That Was a Day when the Sun and the Rain Made Love
Stone and Wind
Genesis of the Water: First Sounds
Genesis of the Water: Our Time
Genesis of the Water: Evil Day
Me & Tom Waits
The Beer is Echoing through the Remembrances
From Blue towards Black

you are messing with your fingers
because of distress but
that’s the beer
beer makes you melancholic

she throw away the crown
but maybe a crown wasn’t what she
need maybe you’ve just
needlessly patronised her

the sound of the falling crown
 makes you dizzy…

you think of all the places You had been
you’d never thought that pictures could
hurt so much
she beside you with open eyes while you penetrate
sun on the rocks and the scent of your skins
that boils under that sun but the scent is not a picture

sound of an empty bottle over the dusty wooden floor
as a pain echoing through you but the pain isn’t
part of the anger and you know that the beer is echoing
through the remembrances as when velvet rustles under the fingers
velvet that you are taking off to touch tender skin
but the silk is not a comparison, the silk is dead the velvet is hideaway
and the skin is a curtain i want to rout through all of the brain cells
and through all of the world’s highways
to be a wind because of the free breath
to revive yet another
dead man to laugh through the time
to take off the linens from their
 gray and frozen faces
to take them with me

you are roaming through the yellow colour through the known sounds
you are never prepared to face
the scent that’s left
her scent
maybe that’s why you feel
this is another short-dated story
as the time doesn’t admit oblivion
as the beer is your eternal reminder

 who can tell,
 if you’d be pathetic enough
 you may make
 a monument to pain
 out of it

this room is landing ground for angels
they’re coming here as i’m calling them
but i’m not and i’m not rejecting them

sometimes i think that i want it
to watch how clumsy they are fluttering in here
how they are rustling with their enormous wings
the sound is a part of my sense
i have it in many colors
mostly yellow mostly white
i create her out of foam
and i swallow her
so the pictures won’t hurt me but they do and the pain is
heading me
to fury to deep black

they’re singing sad songs on the streets
the sun is melting under my fingers
the grace is a part
of the past is a part
it’s part of me
because i’m
with remembrances
and a wish

to revive deads

2018-08-21T17:24:01+00:00 January 1st, 1999|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 06|0 Comments