Early deceits of autumn
Have you heard?
How soft the leaves have fallen
this late year, their weight
too light, their colour
all too golden. You take
one leaf in your palm, scrape off
the gold slowly
with your painter’s thumb and sigh
at the beautiful deceit,
of the season.
Every day
you walk through the alley.
I see you; the way you walk, the way
your head has had that
downward sweep from the top
of the trees down the barren bark.
Your eyes
following heaven to earth,
your heart – who knows
where hearts leave in their fall.
On this
habitual obliteration
of warmth, I watch you bend
to the hollow of the trunk.
How gently
you nestle the wilted leaf,
as if it were not dead,
as if you could not believe
that you still own something.
You place your lips
where the tree breathes:
Have you heard?
Have you had it good,
your life, have you taken
measures?
This autumn, is it the last,
is it ripe enough, is it our time
to land?
I wish so much to take
your pale stained hand and kiss it.
You are so wrong, you have forgotten
too much. Do you not see
all this?
Perhaps not golden, and not yours,
but here,
already landed,
right under your feet.
The silent hour of cicadas
What do the cicadas speak of
with such conviction?
Before and after
that one strange hour when
everything suddenly goes quiet
in the heat.
First heat,
then silence.
Does your heart
clench in panic
that the night had ceased its beat?
Listen –
it still sounds.
The ache is
in your wings,
in the blind spot
where you cannot reach.
There,
the mute hour
of remembering
the lost hour
of peace.
Season of the frogs
At least those frogs did not
jump out out your mouth
when you least expected it.
How true,
my friend.
Some frogs never
die, was also something
you had claimed, but that
was a lie, it was
your way to
get a grasp on this
world;
on me, maybe.
Didn’t you learn: a gone thing
is gone,
was gulped,
once, twice,
gulped down, never to return.
From the lake,
a prince, however much
you kiss the wide green
mouth,
shall not come.
Your skin, the one
you had so wished to shed,
has peeled of its own
accord, and that says
something sinister
about this season
of the frogs.
Positively lacklustre
My lustre lacks today.
It leaks as I lie low
and lick my lips to speak
in the happy way you know.
It leaks as I make the bed,
the coffee, and the call,
when I slip around the flat
it drips and stains the floor.
It leaks later, as darkness bleeds
lashing, losing, limply grieving
tufts of lamb all will to please,
lusterlacking, lusterleaving.
Blueberries
to dad
Perhaps the blueberries need
some time to think about life
before they find the courage
for their ripened bearing.
Before they find the right path,
how to talk with the rhubarb
without offending its shy colouring,
and what to become, for whom.
My dear berries of gloom,
what can I say? Some of us
are here to please and no amount
of will could turn you golden.
Just – try to root, if not for
meaning then to stop drifting,
feed on the rich fragrant earth
while you still have dreams.
Have you heard?
How soft the leaves have fallen
this late year, their weight
too light, their colour
all too golden. You take
one leaf in your palm, scrape off
the gold slowly
with your painter’s thumb and sigh
at the beautiful deceit,
of the season.
Every day
you walk through the alley.
I see you; the way you walk, the way
your head has had that
downward sweep from the top
of the trees down the barren bark.
Your eyes
following heaven to earth,
your heart – who knows
where hearts leave in their fall.
On this
habitual obliteration
of warmth, I watch you bend
to the hollow of the trunk.
How gently
you nestle the wilted leaf,
as if it were not dead,
as if you could not believe
that you still own something.
You place your lips
where the tree breathes:
Have you heard?
Have you had it good,
your life, have you taken
measures?
This autumn, is it the last,
is it ripe enough, is it our time
to land?
I wish so much to take
your pale stained hand and kiss it.
You are so wrong, you have forgotten
too much. Do you not see
all this?
Perhaps not golden, and not yours,
but here,
already landed,
right under your feet.
The silent hour of cicadas
What do the cicadas speak of
with such conviction?
Before and after
that one strange hour when
everything suddenly goes quiet
in the heat.
First heat,
then silence.
Does your heart
clench in panic
that the night had ceased its beat?
Listen –
it still sounds.
The ache is
in your wings,
in the blind spot
where you cannot reach.
There,
the mute hour
of remembering
the lost hour
of peace.
Season of the frogs
At least those frogs did not
jump out out your mouth
when you least expected it.
How true,
my friend.
Some frogs never
die, was also something
you had claimed, but that
was a lie, it was
your way to
get a grasp on this
world;
on me, maybe.
Didn’t you learn: a gone thing
is gone,
was gulped,
once, twice,
gulped down, never to return.
From the lake,
a prince, however much
you kiss the wide green
mouth,
shall not come.
Your skin, the one
you had so wished to shed,
has peeled of its own
accord, and that says
something sinister
about this season
of the frogs.
Positively lacklustre
My lustre lacks today.
It leaks as I lie low
and lick my lips to speak
in the happy way you know.
It leaks as I make the bed,
the coffee, and the call,
when I slip around the flat
it drips and stains the floor.
It leaks later, as darkness bleeds
lashing, losing, limply grieving
tufts of lamb all will to please,
lusterlacking, lusterleaving.
Blueberries
to dad
Perhaps the blueberries need
some time to think about life
before they find the courage
for their ripened bearing.
Before they find the right path,
how to talk with the rhubarb
without offending its shy colouring,
and what to become, for whom.
My dear berries of gloom,
what can I say? Some of us
are here to please and no amount
of will could turn you golden.
Just – try to root, if not for
meaning then to stop drifting,
feed on the rich fragrant earth
while you still have dreams.
Treat me like an animal
by sunrise, by the stables,
take me to measure my worth
by the softness of my skin,
by the golden teeth hanging
down my breasts and the thin blue
veins in between. Check the size
of my sins, my thighs, my chest,
my shins; seize my thoughts
before they gallop away with those
we do not speak of. Shake me up
from how I am, sharpen my hoofs
with salt. Whip off the creases
on the blue velvet skirt to make me
subtler, drag me in the hay by roots,
give me warmth, will, value on a tag.
Clean being
I never learned to clean happy.
I hoover when I feel too heavy
to stand still, and I iron
as a path to obliviate myself.
Though there seems to be no excuse
today; the stain softly spreading,
longing for sanity, sanitation,
or sickness, you could say,
so close they stand. To fill in
my domestic gap I start
with a list, limply, a wish
strapped to a lie.
How typical of me to deny us
a higher order, neither
a bullet nor a point
to score. I clean
to move out of my lightweight
ways. Water the plates,
fold the plants,
scrape the dirt off, the skin
lined with a faded linen cloth.
Wine the dust-path down,
set the clock to noon
for when the moon arrives.
On the hunt for solidity,
so that you don’t see
the odd socks pairing with
the oddity of mind.
With the hides and furs
of lame night fails, their
animal lament, I learn.
Double failure
You make me twofold, me, who’s
so decidedly singular.
My hurt, when the mind splits in
shattered affections,
between my acquired role,
tensely twisted into submission by
your awkward lack of sense, and my
notion of a double failure.
Double failure is:
Your escape, your lack.
You’re soft and my being cool,
cold on the verge of crimson-clad.
You make me twofold, me, who’s
so decidedly singular.
My hurt, when the mind splits in
shattered affections,
between my acquired role,
tensely twisted into submission by
your awkward lack of sense, and my
notion of a double failure.
Double failure is:
Your escape, your lack.
You’re soft and my being cool,
cold on the verge of crimson-clad.
my friend who has gone away to sea canals
Dear girl you are so pretty without knowing anything about it. Your skin
is glowing from within blinding my eyes that are already so tired.
With your elegant wrist twist you hold onto the wine glass and talk simply
talk like it was the most natural thing that friends do (you were born with it).
You said: ‘I met your friend just the day before he was gone it was nice but
then he tried to kiss me did you know anything about it?’
I said what was he drunk what did you do no I knew nothing about it poor boy.
And you just laughed no he just had a coffee and a beer and we say men are strange
and we continue where our dialogue stopped full of your smiles and my soul dripping
down under the table where your tights have dots on them oh how lovely your legs look.
