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.
That day you’ve entered my solitude
with your predisposition to transgress
I was trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle
of the “The Bridal Pair With the Eiffel Tower”
between some scattered urges to repent.
You asked me for a glass of wine
and to be romantic as you remembered me.
I told you to get the butter…
(afterwards I was with you)
on top of that unfinished puzzle
on top of that dusty floor
on top of those broken memories,
between some scattered urges
inspired by Nick Cave
I take off my headphones
and Rakhmaninov sinks,
vacating some room for monotonous buzz.
(a fan is blowing dead air at my face.)
dead, because it’s missing you.
I put my glasses away,
on my desk,
near a fresh drop of tea on its surface.
Tired of seeking The Truth,
between lines of code,
and infinite loops
of daily news.
(massaging my forehead and eyes)
and again, thinking of you.
No, you didn’t call.
No, I didn’t forget how you look, —
I simply never knew.
Another moment lost, while I’m longing for you.
and another went into the abyss, —
lacking a meaning of you.
Where have you been all these years
while I was nourishing blues?
— Operator, can you please stop the planet from spinning?
This is my station. I must get off.
— Can I just… let me just take my bag… Thank you!
— Excuse me.
— a pardon. I really didn’t see your foot.
— Excuse me!
— Yes, ma’am, I am getting off.
— I can care less about your opinion, Schmuck!
Just me, superimposed over a banal scene:
of a man,
and his heavy bag,
and an empty street.
No! Not a street, —
rather a vector of indifference.
and the silence will be the room.
and the clock will be a friend, —
caring about any particular moments.
and your eyes will be two windows
to a memory.
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!