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

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On The Seven train platform

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.

a full stop

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.

Full stop.


  • In Greek mythology goddess of soothing

The cannibalistic axolotl

I knew a girl,
she wanted to lick everything she liked,
everything she wanted to behold if
she couldn’t reach a full mental grasp of it
using other senses.

I knew a man,
he ate his dreams, while he was asleep.
Once, he became so hungry
so he ate his soul;
and at the dawn of next morning
he died.

The cannibalistic axolotl
is a king of the night.

He knows everything in the world,
because he remembers the taste.

He knows when you need his experience,
but comes only to destroy
your paragons of virtue.

Roused to lie down and watch the ceiling

A broken collar bone
monochromatic minaret
an explosive laughter
a toothpick.

Pulsating pain
that colors night with
anxious splashes
of many dying stars.

A phantom craving,
for misdeed.
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.