Dear friend I am sorry I am laughing with her too you know what I am like
Some other day you might have stood a chance but now she laughs
(she laughs a lot she’s got a nice voice too).
I say: well he’s gone away to sea canals I wonder how he is? I doubt he would be coming
back he’s going to find a lady of his heart finally and a sea anchor
will appear tattooed on his chest a romance of his life that is what
he’s been waiting for way too long by now. Now he’s gone I miss him more
than before I miss him a bit but I miss that part of myself who’s gone missing with him
and with his times and the times in the past.
We’ve been all kidnapped by the soul-snatchers of the hyper-unreal future and
you are just merrily playing with your glass
laughing with your beautiful mouth, mannered, ready to bloom.
Tired mornings
You can’t sleep this night through. As
every other night sleep hurts; your hands
sweat and fingers cramp in twigs.
They must be done soon, surely, thinking
of the too loud, too bright birds who started
slightly early to define themselves against
the silent small-town streets. But as the hours drag
slowly towards the light that they want
so much to reach, the noise keeps rising
up, up, up, with wings that flap wetly in the dew.
With day-shy sigh there goes another one of
your vaguely wasted midweek nights. In these
tired mornings drooling toothpaste; sight
known so well to nightly polished tiles. Many times
tried mornings who cannot even pronounce it
right. What, dawn? Day? Dusk? As if you could say, birds.
Postcard
to Lucas
Hey it’s me again I don’t know what to tell you
It’s still the same nothing changed apart from
The season getting longer still the sea gale
Has been making my hands shiver shrink cold colder.
I hope you get better brighter breeze down there in the
southern lands where you lay with sounds of
sun dew in your ears and with supple dark eyed girls
caressing your hair and loving out your fears.
Oh and how is our old nostalgia foe friend? Has she
left in jealousy finally for good? Greening at the sight of
new memories that you will not share she must despair
but don't turn back she'll be alright
we're still together as you might have guessed that is
the one heart I can't mess with break in brittle bones.
I think that is my penalty for all the others it should be or
for feeling sorry for myself which makes the weakest of the weak
But: surely you can understand? that my exotic parrots rainbow
coloured beaks sharp and feathers soft and all that oh my if you
could see! well they all turned out to be just plain birds with
feather fluff on the ground leaking dye in the dying leaves
And that that is just not fair I know not fair is from the
childhood years and we should not not not say now in any case
but they took them all away all the bits of myself of this
personality dissolved with years stolen by the fakest of the birds damn!
I thought I would have turned out better that's it silly me
But back to the theme it's good to hear from you
And I know that you are not judging me for empty
long gone dreams. All is new now.
I miss you too I bought books I think you would
like a lot have you got a favourite plot of the month
to share? Let me know where you live the life near your river
bank I'll send you a postcard down the stream
Take care say hi to the rabbits and don't let them
starve if they scream plant a sugar-coated carrot patch
in few weeks all will sprout and sweeten up so hold on
don't float away send me a
lettre d'amour and a
lettre of the lettres and
just stay in touch
miss you lots
A.
You can’t sleep this night through. As
every other night sleep hurts; your hands
sweat and fingers cramp in twigs.
They must be done soon, surely, thinking
of the too loud, too bright birds who started
slightly early to define themselves against
the silent small-town streets. But as the hours drag
slowly towards the light that they want
so much to reach, the noise keeps rising
up, up, up, with wings that flap wetly in the dew.
With day-shy sigh there goes another one of
your vaguely wasted midweek nights. In these
tired mornings drooling toothpaste; sight
known so well to nightly polished tiles. Many times
tried mornings who cannot even pronounce it
right. What, dawn? Day? Dusk? As if you could say, birds.
Postcard
to Lucas
Hey it’s me again I don’t know what to tell you
It’s still the same nothing changed apart from
The season getting longer still the sea gale
Has been making my hands shiver shrink cold colder.
I hope you get better brighter breeze down there in the
southern lands where you lay with sounds of
sun dew in your ears and with supple dark eyed girls
caressing your hair and loving out your fears.
Oh and how is our old nostalgia foe friend? Has she
left in jealousy finally for good? Greening at the sight of
new memories that you will not share she must despair
but don't turn back she'll be alright
we're still together as you might have guessed that is
the one heart I can't mess with break in brittle bones.
I think that is my penalty for all the others it should be or
for feeling sorry for myself which makes the weakest of the weak
But: surely you can understand? that my exotic parrots rainbow
coloured beaks sharp and feathers soft and all that oh my if you
could see! well they all turned out to be just plain birds with
feather fluff on the ground leaking dye in the dying leaves
And that that is just not fair I know not fair is from the
childhood years and we should not not not say now in any case
but they took them all away all the bits of myself of this
personality dissolved with years stolen by the fakest of the birds damn!
I thought I would have turned out better that's it silly me
But back to the theme it's good to hear from you
And I know that you are not judging me for empty
long gone dreams. All is new now.
I miss you too I bought books I think you would
like a lot have you got a favourite plot of the month
to share? Let me know where you live the life near your river
bank I'll send you a postcard down the stream
Take care say hi to the rabbits and don't let them
starve if they scream plant a sugar-coated carrot patch
in few weeks all will sprout and sweeten up so hold on
don't float away send me a
lettre d'amour and a
lettre of the lettres and
just stay in touch
miss you lots
A.
I used to tread lightly; with lighter steps it meant
more casual, meant only touching on to
smooth surfaces, meant not being your drama.
Carelessly thought through to avoid all of you
it was still manageable. Now gone, pulled in
by you who came back, slightly, ever so slightly
shaking, appearing step by step, ignoring the past
success of my shallow attempts to slide by.
Clearly not clever enough to be alone I grew
heavy and bound by you to sink straight away,
still on my tiptoes, taking down all of us but talking
about your dramas, finally your bliss, your love, your crowd.
more casual, meant only touching on to
smooth surfaces, meant not being your drama.
Carelessly thought through to avoid all of you
it was still manageable. Now gone, pulled in
by you who came back, slightly, ever so slightly
shaking, appearing step by step, ignoring the past
success of my shallow attempts to slide by.
Clearly not clever enough to be alone I grew
heavy and bound by you to sink straight away,
still on my tiptoes, taking down all of us but talking
about your dramas, finally your bliss, your love, your crowd.
Nowhere else do the summer fires smell the same as in your hometown.
the brick-framed streets most apt at catching smoke signals from the air,
no other streets can emit so much calm as you do,
my Moravian corner.
the brick-framed streets most apt at catching smoke signals from the air,
no other streets can emit so much calm as you do,
my Moravian corner.
In the old town
As a neverending tourist I have been living in the old town for some weeks now.
In the mornings I wake up to the silent shuffle of summer rain
On the cobbled streets, church belling around the corner and the early tourists louding their awkward ways through the thick stone walls.
The sound of summer, for me will always keep with this house
With a cigarette of a non-smoker on the terrace overlooking
The royal palace. Little moment when cycling
Behind every corner, by the boats.
As a neverending tourist I have been living in the old town for some weeks now.
In the mornings I wake up to the silent shuffle of summer rain
On the cobbled streets, church belling around the corner and the early tourists louding their awkward ways through the thick stone walls.
The sound of summer, for me will always keep with this house
With a cigarette of a non-smoker on the terrace overlooking
The royal palace. Little moment when cycling
Behind every corner, by the boats.
It is my birthday today and it is hard to believe
that I still breathe the same air as I have had for all those years.
back then, when the greatest of the moments
were to collect chestnuts with my so admired older
brother.
At this lake
Already drinking too early or maybe it is too late?
A morning wine, just in my bra and with bike badly locked at the bar.
It seems lakes like to pretend that summer has arrived,
when in fact it still lures deep within the tides.
Lingering in the background are faintly foreign voices;
when caught in the slow motion of a lazy day they become somewhat coy,
stunned, softer in the way they let themselves be heard and carried on.
I can click them on my tongue and make them dive.
I want to make them mine, own these memories that found their way inside
of my senses caring not for what mess they have done.
I try to hold them nearer, mold them warmer, make them dearer.
