To Be or Not To Be
The Wolf at the Door
The Tale of the Dragon and the Rogue
A Second Advent?
The Devil Does Not Plough or Delve
A Curled Up Man Homo in se curvatus
A Winter Tale
The Early Cocks – Get Slain

In our garden some dragon started dancing again
his vest shining with artificial spangles

blinding us with the countless little mirrors
when they shine straight into our eyes

his rages are the jumping lice invisible
that sting us under the most sensitive armpits and hairs

never can the Honorable groom and free himself from that Devil
nor can he scrape off his scabs with a rub-stone

although from his eye the sniper-lens shines
although from his mouth he belches fire from a grenade

and so he drags along his armoured tail throughout the land
he digs old roads and he dredges new paths

wherever he makes a nest he leaves one egg
if it is rotten it will crack on its own and start stinking

if not – new dragons and snakes will hatch
to ogle us cyclopeanly with that pool of spilt oil

during the day they spread and shed their wings
so they could search for new victim brides at night…

And our rogue during the day dips in mud and at night dreams
how to spur his horse like a young prince about to get married

and rubs the little feather of hope he had found on the way
that the angel-saviour will fly in his home

through wide-opened gates, amid smothered fire
and so he stares from a window into the yard

not to miss the moment when the golden wings
fly in and shed into countless aspers

only not to become light confetti once again, so transparent
that they will melt in the first morning rays

and before they trickle in the palms of the paupers
he to collect them all with a sole swing.

2018-08-21T17:22:49+00:00 March 5th, 2012|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 82|0 Comments