Saturday, December 8, 2012

Do you remember me? how we used to be?
don't you think we should be closer?
Roger Waters . Final Cut Album



And when i looked up at the sky --
hazy and blind.
With the crescent purple and yellow like an eye
after a fight.
When I opened
my mouth to take a breath,
I could smell your northern hair,
I could see your face.
Pale. White. Almost blue.
Dont ask me how,
but i know it was you.

And when the morning came,
lazy and gray,
with its sun looking tired like a washed out slut.
No! its sun looking worn like a child who's lost,
I looked up at the sky and could feel your heart,
blissful and bare.
I could hear your heart
and i became blissfully torn.
And that's when I heard:
love is within your reach.
Like a golden coin in the temple it is being tossed.
And drowning in this blessed news like a drunkard at the final feast,
I understood that nonexistence is its cost.


Thursday, October 18, 2012

The Eye

He said: "everything is kitsch".
He was wrong.
Pain -- is not.
Neither are dogs.
Life clings on to hope.
Tiresome leach.
We stare at specks.
Ignore logs.
Life will pass.
Hope -- it will die.
It will all be deleted.
Erased.
The only thing left will be your Eye.
Clear.
Tearless.
Crazed.

Homeland

after the russians

What is left to me from that land
but ashes and snow?
Couple of cellphone numbers..
A heart that's ripped...
Questions answered with a viscous "no".
And my step-- uneven -- that often slipped?

What is left to me
but a white-faced street?
A black crow digging into
the night's remains?
You and I will live out this life,
yet we'll never meet.
'Cause we believe in losses
more than in gains.

And on opposite sides of this earth
one night
Both of our hearts will skip a beat
And running barefoot into the snow
in search of a sign,
we will feel its pure and naked heat.

We will see it then -- each other's face
For an instant fleeting -- like a flash-on screen
Now I sit and stare at the empty space,
at this dogged out absence
where You should have been.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Mother

my mother.
she looks good in white.
very few people do.
it becomes her.
isn't that how they say it in english?
very becoming.
my mother
she tells the truth
like
some hoodlum youth
my mother
she tells me i am a finished bitch
and she is right
because
she looks good in white

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Reproach

The sky looks strict.
Precise.
It says:
Look at me!
I am clear.
Blue.
My clouds are shaprly white.
And you?
You -- are smeared.
Indefinite.
Trite.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Veteran of An Afghan War


i've seen newborn babies' heads
roll like dice
what do you want from me?
words of compassion? gestures of love?
if it were up to me you'd be hanging like christ
on a fucking cross only upside down.
and i said: that was peter he died like that.
and he said: YOU don't know the dead. 
i ve seen women's wombs carved out
like etchings in wood
intricate. raw.
don't speak to me of any evil and good.
you whore.