Since I know that no image taken will make them any more alive.
What is it with this strangest air that my focus seems to shy away
at the slightest sight of strain? Wide gaping gaps hide in this seamless summer day;
invisible fish eager and so ready to be golden, promising small miracles,
teasing my hair slightly with fins stretched out in question if I will make love to you.
This lake, oh you, lake, you are making me escape when I should stay chained
to the ground. I would not think of the wrong lips and eyes if not for you,
with all your sunshine glitter, glowing fish scales and peace that blinds.
No, I would not think of the kisses so much if not for this subtly silent lake.
somewhere at a lake, too late summer
Already drinking too early or maybe it is too late?
A morning wine, just in my bra and with bike badly locked at the bar.
It seems lakes like to pretend that summer has arrived,
when in fact it still lures deep within the tides.
Lingering in the background are faintly foreign voices;
when caught in the slow motion of a lazy day they become somewhat coy,
stunned, softer in the way they let themselves be heard and carried on.
I can click them on my tongue and make them dive.
I want to make them mine, own these memories that found their way inside
of my senses caring not for what mess they have done.
I try to hold them nearer, mold them warmer, make them dearer.
Since I know that no image taken will make them any more alive.
What is it with this strangest air that my focus seems to shy away
at the slightest sight of strain? Wide gaping gaps hide in this seamless summer day;
invisible fish eager and so ready to be golden, promising small miracles,
teasing my hair slightly with fins stretched out in question if I will make love to you.
This lake, oh you, lake, you are making me escape when I should stay chained
to the ground. I would not think of the wrong lips and eyes if not for you,
with all your sunshine glitter, glowing fish scales and peace that blinds.
No, I would not think of the kisses so much if not for this subtly silent lake.
somewhere at a lake, too late summer
I often remember my dark-haired friend
in songs that we used to be bitter to together
in the evenings, with another glass of wine.
Sometimes he had stopped smoking for the time
and I had not yet started.
I often miss my dark-haired memory of when
things were not any clearer, but the air was saltier
from the Scottish sea; with biting breeze and chunky seals.
All this salt, it made us hover above the ground for the while,
as that was always hard for both of us
I have not yet known (did you?)
that years will go hand in hand with words, yeah, still there,
but not the ones you can hug from the distance.
I should have laughed more back then but I didn't know
it will be so hard to lock friends up to keep.
Session II (portraits)
Today I sat on a little shabby theatre-style stage lit by a dim diluted daylight and a stand spotlight only for my face.
Shining too sharply, too close-up, focusing too much on the features I do not necessarily know or even recognise
anymore. They changed slowly; small sneaky changes somehow gone unnoticed, neither liked nor disliked,
just slyly present and claiming some right of their own.
I sat there starry eyed, silently shifting in my seat with my lids hurting from trying hard not to blink, which made it worse and easier for the tears to thread their little wet ways out. Stared at; sharp stares some kinder than others - but all of them thinking to be honest, believing what they see, carrying the image from eye to pencil to paper and back up to the eye now hesitant what it had really seen.
I was thinking of exactly nothing, thinking that I should be thinking of something important when I have
this space, this time, this stage, all this concentrated attention just for myself. This all, mine.
You could pinch the density between a thumb and forefinger and break it loudly. If you wanted.
It covered me like a soft blanket together with the stage dust of all plays never applauded to,
a slightly sickening softness, hard enough to keep the sore eyes open and blank mind awake trying
not to show it in my gaze. (Cough. Excuse me. Could you keep your hands still?) Thoughts split up
in strange light spasms and heat waves. One hundred and one fucked up ways to earn money.
How many more odd jobs to take on, how many more foreign eyes to please to pay the rent?
And all the time the tiredness, wanting to sleep but not really, if you know what I mean? Leg cramps and sore knees;
the old guy’s little furry dog with funny wobbly tail running around. Thinking you know something so well until watching from the other side. Thinking you know a bit better than others. Thinking, also, that you were even sillier before. Thinking there are much worse jobs to do. Thinking how you enjoy the nakedness a lot more, feeling at ease with the body because
no one can read you through the flesh but easy, easy enough when the eyes, the smile betray you.
Melting slowly underneath the heat.
Seeing some of the portraits, well-made, poorly-made, showing a face beautified a thousand times.
Musing where have they lost me from eye to hand to paper. Where have I gone.
Laughing for no reason to myself, at? composing myself again, tearing eyes, a bit high on the spotlights.
My Happy Stomach Lining
Happy, so happy at moments I feel like
something must necessarily burst on the inside.
Back home we have držťková, a soup made of
cow’s stomach lininig. There are times I think it would not be that bad
of an end for a vegetarian. From nose to tail, they say.
But - not yet, not yet.
Let me stay like this for a moment beyond.
Let me keep still, silent, sashaying over my two bridges
like a little full speed ahead steam train, high on snow, snow-higher as the wind chills.
(So excited: Look, look! This is the winter, the real Swedish winter!)
Let me long longer,
let me breathe fuller, let me blow the soft balloon further out of
all perspective, with the air coming from the hot healing springs
guarded by the Swedish trolls (who are not really trolls:
they're the Moomintrolls).
Every day passing
the birch alleys,
the broken sea,
the old mill,
the Globen curves, gladly over-exposed in a golden haze.
Touch them let me.
On the metro a real smiling baby, still allowed to be loudly happy -
- on public transport ! - despite its genes of serious swedishness.
We wave at each other and I show it
my new book that made me miss the birch stop yet again
as I held my breath in expectation of how will the trial end.
(Guilty? Not guilty? Siberia? Biting the already bitten lower lip.)
Unbelievable, you say. All this for a dog-eared book?
But...they like it, the addictive softness of a dog ear nuzzling on the skin.
It makes them feel needed in the moment, knowing
that I will come back before falling, with the need to caress
what happens on the page 563 and then, gently,
on the pages of the next books. Who cares for your scorn?
I will make new shiny puppy's velvet ears to keep
in my hands as the epitome of happy, today so easy to contain within
a) Paperback Russian novel read just on the train with passion
and baseball cap worn so low that you can't reach me.
b) For lunch near black rye bread dipped in strong coffee,
the smell lingering in the kitchen for hours on,
snugly dressing my happy stomach lining.
Happy, so happy at moments I feel like
something must necessarily burst on the inside.
Back home we have držťková, a soup made of
cow’s stomach lininig. There are times I think it would not be that bad
of an end for a vegetarian. From nose to tail, they say.
But - not yet, not yet.
Let me stay like this for a moment beyond.
Let me keep still, silent, sashaying over my two bridges
like a little full speed ahead steam train, high on snow, snow-higher as the wind chills.
(So excited: Look, look! This is the winter, the real Swedish winter!)
Let me long longer,
let me breathe fuller, let me blow the soft balloon further out of
all perspective, with the air coming from the hot healing springs
guarded by the Swedish trolls (who are not really trolls:
they're the Moomintrolls).
Every day passing
the birch alleys,
the broken sea,
the old mill,
the Globen curves, gladly over-exposed in a golden haze.
Touch them let me.
On the metro a real smiling baby, still allowed to be loudly happy -
- on public transport ! - despite its genes of serious swedishness.
We wave at each other and I show it
my new book that made me miss the birch stop yet again
as I held my breath in expectation of how will the trial end.
(Guilty? Not guilty? Siberia? Biting the already bitten lower lip.)
Unbelievable, you say. All this for a dog-eared book?
But...they like it, the addictive softness of a dog ear nuzzling on the skin.
It makes them feel needed in the moment, knowing
that I will come back before falling, with the need to caress
what happens on the page 563 and then, gently,
on the pages of the next books. Who cares for your scorn?
I will make new shiny puppy's velvet ears to keep
in my hands as the epitome of happy, today so easy to contain within
a) Paperback Russian novel read just on the train with passion
and baseball cap worn so low that you can't reach me.
b) For lunch near black rye bread dipped in strong coffee,
the smell lingering in the kitchen for hours on,
snugly dressing my happy stomach lining.
