ll immediately spread them wide
and fly high to the sky;

and without having any bleak hue of guilt
will shit on the heads of those
who propagate potato-existentialism.

without any bleak hue of guilt, —
no, no.

the inanity (part #7)

I’m patient.
Yes, I am patient.

I can calmly wait in the line to urinals,
and mumble “God’s gonna cut you down”,
while you’re struggling with your neglected prostatitis.

I can wait,
while the coldness of the restroom
is embracing my quiddity;
putting me in the center of the Universe
or its outskirts.
(depends on a ventilation).

I’m not Johnny Cash,
I’m not wearing black
I wasn’t blessed with calm bass-baritone.

but I can wait,
without knowing people’s faces
behind the toilet doors
or their shivering bodies
making a gestalt image of a macrocosm
(again, depends on a ventilation).

or only an exosomatic memory, —
recorded on the misted mirror.

heavenly grievances

​and as you flood ether
with words of meaningless and bitter discontent, —

I’ll be the one
who is always
absent.

and all the angels will go on strike.