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
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an introspection

so we lived
and we laughed
and we cried

and our heads were aslant
and our smiles were wry
and our eyes were impudent and dry

and all our limbs, were not our limbs
and all our thoughts were prosthetic

so we lived
and the serpent was naked too

and my baggy pants were the witnesses to the trespass
and all the sand from sand-clocks won’t be enough
to bury our guilt

and the Death has forsaken us
in our castles of dirt


and Joseph became second to the Pharaoh
and the father has found his son

and the Messiah is waiting by the gates of the City
with his lepers

so we lived

a salamander’s dream

​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
chromosome.

a rigor mortis of time.

and all the cracks on my lips, —
are matching your scars.

disillusioned

Sudden awareness of the reality, —
a pain of remorse.
Of an unconventional amorality, —
for better or worse.

In the night I’ll crawl into your kitchen
and drink all your wine and absinthe.
afterwards I’ll whisper my poems
into the keyhole of your boudoir.

I will posses your body,–
while your psyche is counting sheep.
hushaby, mon amour, don’t resist,–
this morning, an agony will become real.

You heard about pleasures of Heaven
or a suffering in Hell,
but for the soul without body
that doesn’t mean anything…