Betty stared at me blankly. She is a dumb dog. Literally. She can’t bark, she can’t growl, she can’t speak either. Her silence scares me sometimes, together with the silent me and the silent bitch and the silent house. We should have never bought a dog. I got her from my ex-husband to create a balance and to confirm that everything is all right. We’re fine. He took the cat, and the parrot, I ended up with Betty. “We will visit,” we said, mostly to our friends, “so that the animals don’t miss each other.” None of us believed it for a second, but we really tried hard to believe. We prepared. I shaved my legs and my armpits and smeared my body with coconut lotion so that the beliefs could penetrate through my skin with ease, no hair obstacles on the way. He trimmed his beard and put a crisp white shirt on – I ironed it, faking faith and hope, crisp and ready for the evening.
And we went together, hand in hand and with Betty happily trotting behind as she could not believe her happiness, seeing us both at the same time.
Love Note no. 1
I want a
soft fluffed-up love with a bit of stubble that is not
going to bite or just a bit on the side.
I want it
just twice a week on the good days and maybe
three times when things go slightly bleak.
It should
give me kisses on the ear and neck and all types
of blanket fun but just when and how I need.
It won’t have
any say in what love is all about, or me,
or how the world should be, for us.
I need to
run away from it any time without guilt
or words aimed to hurt where it does not show.
No being told
that I can’t do what I feel and it won’t mind
any bedroom screams. I would like that.
I want a
soft fluffed-up love with a bit of stubble that is not
going to bite or just a bit on the side.
I want it
just twice a week on the good days and maybe
three times when things go slightly bleak.
It should
give me kisses on the ear and neck and all types
of blanket fun but just when and how I need.
It won’t have
any say in what love is all about, or me,
or how the world should be, for us.
I need to
run away from it any time without guilt
or words aimed to hurt where it does not show.
No being told
that I can’t do what I feel and it won’t mind
any bedroom screams. I would like that.
Když mizí bílé včely
Už zase si čteš ve své knize lásek, lásko.
Laskáš stránky lesklé vlhkou tuží, kam připsala sis
další jméno blázna co nabízel ti srdce,
a ty mu na to, že maso nemáš ráda.
Se zvlněným koutkem vzhůru, lesknou se ti oči
chtíčem dálných světů. Tvá touha není sladká
jako jiných slečen. Ne, tvá touha táhne k zemi
a omamně voní těžkým rudým vínem
a kdo nechce pít, ať klidně táhne. Mámí tě
pořád ty tvoje dálky, znám to příliš dobře.
To něco, co nenechá tě za tmy spát a mučí
tvoje příliš smělé tělo dýmem děsu:
že nestihneš, že neuzřeš, že nebudeš milovat
všechno a všechny, a nejlíp hned a honem naráz.
Ze sna vzlykáš, že nikdy nepoletíš hvězdným
nebem, vstříc plánům zosnovaným každé nové ráno,
co načneš. Pláčeš, vědouce, že marně, pláčeš,
nad nikdy nerozlitým mlékem, nad nevyřčeným
slovem něhy, nad gestem, které bylo jasně dané,
nad polibkem, co nenastane.
Sníš příliš, milá, lásko vadná, dítě moje nepočaté,
Sníš příliš směle, mají pro to mříže. Když křičí
snílci rozlije se kapka rosy
a pohltí další bílou včelu.
Podzimní
--bráškovi
Co bude zítra?
Zrána zeptala se tiše moje duše
a zněla přitom příliš znaveně a hluše na to,
že ruce se jí zatím třesou jenom v žáru lásky,
a že když pláče, tak neví ještě dost o skutečném žalu.
Řekla jsem jí, že zítra bude.
Že možná bude pršet, a vítr smýkat stromy
a možná, že snese se na vratké větve sníh.
Vždyť je to už pár týdnů zpátky, co podzim zmatněl severními stíny,
jež listí odnesly si do svých chladných síní a sní o věčném mládí.
A proč bude?
ptala se mně dále, hledíce krapet stranou,
jako by se bála, co jí řeknou moje oči, nechtíc ranit.
Proč… Protože zítřek neví jinak, drahá.
Protože bylo nám tak dáno.
Protože musí být.
Dravá řeka teče směrem od pramene k moři,
strhávaje sebou srdce, těžkopádně budované hráze,
za kterými tajně teskní nejen hora. Za náš bol je jí stydno
a touží býti ledem, zvolna tajíc tíhou zašeptané viny.
A bude lépe?
Nevím, snad jednou, po zimě…
Ale nikdy nebude už včera,
nikdy nevrátí se pramen k hoře.
Co bylo tvé, bylo jenom půjčkou.
Už zase si čteš ve své knize lásek, lásko.
Laskáš stránky lesklé vlhkou tuží, kam připsala sis
další jméno blázna co nabízel ti srdce,
a ty mu na to, že maso nemáš ráda.
Se zvlněným koutkem vzhůru, lesknou se ti oči
chtíčem dálných světů. Tvá touha není sladká
jako jiných slečen. Ne, tvá touha táhne k zemi
a omamně voní těžkým rudým vínem
a kdo nechce pít, ať klidně táhne. Mámí tě
pořád ty tvoje dálky, znám to příliš dobře.
To něco, co nenechá tě za tmy spát a mučí
tvoje příliš smělé tělo dýmem děsu:
že nestihneš, že neuzřeš, že nebudeš milovat
všechno a všechny, a nejlíp hned a honem naráz.
Ze sna vzlykáš, že nikdy nepoletíš hvězdným
nebem, vstříc plánům zosnovaným každé nové ráno,
co načneš. Pláčeš, vědouce, že marně, pláčeš,
nad nikdy nerozlitým mlékem, nad nevyřčeným
slovem něhy, nad gestem, které bylo jasně dané,
nad polibkem, co nenastane.
Sníš příliš, milá, lásko vadná, dítě moje nepočaté,
Sníš příliš směle, mají pro to mříže. Když křičí
snílci rozlije se kapka rosy
a pohltí další bílou včelu.
Podzimní
--bráškovi
Co bude zítra?
Zrána zeptala se tiše moje duše
a zněla přitom příliš znaveně a hluše na to,
že ruce se jí zatím třesou jenom v žáru lásky,
a že když pláče, tak neví ještě dost o skutečném žalu.
Řekla jsem jí, že zítra bude.
Že možná bude pršet, a vítr smýkat stromy
a možná, že snese se na vratké větve sníh.
Vždyť je to už pár týdnů zpátky, co podzim zmatněl severními stíny,
jež listí odnesly si do svých chladných síní a sní o věčném mládí.
A proč bude?
ptala se mně dále, hledíce krapet stranou,
jako by se bála, co jí řeknou moje oči, nechtíc ranit.
Proč… Protože zítřek neví jinak, drahá.
Protože bylo nám tak dáno.
Protože musí být.
Dravá řeka teče směrem od pramene k moři,
strhávaje sebou srdce, těžkopádně budované hráze,
za kterými tajně teskní nejen hora. Za náš bol je jí stydno
a touží býti ledem, zvolna tajíc tíhou zašeptané viny.
A bude lépe?
Nevím, snad jednou, po zimě…
Ale nikdy nebude už včera,
nikdy nevrátí se pramen k hoře.
Co bylo tvé, bylo jenom půjčkou.
Pštrosi
Šeptala jsem samotě, že jsem tak ráda
jenom s ní. Stromy a jemný šustot listí
a potichu, samotně si snít. Malé zvuky
jenom slyšet, jít bez lidí, s chladným pískem v kapse
po cestě podél svahu, kde temně žlutě
zraje obilí. Slabě si broukat o dálkách, na chvíli
postát u pomníků kdysi poutníků, kterým nevadí
že dám jim jen pár chvil a kvítí k patníku
a slabý úsměv a pak zas dál když boty už
se touhou chvějí po jiných vůních a jiných zemích,
po méně slovech v méně dusných koutech.
A samota? Ta uhání, vždy o krok napřed a já jí za patami supím.
Špatně holka se mi chytá.
Je příliš hladká, hbitá a nechce, taky nechce mluvit,
nechat si podvázat své tenké hrdlo malým bílým šátkem
na náměstí u fontány pro potěchu davu.
