I am alive
On the edge of a caramel circle or, perhaps, of an abyss.
Sliding with my right sponge foot, when going left and…
Sliding with my left shortcrust foot, when going right.
I’m discovery.
I slowly comprehend.
I hurriedly clamber.
I get back.
I clamber.
I butt.
I shift my feet.
I catch up.
I’m concealment.
I step with my knees on my own unremarkable hands.
Vanilla stick crust…
I am alive.
-
Predestined
It’s predestined
blood-coloured sunset
it’s predestined
bleak cold day
it’s predestined
gulp of poison
to my lips
you brought
it has come true
I’m the past
I’m the shadow
all over
and all is…
predestined.
-
Did the little boy exist?
Who was that little boy
In a frill from magpie fluff?
Who was that little boy
whose fingers are tenderer than tarragon?
Who was that little boy
in a cloak from the tears of Harlequin?
Who was that little boy
with a look of a work-worn scaffold?
Who was that little boy whose thoughts...
But what do we know?
Precipitated into a hellhole
(for the next to feel shame)
‘cause he couldn’t bear
in his haggard body
the gift of God –
a beautiful soul?
An immortal soul.
Did that little boy exist?
It seems that all this is rubbish
and cowardice.
-
Two fists
Two
fists
pressed
to breast.
Two
fists
cold
as ice.
Two fists…
Today
revived in them –
death.
On the edge of a caramel circle or, perhaps, of an abyss.
Sliding with my right sponge foot, when going left and…
Sliding with my left shortcrust foot, when going right.
I’m discovery.
I slowly comprehend.
I hurriedly clamber.
I get back.
I clamber.
I butt.
I shift my feet.
I catch up.
I’m concealment.
I step with my knees on my own unremarkable hands.
Vanilla stick crust…
I am alive.
-
Predestined
It’s predestined
blood-coloured sunset
it’s predestined
bleak cold day
it’s predestined
gulp of poison
to my lips
you brought
it has come true
I’m the past
I’m the shadow
all over
and all is…
predestined.
-
Did the little boy exist?
Who was that little boy
In a frill from magpie fluff?
Who was that little boy
whose fingers are tenderer than tarragon?
Who was that little boy
in a cloak from the tears of Harlequin?
Who was that little boy
with a look of a work-worn scaffold?
Who was that little boy whose thoughts...
But what do we know?
Precipitated into a hellhole
(for the next to feel shame)
‘cause he couldn’t bear
in his haggard body
the gift of God –
a beautiful soul?
An immortal soul.
Did that little boy exist?
It seems that all this is rubbish
and cowardice.
-
Two fists
Two
fists
pressed
to breast.
Two
fists
cold
as ice.
Two fists…
Today
revived in them –
death.
