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.

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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