A tak spíš jen šeptám směrem k ní, za pochodu:
Počkej, počkej přece. Mám písek, spoustu písku.
Vidíš ? Tam v jablečném sadu, hromady mám
pro tvou bílou pštrosí hlavu.
Šeptala jsem samotě, že jsem tak ráda
jenom s ní. Stromy a jemný šustot listí
a potichu, samotně si snít. Malé zvuky
jenom slyšet, jít bez lidí, s chladným pískem v kapse
po cestě podél svahu, kde temně žlutě
zraje obilí. Slabě si broukat o dálkách, na chvíli
postát u pomníků kdysi poutníků, kterým nevadí
že dám jim jen pár chvil a kvítí k patníku
a slabý úsměv a pak zas dál když boty už
se touhou chvějí po jiných vůních a jiných zemích,
po méně slovech v méně dusných koutech.
A samota? Ta uhání, vždy o krok napřed a já jí za patami supím.
Špatně holka se mi chytá.
Je příliš hladká, hbitá a nechce, taky nechce mluvit,
nechat si podvázat své tenké hrdlo malým bílým šátkem
na náměstí u fontány pro potěchu davu.
A tak spíš jen šeptám směrem k ní, za pochodu:
Počkej, počkej přece. Mám písek, spoustu písku.
Vidíš ? Tam v jablečném sadu, hromady mám
pro tvou bílou pštrosí hlavu.
Poslední léto
2015
Už snad pár měsíců se táhne srpen,
S ním dusné léto nocí příliš teplých.
Tíha žáru tahá nahá torsa k půdě
A vlhce svazuje nám dlaně k sobě.
Na kopci kupka sena skrývá vůně výhně
Tebe i mě vděčně skryje v lůně.
Záře slunce, žlutě zprahlá pole
Někde blízko cvrká cvrček líně.
Pár polehlých klasů dala jsi mi za košili
Nazpět nechtěla jsi ani věčnou lásku.
Prý ti stačí za víčky, že svá štěstí máme
A že z drobných ňader zlehka slíbám tvoji krásu.
Je poslední léto, jediné co máme, stále horko.
Už teď na něj vzpomínáme vleže, nazí, ty
A tvoje bílé paže. Bojíme se zimy, jak se blíží,
jak se plíží krajem podél hráze.
Oba víme, jak se sněhem tvá něha studí.
S jinou vůní, na jiném místě, místo mě zas jiný blázen
kterému, jak jen ty to umíš, za košili na horké srdce
Zvolna vložíš ledové své ruce.
2015
Už snad pár měsíců se táhne srpen,
S ním dusné léto nocí příliš teplých.
Tíha žáru tahá nahá torsa k půdě
A vlhce svazuje nám dlaně k sobě.
Na kopci kupka sena skrývá vůně výhně
Tebe i mě vděčně skryje v lůně.
Záře slunce, žlutě zprahlá pole
Někde blízko cvrká cvrček líně.
Pár polehlých klasů dala jsi mi za košili
Nazpět nechtěla jsi ani věčnou lásku.
Prý ti stačí za víčky, že svá štěstí máme
A že z drobných ňader zlehka slíbám tvoji krásu.
Je poslední léto, jediné co máme, stále horko.
Už teď na něj vzpomínáme vleže, nazí, ty
A tvoje bílé paže. Bojíme se zimy, jak se blíží,
jak se plíží krajem podél hráze.
Oba víme, jak se sněhem tvá něha studí.
S jinou vůní, na jiném místě, místo mě zas jiný blázen
kterému, jak jen ty to umíš, za košili na horké srdce
Zvolna vložíš ledové své ruce.
|
Granny Smith Anus
Have you ever properly looked at the calyx of an apple? Down its little dark hole; it is obscene like a tight anus with rough age spots and hair sticking out of the wrong places, all surrounded by white crispy flesh of slightly sour Granny Smith aftertaste. I never did - who cares what is the name for the bottom of an apple? But yesterday, I was hungry for words. I asked my brother if he knows and if he saw the beauty of how it carries its past flower life within, the memory of the whole apple history cherished, rarely eaten. Ha laughed and said no, but that he is wiser now and if I don't have better things to do. Since then, every time I look at an apple I can't but long for my own stamens and sepals to preserve all day dreams and memories gone void into proud albums on the mantelpiece. My very own calyx with blooming petals that would remind me who I once was. |
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as it was
There was a loneliness
of one
and there was a loneliness
of two,
and then there was solitude
for both
and there was blame
for them too.
And so they wept,
oh how they did,
with eyes grown long,
backs a bit stiff.
Yet they kept it still,
the wee grass-fed tent,
to prove someone's will,
to show lack of faith.
But that wasn't enough
as all ever was
there was a loneliness
for one.
|
When the woods weep
There is a rugged grass-fed river floating past this house alongside a railway barely used by deer for cold chase runs. I saw three at once the other day, too fast to follow far enough or to escape by one long jump across the steam. There in the woods full of wooden stillness I then felt for them. I fell and felt The fear on our tongues and sweat when hoofs stamp too deep in the mud we go down with the river hollow fall and soundless bleating of our childless widowed mothers. Hear us out you will not, oh sweet soft river bride what is a deer, a man, a stone for you? Hurried up hard steps and back and crawl away; we try to run not seep inside of you, who seems as if at least a thousand kisses deep the pasts have drowned where the woods still weep for forgotten deer mothers' dreams. (2015) |
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Parents’ Hands
Back then home was the simplest word There once upon a time when Words were still read with a capital and made sure things felt alright. It’s a mess now. We all know we ain’t gonna find home again. Forgotten on purpose; we did everything that we could have to lose it. And yes, you say we will make a new one and a good one it will be, with locks on doors and with young trees in the garden and far away, as far as it can be. So why do we still mourn for our parents’ hands their gentle touch the words gentler yet? Who gives a damn about the trembling fingers when their caress is the only one that cares? |
new (in) town
Land, the small scape of land here it escapes My understanding of how this is possible That I am here doing this smelling the grass when Walking the cobbled streets little grey houses the ground I smell dirt it smells fresh not of piss like in the city everyone knows everyone here they meet every week in the bowling club and nod and smile at each other it’s so peaceful it makes my spine shrivel the river is wild they say the fishing season starts soon and hunting there are deers and rabbits in the woods waters deep they wince at vegetarians here and walk with thick soled boots and sticks to pierce the mud things look simple simpler as the mud slides down the hill walking is a must here the landscape here the scape of land here I want to remember more this is worth it I'll walk through fully aware. i'll buy it all hiking boots and waterproofs I will hunt if it helps Howl at your steps But it will not mend me. (2015) |
some advice I got last year
a warm purring cat in my lap that is what I need I was told
by maybe someone who knows better
i do thank you for the advice but I don't think I could even
find a cat that could purr with me in my mad mad flat
a beast that would not shrink away from my dead flies
lying in piles they're remains of our little lies we made
together years ago we were so much saner then do you still
remeber do you think of us back then?
(2015)
a warm purring cat in my lap that is what I need I was told
by maybe someone who knows better
i do thank you for the advice but I don't think I could even
find a cat that could purr with me in my mad mad flat
a beast that would not shrink away from my dead flies
lying in piles they're remains of our little lies we made
together years ago we were so much saner then do you still
remeber do you think of us back then?
(2015)
my-self has left me inside
Tonight there’s just nothing
to be said.
I left my-self outside and I’d rather
Not let her come back in.
She is
in a weird mood,
she is
beyond herself,
a lunatic. And it’s full moon. She is mad,
Madder a bit more than ever, maddened with
her grief for what she lost by splitting us in two, maddened
by desire for her own kind of cross-breeds
to mate dog style that is rough enough
for her furry midnight madness lust.
She’s grown stronger, she eats a lot of meat and
drinks bitter ruby coloured wine that stains her teeth but
she believes that with it her blood thickens and then
she might over-run the wolves
after they have fought for the juiciest bone to chew.
Maybe if she keeps out in the cold dark for a bit it will
cool down her burning thighs and make her want to
come inside. Will it make me want to
let her in? Is that what we need? I know her
She is not
an easy one to appease with the whiteness of white snow.
