пятница, 5 августа 2011 г.

look out!..

Never allow your fingers be close to the crushed glass.
Nails are fickle.
They will leave your fingers, they will lie beside the fragments.

My eyebrows decided to trifle with me.
So they hid behind the left ear.
I punished them.
I poured the acid on them.

Lost hangers in your wardrobe
want the wind as much as you do.

Look out.
You can hang there too.

Don't breathe through the threads -
You might get poisoned.

четверг, 4 августа 2011 г.

About the dust and birds

It snows with dust a lot in my room.
I love to swallow it. And knitting needles.
And threads. And beads from the old toys. And toys.

Where did the dust from
the book by Dostoevsky disappear?
It is in my nostrils. And in my stomach. And in my heart. And on the eyelashes.

hush.. Old birds don't like the noise.

… !!...! .! *..,!!!!,,****»..,.?????....%%...!.!..%.%...._+++….(«*(..»*?»%*»:…

They try to say something.
Out of me.

My own thready beady dusty orchestra.
It mustn't be listened to. It must be inhaled.

Suicidal birds constantly ram into my windows.
Tuesday. Morning. At dawn I was trying to catch the local birds
and I was tearing off their wings
so that all of them might not pierce into my windows.

Mercuric fibers.
Grate the sparrows.

About trees and the blindness

Did anyone ever happen
to tear off the butterfly's wings,
going through the fall?

The empty wood inside the half-asleep fish.

All the trees are mad.
I feel myself in safety beside them.
They open an etrance into the street lamp's holes for me.

I gulp trees.

Today I put the dead earth on.
I cut off my face
to hide the cracks.

The crickets go out
when the Moon cries.

it's dark.

Having choked with the branches,
I lost my sight.

to stick

not to live, not to breathe into the dusty snow
not to live, not to breathe into the polar mold
to feed the shrivelled wind with tears
to grab deciduous smog into the back of my head
to burn the moist brushwood under my skin
to rub the mouldering smoke into my knees

keep sticking
with hair into the clay

среда, 22 июня 2011 г.

The soliloquy to a street lamp

Moth ate the asphalt on my street
I’m lying crushed in remains of the road

Hey there.
Hey, look. Stroke it . Yes, this is a tame chestnut.
It sprouts into the most cheerless only.
So you have nothing to be afraid of.
‘Cause you are a street lamp.
You’re standing alone, you’re crumbling away into the garbage can...
You know, frequently I have dreams about scents of frozen fingers
Locked in cracks under the banisters.
They slide on rough wood
Getting splinters
And crackling with them at the time of thunderstorm.
Once I heard that with bits of truth we knock colours out of life 
Colours crave for interlacements.
As a matter of fact, not so rusty as you got.
The road disappeared. Moth, you know..
On the roadside there are so many vagrant empty shoes.
Could you cure it as you’ve cured me once.
Oh but what’s going on?
Sand is shuffling upon the skin.
It looks like sand wants to commune with us.
We are as sandy as it gets, my dear street lamp.
We’ll have to stay here for a couple of Julies.
Hey, where did you go?
It’s gone, sand poured away.
Let us fly away as well.

fields.. poppies..
polar bear

A polar bear!


Hungry? Flights are exhausting, aren't they?
Well, let’s rub with the eye stuffing

heels         hair        nails

And let them march into the stomach
To bring discord.

Hey, street lamp, you seem to have as interlayed nerves as I got,
Interlayed over expectation.

In the corners of the mouth nerves come out
And tie up the tongue.

I’m silent.
But still, we keep breathing out the dreams.

                                                                                                                                          Diana Mak