Just the other day

We were standing on the bridge, the wind blew pollen in our faces, a car sped by behind us, thrusting hot air onto us, there were still some drops of whiskey at the bottom of the bottle, bright lines trembling on the water, the river stepped out of its usual channel, the bridge was shaking, strong splashing sounds and moaning around the pillars, rattling teeth as all the rubbish hit the steel, everything was in its place, the heat paired up with our thirst, as we left home, we could never go back there, the wind of a truck blows under my shirt, we leave our mark on the night, we step over the rails, our feet in perfect unison, fading paint, silver graffiti, scared look on the face of a cab driver, the lamps by the bridge, signs that were put there for boats, traffic lights, he counts, one-two-three, I bend my knees and jump, but as soon as my feet leave the ground, I know how stupid this whole thing is, the irreversibility of the deed has destroyed the excitement of it, I was contemplating my fall with the leftovers of this faint excitement, I could say I was sober if I hadn’t been drunk, he was falling next to me, under me with his eyes closed, as if we were one person, as if gravity had a greater effect on him, as if ropes were pulling him down, I’m a good swimmer, I know I’m going to survive, I’ll climb out of the water, I’ll make my way home drenched in water and alcohol, I’ll sleep it off and then I’ll call him, mischief, bohemian show-offs, he’s been looking for trouble ever since he was a kid, he likes challenging destiny, I really don’t think he’ll lose this time, and I didn’t get tangled in the rubbish, I didn’t freeze to death, I didn’t whirl down deep, but then when I got home, I couldn’t take it anymore, I hadn’t slept for three days, my friend had a miscarriage, my lover left me, my accomplices had a fight and then it all came crashing down, it was the neighbours who called the ambulance, next day I woke up clinging to an unknown pillow, the prof with the white hair is testing his residents, they’re nodding, the prof is looking at my chart, I don’t understand a word of what they’re saying, they’re probably going over the drug addict-epilepsic-panic attack-depressed versions of my diagnosis and the doctor lingo makes them scary, the nurse is smiling at me, they want hope from me and they know that I want hope from them.

Points to consider

(I am sitting undoubtedly far
from the center of this humorless
world in the dark morning light
and I don’t believe a word)

*

My ground is crying
My air is crying oh why
would I ever cry

*

It could be blunter with
every step and it could get
farther with every step -
I’d arrive asleep –

*

And into none of the opening
rooms.
It’s more spacious outside:

Oi va voi!

I’ll ask you one of these days, when we’ll have something to talk about. I might even cry, I might even let that part of my soul free, which you drew in, the way my mother used to draw the curtains when she was sewing. I’ll write a novel about our stories, I might even publish them. Stories that never even happened, only in my head, only in your head, simulating a relationship, hallucinating reality. We never shared a caleidoscope, but the stars were the same. The stars, the pebbles and the two stains on my white shirt. One of these days something, someone will let it hurt. That, which had forgotten to hurt before. Words will be as simple as they can get and sadness will be as clean as it can get: to love is to be a fool. I’ll admit that only the anger was real, the hate wasn’t. Everything I know about the world, I learnt from you. Pretty depressing stuff, buta t least it’s true. You can’t even lie for beauty. You can only lie for the truth. One of these days we’ll be standing in front of each other, we’ll be the same height, I’ll nod my head in agreement with the truth and after that we can never see each other again, after that, in all my mistaken life …. amen.

The chisel was dancing

The chisel was dancing in God's hands,

when he was carving my soul.

I thought I would make a dream come true,

a human destiny and my own world.

Dew is mud, capturing my feet,

poison is nesting in broken eggs.

Word-maggots bearing narrow vertebra

sneering midget, so that's what he wants.

The chisel was dancing in God's hands,

when he was carving my face.

I came with great plans, to a field of poppies,

my past was gleaming, following me right behind.

Maybe, if I saw, a real pearl,

covered with a word the colour of milk.

Maybe, if I took a step, from a snail's cold shelter

onto a warm palm of a hand, onto a steaming hot brownie.

What's it for?

My robe is soil, my shirt underneath it is damp, soaked with salt.

My hair is a pine tree, a bush and ready to harvest.

My nourishment is the clouds, a cool nut by the dawn's early light.

My harbor is the wood of the cart, unbendable.

I play with rain, ice, it's all for free.

I lean on the light, which I can give away.

My song is the lightning and it sounds like thunder.

A star slides on my pin, hugging a green stone.

I imagine a bug out of a veil and grass, to put on a trail,

My book is transparent parchment, waiting to be filled,

My sorrow isn't gaudy, it can hardly be heard,

My mantra is a monotonous fairy castle, waiting to be cradled.

Moon on the soles of my boots, I pretend to be the sun which dances.

I mix colours with the feathers of my wings to be painted.

I ask for a candle to put on the peak of my soul to light it up.

My dust is blown away by a cat, no use in weeping for it.

Score

It's cracking. It's happening little by little and that's not a bad thing. Something's falling off it, something that up till now seemed totally solid and strong. Well, coz I made it solid and strong, of course. A one-person totality, something I can never reach. Fucking illusion, unreal, childish expectations. Childish waiting. A lot of waiting for children. No way! Is that really what you want? You don't even know who you are anymore. You don't believe a word you say. You sit in your little chair, moving your fingers, thinking of him and then not thinking of him, you don't think of him, you only think of him and noone else, he's not the only one you think of.

You're fighting with your own self in reality, as if someone had to win. Noone has to win. It's unnecessary. No doubt.

It's not only here that you're not present. You're nowhere. I can't find you anywhere. What is it really, that I'm looking for? I have no idea. At times, an object comes along that gets the role of what I'm looking for and then I realise, I was wrong. Aimless. Dartboard. I'm gonna fire, boom! Come with me! Put my fire out or go to hell! And I'm gonna fire again and then no more hurting you coz I realise, there's no purpose behind it. It came, but then the points change, everything is moving, I am moving and I'm grateful for that. And that's more than enough for me. I see change compared to him. And if he/this leaves, I know another one will come along, another one, another kind, what kind? The loveable other kind. In another way.

War

I vomit rights, I dance like I'm deaf

I vote for death in rhyme

I grit the scales: there's war underneath

And blood drips in a democratic way

Cross-hairs and crosses on graves,

I shut out the smell of damask-tablecloths

I'm killing Jesus inside me, so opposition will decay

And blood flows in a conservative way

Pretend we're in an amusement park, it might be easier

Let's break the rocking-horse's forehead into a million colourful pieces

Let's count, who gets the last marble

And blood squirts in a liberal way

I clap on my knees, I scream a new god

My fist is scratching at the neck of cannons

My boots are a pamphlet: I take it all in, to the right!

And blood splutters in a dictatorial way