She’ll try and piss her name on it, smear with blood-stained spit
and then roll in and out barking at the moon.
(She’s just a little bitch in the end,
no wolf would ever howl with her at midnight and oh she knows too well.)
But she just doesn’t care. It’s good to be an under-dog,
is it not? Pray tell is it not better to be full of life even if you’re running
out of line and gently, slightly mad?
Because
when I look at her rampage here from the windowsill I just
don’t know which one of us I feel sorrier for, who has really won it all?
You know, I used to try to calm her mad eyes down,
pat them with tender touch and poke with
birch twigs soaked in nettle broth.
I asked about her life and forced my voice to sound calm:
‘Maybe tonight you could try and come inside?
Let’s have hot chocolate or tisane and talk
about how we used to be in love
And how the missionary sex was nice
And how we did not twitch when we turned
around to see (what?
What was there that made us twitch the first time?
Do you remember because I forgot since, there were
too many to make us sink down sick.)’
It must have been the cut we made in the middle of the night
and it was then when I gave up and drank the broth myself.
Really,
there’s not much left to say tonight.
As
ever.
We are whispering nothings
through the keyhole.
Was it I, was it you?
You locked my-self inside so well.
INSOMNIAC'S BACKYARD
And the window was (again) open, calling out to the animals in the backyard.
Calling out to me, also, ambiguously. I couldn’t move but I could see them
Swarming, half crouched, two legged and four legged or just swirling on the ground in
Hunger and desire, or was it fear? They crawled and pulled on each other
And the sea breeze brought in the sweet starchy smell of their perfume.
It reminded me of something and I couldn’t recall until I smelled my armpits and
It was the very same odour of stale youth and potential smeared with shame.
Out there this live mass of thick movement; the black bodies emitting some sort of
Inner lucid light, so bright in the undecided colourlessness of the hour of the wolf.
There was something about the spectacle why I couldn’t take my eyes off in disgust.
It was hard to say if they were enjoying themselves or fighting or just being.
And what was I doing, watching fascinated the life happening just a dozen metres away,
Unable to raise my hand, get up, stand, jump, let myself get carried away, somewhere,
Nowhere (-else) but so willingly on their sleek scaly backs?
And why was I tied to the bed with dust in my eyes and mouth filled with sticky hatred
So sweet not even wine mellowed with soap and sugar could wash it away?
(‘You have to soak onion in milk overnight and drink it will help you’ my grandmother used to say
and
where did it get her?) You are here now we don’t joke like that. Tell me how,
Why did you get to know me, why would you even want to, why did you choose my backyard?
Up along the street there are many of them; the one next door with yellow flowers and a dining
table
And happiness springing from every single little hole between the planks.
The neighbours are nice young people, a couple with a boy of five with straight straw hair
He always smiles at me and I smile back and at moments like that it’s easy
To feel alive and present and with limbs that function alright.
Really they wouldn’t deserve to have their groomed grass patch soiled with black tar dripping
From your toes and saliva shooting from your big open mouths in a grotesque grimace
Of feelings. Are you really so bad at imitating or is this us in all our beauty?
It is just a play for you; ‘that’s just children’s game’ they say apologetically.
And the ropes are still tightly secured around the head of the bed and tied and twisted
Underneath my back and bottom, sliding between my thighs and further on,
Cutting off the blood flow from the ankles. And it feels good, like an extension of this body
The pleasure when they slide the rope until you hear someone screaming, and who is it?
Freedom becomes futile with the occasional reminiscence of what it used to be like
And then touching my face, touching deep inside with an invisible hand (the nails grew a lot),
Thinking: ‘Reality never used to be so good’ and obstinately giggling through the gag.
Finally here they come, done with their sad orgy sliding over the window pane bringing the new day.
‘Happy white bleached day, brand new shiny day without any ties, day that
Makes you dance around if you ever get untied’ they laugh and drop slime
Over my wooden floor that has never been swept before, not even by hundreds of
Long lanky legs. And the smell becomes unbearable as they all cram into the room
But I am glad; they have a shy look now, white walls make everyone like that yet I am
Pleasant and skilled in social conversation as usually and invite them in my bed.
‘Come, it’s cold outside, we can all fit in and would you like to tie yourselves up too?’
We all get cosy, bound together by a piece of rope and where our skins touch we merge together
Oozing
juices into one beautiful newborn being; animals together, now we trust each other,
We trust everyone and I can again ask: Why here with me with this stench (and now and not then)?
You already know that I knew too well so pushing your little dark fists in my mouth, in my ear
Whispering wetly for this is what we don’t want the walls to hear, my dear, you should
Shut up for once, sleep or soon you will see; for you we would double in size gladly.
I am not you
What is this what
Is this
What
Is this
Thing sitting on my bed biting her nails till the quick bleeds on the sheets
She’s not supposed to be here today I threw her out the door the other night
When did she come back? I don’t know I didn’t see she must have sneaked in through the
Broken window the window stop is broken
Seal has cracked
your heart is that the punishment for my tearing it apart it and your sex
They were glued together too much really
Is this what you weak man weak men are always going to be like?
Where is your
Pride
You’ll hurt your knees
She said then and that’s when I kicked her out sprayed her with pepper and salt because
We’re always hungry
For something more
And they can’t know they have not starved
Now she’s back and what am I to do? I can never
Forgive her while
I forgave her already.
It’s true she does look pale she might have not eaten since
We parted but she
would not come back just for food
She knows
I have nothing to
offer
us
oats maybe
A bowl of porridge is good I won’t do it again
(but she won’t promise as she knows she will do
It the very next time she can)
The spoons
Stand
Still with their own will as we eat
Don’t plead
With me please plead with him with them
For your harms
Go away after you are done
My
Thing
My little
Friend
Leave you have to feed yourself
Somewhere else bleed on
Someone else’s sheets
I cannot give you what you need I am not you
I am not you
I am not you
I am not you.
Rat(s) Dream
i dreamt of falling apart i think it was a dream so real
there was
a rat in a plastic bag rattling
in the bin twice that very night
eating remains of my skin dust filled with
poisonous disease
yet unrevealed to me
when will it show
i got up to check the bin but could not touch them
it's clenched
my stomach
in a tiny
painful
knot
i am scared
a lot
it hurts
and my ears are blocked
for more than a week trying to
tell me it is coming for me
two rats
will lay their little furry eggs and
hatch
multiply in thousands and
what then? not being able to touch a 1000
(even the ciphered number looks frightening)
is worse than one or two
what to do
tell me? because
i dreamt of falling apart
eaten alive by
i was
eaten alive
by
an invisible bunch
with my ears hurting
head
aches cut
it off
i don't know what
scared
so much of the rats inside
me
i don't want you to know they're there
they smell
bad
it's them who brought the disease
up from the floor to my feet my heart beat beat
when did it start
my
no one is to help us
rat prayer on the lips a little kiss
with small sharp teeth it bleeds it makes
the god words stronger i miss my mum
i am
falling apart
scared
to ends of my mind
that i have to sleep again
unavoidable
the rats
coming
i dreamt of falling apart i think it was a dream so real
there was
a rat in a plastic bag rattling
in the bin twice that very night
eating remains of my skin dust filled with
poisonous disease
yet unrevealed to me
when will it show
i got up to check the bin but could not touch them
it's clenched
my stomach
in a tiny
painful
knot
i am scared
a lot
it hurts
and my ears are blocked
for more than a week trying to
tell me it is coming for me
two rats
will lay their little furry eggs and
hatch
multiply in thousands and
what then? not being able to touch a 1000
(even the ciphered number looks frightening)
is worse than one or two
what to do
tell me? because
i dreamt of falling apart
eaten alive by
i was
eaten alive
by
an invisible bunch
with my ears hurting
head
aches cut
it off
i don't know what
scared
so much of the rats inside
me
i don't want you to know they're there
they smell
bad
it's them who brought the disease
up from the floor to my feet my heart beat beat
when did it start
my
no one is to help us
rat prayer on the lips a little kiss
with small sharp teeth it bleeds it makes
the god words stronger i miss my mum
i am
falling apart
scared
to ends of my mind
that i have to sleep again
unavoidable
the rats
coming
The nearly last day of the past
Today is nearing towards its very sudden end:
It’s been ill expected for quite some time (strange,
as the weeks softly turned from slow motion
to this over-exposed speeded race).
