The Night Is Darkest Before the Dawn

/, Blesok no. 69/The Night Is Darkest Before the Dawn

The Night Is Darkest Before the Dawn

Bucharest 5 ½
Dear Sun
Reclining On Verses
Sultriness Over Mountain Water
The Sense of One Night
TV Screen and Jim Beam to Mr. Koala, after Snežana Bukal"s story
How to Write a Poem
Gentle Poem

alright, let me confess to myself:
i am alone. dot. let’s go
on: i am not feeling bad?

alright, let me think:
love is a thought, hidden
in the darkness of the world.


now, let me be quite. For a while.
Your smiles, sunshine.
Your breasts.
Let me elide them.

Alright, let me think:
I dream scarcely but good.
Just as the ad for the booze
that killed my father – drink small,
drink good. Brandy. Cezar. Or ruby.

Dot. Alright.

Now let me go back there:
to the flat at the last floor.
The wasps were building nests in the empty
beer bottles at the narrow terrace.
Besides the inner wall of the terrace
my folks were lining bottles, as for shooting.
He died first, the one that was drinking them one by one:
since he started to drink in secret, quietly.
Afterwards, we started to fall down, to rotten
in his pains, as worthless worms on the road
to god. So, be clever now and explain to yourself:
how can it be, so easily and simple,
that love could be killing you. Dosed, as if on drops.

Alright. Shut a dot. Spit. Cry your tears.
It will not be better: they are just lying.


Let me now ask myself: do I have the guts,
do I have balls, to return. There.
All I do write are dots. And I confirm:
alright. I don’t feel like crying. I don’t…
Whatever I am supposed to do. Dead. He is.

i: alive. Like a fire alive. Like a water turgid.
Alive, i. unbelievable. Aside that I am crazy.
That’s my fucking bonus in the darkness of the world:
I am seeing the hidden light. The love. It hurts.

Alright. Whatever I do, I don’t change a thing.
Not at all, not in a long run. I am a sprinter
nevertheless. Fast breaths, fierce fire. If I turn
into ashes, it means that the ash has fallen into my lap.

From my cigarette. Alright.

I couldn’t care less…

Alright. Whatever.
Let’s be silent.

I don’t want to be here. Alright. I don’t want to
be anywhere. And I want to be alive.

I am. However I am. Homeless fire.
Gentle. Crazy and inexplicable.

I am. Dot.
It’s so easy
that is sad.

07.03.2009 02:11

Translated by the author, edited by Elizabeta Bakovska

2018-08-21T17:22:56+00:00 December 21st, 2009|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 69|0 Comments