What an Awful Pleasure

/, Blesok no. 91/What an Awful Pleasure

What an Awful Pleasure

At 8 O’clock
At Central Station
A Stone in the Swamp
Another Stone in the Swamp
Under the Creed"s Mantle
The Tip of My Tongue
What an Awful Pleasure

it’s cozy, safe and warm.
So they say.
Something like a sanatorium
for fanatic manikins.
But I don’t buy this.
Both my eyes have seen
this mantle trailing
on its own.
No wonder
it’s the choicest tablecloth
for stains.
I can hear them humming underneath:
“The creed is part of the particular.
What’s common is the sum of stains.
The sum total of all soups makes
aesthetics out of hunger.”

Who has spat in my bowl?
Who has walked in my soul?
Who has slept with my dreams?
Who has crunched the twilight’s glass?
Who has swallowed my hope?
Who has shoved his hand down the bird’s throat?

Who has fed with flesh my angel?

AuthorRumen Leonidov
2018-08-21T17:22:42+00:00 September 21st, 2013|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 91|0 Comments