But it’s in the nature of a sudden end that
you can’t really wait for it enough.
I was rolling my socks together just a minute ago
To reassure them in their approaching state of the unstable
And already missing the habitual humility of the task.
It’s nearly the last day of the past today
And I am at a loss of what socks and pants to pack.
It doesn’t help that the moon is full tonight
it shines too bright on the furniture that is to be
forgotten soon and pretends to have something to do
with me when clearly it must see that I am not here anymore.
Maybe it has already found me in the future day
In the other brand new place and time of moonlit realms
burnt its way through the new walls and new piles of dreams
And that is why I get its knowing shine on my face right now.
So you must know it’s the last day
Of my past today, do you not?
My eyes closed but facing my burning friend
To soak in his light
Let’s share shall we, what tomorrow’s pasts will
Throw at us. I will cry and you can smile
Down at me. I know it’s not your
Last day or not even your past
But you shouldn’t have meddled in if
You were not to
Cast my dice with me.
Oh and he shines and he nods and so
I pack the chosen pants and my socks in a tidy
Little pack and pile them up
Underneath the empty bed to
Leave the past together tomorrow.
Today is nearing towards its very sudden end:
It’s been ill expected for quite some time (strange,
as the weeks softly turned from slow motion
to this over-exposed speeded race).
But it’s in the nature of a sudden end that
you can’t really wait for it enough.
I was rolling my socks together just a minute ago
To reassure them in their approaching state of the unstable
And already missing the habitual humility of the task.
It’s nearly the last day of the past today
And I am at a loss of what socks and pants to pack.
It doesn’t help that the moon is full tonight
it shines too bright on the furniture that is to be
forgotten soon and pretends to have something to do
with me when clearly it must see that I am not here anymore.
Maybe it has already found me in the future day
In the other brand new place and time of moonlit realms
burnt its way through the new walls and new piles of dreams
And that is why I get its knowing shine on my face right now.
So you must know it’s the last day
Of my past today, do you not?
My eyes closed but facing my burning friend
To soak in his light
Let’s share shall we, what tomorrow’s pasts will
Throw at us. I will cry and you can smile
Down at me. I know it’s not your
Last day or not even your past
But you shouldn’t have meddled in if
You were not to
Cast my dice with me.
Oh and he shines and he nods and so
I pack the chosen pants and my socks in a tidy
Little pack and pile them up
Underneath the empty bed to
Leave the past together tomorrow.
seaweed song for you dear swimmer lost long time ago
How thin can a thin line be line threaded carefully and a dreaded one between when she
walked on the riverside and between when someone jumped over the bank and my pace
was not fast enough to catch her. the empty space and a face flowing dreamily smiling
gently caressed by little seaweed hands and here a small peck on the cheek from
a young loving seagull or let’s say he is hungry his mother has not fed him well today
meat is good for you they say and he knows it way too well to be a vegetarian.
How did the water feel? good? did it chill your boiling bones with coal on coal that's the grownup way
they say you
were weak that you just ran away I am so fucking sorry that I was not there but if I were I would
what would I do jump too? you were too hot to touch to try to save you'd long ago burnt inside
insane insanely in love with all your men in pain but you just needed them to suck you in and out
To feel alive just a bit more but every day less and less instead stunned with the boredom of it all.
At least you had fun haven't you had so much? we can't all say that about our stupid smalltown lives
Just let them gossip whisper wetly in each other's ear smearing spit and spite about how you
liked men just a bit over-the-top who cares? old women's jealous tits can't help themselves
we were all in love with your glowing skin and lips oh to kiss these lips all the girls we were jealous
until we saw how the glow seeps in and slowly drip drip drips burning acid bits leaving
marks on your arms and a peephole burnt down there through which you let them squeeze.
Oh how thin could that thin line be it must have been too thin to let you think in a blink of an eye you let it
all go I wish we could all sink in the seaweed and look so beautiful as you did.
How thin can a thin line be line threaded carefully and a dreaded one between when she
walked on the riverside and between when someone jumped over the bank and my pace
was not fast enough to catch her. the empty space and a face flowing dreamily smiling
gently caressed by little seaweed hands and here a small peck on the cheek from
a young loving seagull or let’s say he is hungry his mother has not fed him well today
meat is good for you they say and he knows it way too well to be a vegetarian.
How did the water feel? good? did it chill your boiling bones with coal on coal that's the grownup way
they say you
were weak that you just ran away I am so fucking sorry that I was not there but if I were I would
what would I do jump too? you were too hot to touch to try to save you'd long ago burnt inside
insane insanely in love with all your men in pain but you just needed them to suck you in and out
To feel alive just a bit more but every day less and less instead stunned with the boredom of it all.
At least you had fun haven't you had so much? we can't all say that about our stupid smalltown lives
Just let them gossip whisper wetly in each other's ear smearing spit and spite about how you
liked men just a bit over-the-top who cares? old women's jealous tits can't help themselves
we were all in love with your glowing skin and lips oh to kiss these lips all the girls we were jealous
until we saw how the glow seeps in and slowly drip drip drips burning acid bits leaving
marks on your arms and a peephole burnt down there through which you let them squeeze.
Oh how thin could that thin line be it must have been too thin to let you think in a blink of an eye you let it
all go I wish we could all sink in the seaweed and look so beautiful as you did.
To a friend
There is a friend whom I shall not name
With big pair of feet and yet bigger hair
She’s lost in her dreams and that feat we share
She is my friend – and that is quite rare.
There are some faults: she hates spicy food
And she does not want to pose for me nude
She likes her tea with milk in big heaps
But I still wish she had all that she needs
A little white house and a herd of striped cows
An oak tree to climb with apples on top
A stream to flow past with cider-fed fish
Where when you dunk in you get a bit drunk
She’s dear to my heart
What else to say
There is no man
Whom she could not race
Small moments
Sometimes when you expect it the least
here it comes without fanfares
a little moment of personal grandeur
that might briefly fight the beast.
And maybe it is good that they are so rare
We do not deserve much more anyway
And our monsters they have the right to live
With their big sharp teeth and empty stare
and slightly foggy brain after a day's long shift
And their own fears and their own mind games
Of solitude and life's despair and love and stuff
It's hard to stay and still play sane not lose the grip
Sometimes when you expect it the least
here it comes without fanfares
a little moment of personal grandeur
that might briefly fight the beast.
And maybe it is good that they are so rare
We do not deserve much more anyway
And our monsters they have the right to live
With their big sharp teeth and empty stare
and slightly foggy brain after a day's long shift
And their own fears and their own mind games
Of solitude and life's despair and love and stuff
It's hard to stay and still play sane not lose the grip
It is not rare these days that have been going on for decades
Our weariness with ourselves weariness with what we have
Not achieved nor have not succeeded in the expected of us
We only get sticky sick of hearing it over and again.
Your need to please need not be overcome. If
You want to sustain the remains of your un-sound soul
Talk to yourself if you want to but do it in private so that
You don’t disturb the pathways the others were set safely on.
We’re here to stay and you know what? Forever. Yes.
And you with us just lick the boots in the wet way get through
The double skin you reach the bone you might even get
To chew on in the corner after you’ve been spent.
And what’s more that’s the code that’s the spokesman of the truth
You can’t travel dig yourself a hole in the mountains of Switzerland
We’re not in war anymore to be neutral to be blank is to give up
On yourself on what you were once there and hoped to be.
To fight to kick to bite while still the teeth hold and gums don’t bleed
Too much on your canvas that’s the right attitude dear artist
remember Naked Came I in this world or can't you read? It's
never been easy to be real to keep the pledge or to please.
