break my hip,
I want the house to rock,
the mortar fall from our moaning.
The Vardar spreads like fog,
while the evenings graze in the park,
the benches offer their asses,
and the runners support walls with their hands.
I really need you to be mine again,
time unscrews bridges and joints,
a tin orchestra parades in our room,
confetti and cones and orgasms in bunches.
The law of gravity – it’s but a joke.
Flying is possible and falling is in my hands.
And our bed? It’s the Universe. It shakes
when our crutches give birth to constellations.
Everything is said, written, drawn, recorded…
Even 180 years are not enough for the two of us.
I want this to last, I want a hard on at 80.
I want us to be buried together in one bed,
I will be inside you – you’ll be the hole, I’ll be the coffin.