I stretched crisscrossed laundry wires
on my memory canvas
I’m watching the movie through the washing machine’s porthole
a gray helter-skelter
swollen like a castrated ten year old cat
clamped one by one in wooden pegs
black and white mice are swinging
like the first Mickey Mouse cartoons
the wires stretched to the limit spread water drops
the snow on the Tesla TV screen
whispers children good night
not everything can be washed
I pulled the ghosts by the hair
bed sheets gone yellow burned with cigarette ashes
where black days and white nights lay a long time
I take them out to dry before the first rinsing
otherwise they don’t freeze
I lay on the narrow bed
with my mouth open
a mosquito bites my tongue
just when I was dreaming to speak
something about the last war
or the long lasting peace without borders
pointing with the machine-gun
to the insect fallen in a moon’s crater
I wake up with bloody lips
because of too much silence
and words lost on the front
without question marks
like apples of Discord sliced with the axe
like a black box of a guillotined pilot
thrusting deep the champagne cork
to avoid an explosion
I drink only sweet water from a spring
consecrated at day break
The last ship abandoned me
sleeping near the lighthouse.
Yesterday’s dreams faded away
leaving my body stuck to the ground
amid bitter roots
like a rusted anchor.
I don’t want to leave these shores
where the wind is playing
a soft blues on its harp.
Stones are getting smoother each day,
are burning on a silent pyre.
I will wait day and night
for the rose of winds
to change its direction.
it rains with eyes without eyelids
slithering through stuck windows
between men left thoughtless
without remembering the dead
never dressing in their Sunday clothes
feeling no more lavender scent
only round eyes gathered in heaps
wide open eyeballs in sub-urban polar nights
the children and the old and the saint relics
stay right like moist matches
in forgotten boxes in locked drawers
in pantries without electricity circuits
the rain found them beyond any wall
no one was left to care about darkness
(Or a clavi-chord fugue)
Once I kept in my palm a rough fruit seed waiting for that crumb of time to spring out mirrored in future waters. Just looking in your eyes stones began to tremble, crevices of eternity appeared. You looked calm as a soft song yet troubled like embers bitter heat. And I looked again, suddenly sloping on melting ice, winds started to whisper as if to break the circle of night. You were a snowflake floating on my breath. I would have wanted you to define me, to call me, because I was like a child without name, that seed would have grown into a winged tree, a moment escaping clockwise order.
Then shadows weighed over my eyes and my hopes sparkled like a flint steel, dissolving at once. Peaceful rains settled dark rings over a transparent, motionless desert. I stopped seeing you, dreams hid in the air and inside rocks, that seed closed its shell. Cool and gentle, ethereal emptiness shaped a statue within myself.
Gradually even the shadows disappeared like dripping arpeggios. Daily questions covered everything with snow. But the trace of difficult steps led to an obstinate memory trapping me in a white silence. Your faraway call was still striking me like the blood forgetting its way until summer tears ended their warm whirl in a frozen sea. I forgot you, the light between us left a feeble abandon gesture through a locked window wing.
And when another morning opened it, I saw at a far distance that first moment enchained by my surprise and your smile. It was a clear blue sky.