What is inside me
The nice evening it was half an hour back
Got lost somewhere in a bloodshot mist
So easy to get caught in fatigue.
|
THE CHRISTMAS TIME What seems like A forever sore head and a curved wine glass That does not seem to starve It’s festive time. It’s wrapped up pretty In golden shreds and sparkly stars As a deceit it works So fine, for us. And food, all these great feasts – Hairless hamster cheeks Stuffed with treasure hunts (I heard he choked on a piece of bread.) Poor fellow he missed The sixth Christmas of his Little daughter and what a pity as Even the granny came They say he might have Done it on purpose but really, Why would anyone, like this, on Christmas...? Such a tragedy. Such a shame. For the family, a decent lot. A pretty wife. You’re not to blame. He was...nothing could have been done. Unlike for us, and here. Even if it all seems to lack a content, If it’s all of no importance I’d still like to know the reason Why to pretend (even) at Christmas. (If you don’t eat the whole day You might get to see The golden pig that brings Happiness for the next year And if you close your eyes and Make a wish It might seem a bit more (un)real.) Maybe the Baby Jesus Will bring me all I long for Maybe he’ll come with a little Bright lit gas cooker. |
GOLDEN CONVERSATION
Oh please, and they keep hammering you on and on with such effort it is
Enviable. Really, where do you get this élan from? I swear,
There is this hidden swamp of thick muddy energy and only those
Who have big sturdy legs can dive in and fill their swelled stomachs to their hearts desire.
With each hit ‘We can mould you into something appropriate
Because our hammer is made of gold with fleur-de-lis embedded with diamonds
and that’s why it has such value you can only dream of
(and also because unlike you we know what we’re doing)’
I just wish they would make this more efficient, just one hit in the head
Would save all the golden sparks and all the wasted pearls and jewels
And they could go and throw them to the (other) pigs.
But no I am not fat enough yet ‘just eat a bit more, if not we will stuff it down your throat.’
Heaving heavily ‘this-will-teach-you-your-lesson’ and so I bow my head
In silent disappointment with myself and the humans as agreeing with both of them
(What are you saying what on earth are you talking about
When you cannot know at all you know nothing about us
Little liars of the straight eyes and honest smiles and gestures that look just right.)
There is nothing easier than to fool and be fooled and then again,
Isn’t it better like that? Because the surface is beautiful and that
Matters much more.
In the end even they get tired of their just cause; and seeing there is nothing more
To be done, no more damage, no more empty skin to blow up and give content to,
They leave ashamed of This Thing before them on the floor, throwing the hammer next to It.
Because It and I, we are better off settling things just between ourselves (such mates we are).
Dnešní
Jen za mým oknem zase hřmí
Prší plané sny
Tak dávno včerejší
Hanba
Ti
Hanba
Do smrti
Hanba
Ti
Buší mi do uší
Olympští bohové co nahlížejí oknem
Skrz mlžný mušelín záclon
Drobný kětinový vzor
Pláče
Zátiší s ořechy
Schovává tajemství
Ona ví
Ve dveřích chybí klíč
Dovnitř se smí jen postelí
Nikdo neslyší vrzání parket
Nechtějí
Ticho navěky věčné
Až na kapky
Tak už se svlečme
Jsem
Tady
Bohové zemřeli
Hanbou za oknem
(2011)
štěstí
šustí jen tiše slyšíš
odletí plaše neslyšně dýchne
do týla nikdo nic nevidí až potom
klejí v zakletí
v bělobě labutího snění
v samotě nahoty v temnotě zatoužení
ve sklonu šíje ve smyčce nitě
co naše rány nikdy nezašije
tak blaze je bláznům
co sil je potřeba
kdo ví jak
udržet rozbitou skořápku bytí
kdo ví
vítr
snad
popel rozvíří
zmizí posléze
zmizíme i my
tak cizí jsme si
štěstí se snadno odcizí
bylo-li
kdy
(2010)
Nebeská
Od stěny ke stěně
A z bláta do louže.
Mně už to neklouže,
Říkám si zasněně.
Já už jsem v pohodě,
Zcela a jistě.
Na daném místě
Přihrávám náhodě.
Jen vůně oblohy,
Poklidně slunečná.
Stanice – konečná.
Myslete na bohy.
Nikoho neprosím.
Nechte si od cesty
Měďáky lítosti
Z kapsičky u vesty.
(2008)
Vera Lynn
„We’ll meet again,
Don‘t know where, don‘t know when,
But I know we’ll meet again
Some sunny day…”
Jednou se zase potkáme.
Zase a zase a zas znova.
A možná nechtěně
Uvidíme
Ty milované nikdy nepotkané,
Taky ty potkané nikdy nemilované,
Anebo jenom kdysi
Dávno a možná krátce
Zbožňované a dnes ze studu (a předtím bez něj)
Hladce odseknuté zavěšené na oprátce
Provaz
Pro jistotu ne ve skříni a ne za ní
A ne teď a ne tady
A ne tam a snad ne pro nás
A možná jednou
„Some sunny day…“
(2009)
Otčenášek
„Otče náš, jenž jsi na nebesích.
Přijď království Tvé.
Buď vůle Tvá, jako v nebi, tak I na zemi.
Chléb náš vezdejší dej nám dnes.
A odpusť nám naše viny, jakož i my odpouštíme našim viníkům.
Neuveď nás v pokušení, ale zbav nás od zlého.
Amen.“
Amen, ještě jednou.
Hoďte kámen, když se zvednou.
Hoďte další, hoďte tucty, ten je hnusný, ten je tlustý,
Ta byla pyšná, tak ji zbijte.
Kdo jednou klesl, víc si nezaslouží žít.
To je tvůj přístup, Bože, viď?
Ach panebože, svět se před tebou třese
Modlíme se:
“Odpusť nám naše viny, jakož I my odpouštíme našim viníkům.”
A bojíme se a máme čeho. Ty nedáváš milost hříšníkům
Nemáš nikdy dost, chceš naši krev a pot a moč.
Denně odvádíme desátek a víc neptáme se proč.
Už děti znají otčenášek, už do kolébky liješ jed
Schováváš se za nevinnost, čistotu a ctnosti
Měl by ses začít modlit, začni radši hned
Jsi špatný Bože, ach tak špatný, že svět se třese zlostí
Jen počkej, jednou si do dna vyžereš ty svoje hnusné hříchy
Za to, že nenaučil jsi nás odpouštět.
(2010)
Kdyby
Ryby
Jedly
Lidi
Nebyly by
Naše
Chyby
Přesto
Těsto
Lidí
Hned tak
Neplesniví
Kyne
Plyne
Hříchy
Pýchy
Nejsme
Že jsme
Loutky
S poutky
Týrané
Za vším
Stojí
Pojí
Nitě
Blázen –
Dítě
S citem
S ironií.
Kdyby
Ryby
Jedly
Lidi
Nebyly by
Lidské
Chyby
Byly by to
Chyby
Rybí.
(2008)
Podzim listí
Odshora dolů, pomaly, hladce,
Snáší se listí. Opodál sladce
Culí se cukrárna a na vývěsním štítu –
Cukroví, jak jinak. Půvab dřevorytu
Dokresluje průčelí v pastelových tónech. Závidí
Listoví jeho nevyrovnané barvy. Závidí
Lidem že nevidí
Lidem že neslyší
Lidem že umírají
V bolesti
A daleko od lidí.
(2011)
|
Nejsme nikdo bez viny Abel Kain Krev beránkova Prolévána Zas a znova Adam S Evou Lstiví hadi Vždyť se měli Jenom rádi Ó Salomé Ó Herode Slizká touha Chtíče Bude vaše zhouba A vina ach bože tak tíživá Ženám ovisá ňadra A mužům ohýbá záda A lidi pohřbívá zaživa |
Marie A ty Josefe Neodvracej hlavu slepě Měl sis ženu Hlídat lépe. Ach Noeme Ty naivko Na co bylo třeba lodě? Kdo dal ti právo Vzít smrt vodě? A ty A ty A tamten taky Hážeme kamení Hážeme špíny Plivem si do ksichtů A přece jsme vinni. A vina ach bože tak tíživá Ženám ovisá ňadra A mužům ohýbá záda A pohřbívá nás zaživa (2011) |
