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

i’m sending brain signals
to all my girlfriends
it’s night, of course
verbalizing on my own
i feel like saying
all the unspoken words
but i don’t recall
i don’t recall a thing

i stroll in my flat
i wanted to live by myself
it serves me right, that’s how i live
and from the angles i pick the sparkles
of my once set magic

i walk to the fridge
instead of to the angles
i open a beer
i count how many are left
so i count what remains
of the night, it would be mean
to run out of beer before sunrise
but i can’t figure out who could be
the one to to blame; when you’re living on your own
there’s noone to blame

i wash my hands very often
i look at me in the mirror while
i wash my hands, my beard is messy
and i look in the water i look at all the things
around and my signals seem to reflect
of the walls of the bars of everything around
and my own calls are digging through
my head; it would be completely absurd to go mad
to freak out
from the sound of your own voice
i’m on my way to do that as well but first
i must torture myself with questions
to search for answers to look at photos
to became conscious
i don’t need anyone
though it’s in complete contradiction
with what i just
thought so i think of something else; it’s hard to
admit to yourself you are contradictory and sober, it’s
as you are washing your brain with a desinfective liquid
though you don’t exactly know what are you infected of so you become
even crazier in your eyes as someone’s hit you with a bat
while you’re awaking and you put the socks on your hands
scratching with your legs like a small animal; you’ve always wanted
to be careless animal, sparrow, hummingbird, wild horse,
but you’ve always remained with your damn monologues
in your sounds as if there are no other
there you are now, sole, time to remember all the ones
you’ve left, all the ones that walked off on you
’cause you are as you are and if you don’t feel
guilty conscious or something like that it’s maybe because
you talk to yourself in third person singular

i talk as a lone man with cold feet
i talk so i could breathe evenly
but i never breathe as i should
while i write ’cause the photos in me
are flying through too fast and there is no way i can
catch up with them to enter them, it’s like when you can’t
bring the dream back and your breathing becomes torn apart
from all those big efforts that are always in vain

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