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PRONOUNS

 

COLD SPELL

 

THE AUTUMN OF THE PATRIARCH

 

ROMANCE

 

SLEEPING BEAUTY

 

WORDS

 

HERITAGE

 

LUCKY DIGITS

ONLY

 

CATHARSIS


PRONOUNS
OR
CUTTING OFF THE TAIL


I have noticed that,
when in a dream
I am swamped with troubles
like Himalayas,
I start thinking about myself
in third person.

He falls into a living elevator.
It is him they chase.
Into his throat they plunge
screaming knives.

Finally I wake up.
He stays in the dream.

God help him!


COLD SPELL


When the waiter brought me
my steaming bowl of soup –
as hot as if it had come straight
out of the bowels of a volcano –
the dusk outside was singing
in the husky voice of a tramp,
to the accompaniment of the rain.


Two tables away a checkered old man
was staring introvertedly into his plate,
his ashplant, propped up against the other chair
trying desperately but in vain
to burst into blossom.


The TV set behind the bar
gave out gusts of perfumed laughter
and in the eyes of all the girls
I could see the world reflected –
I was the only one
who wasn’t there!


THE AUTUMN OF THE PATRIARCH



Is it not an irony of fate
that instead of a father
I’m a pedophile?


I like small pleasures.
Those infant sisters of ecstasy,
the sweetness of which makes me howl
like a police siren
in a silent film.


But what were you thinking?
I’m talking about
sitting by the window
in an armchair deep as a thought of Heidegger’s,
listening to speeches by Hitler,


while outside it slowly turns to autumn
and in the quiet street
little girls flock to school.


ROMANCE



To be a man
is vulgar
but still prestigious:
taller in stature,
with defining muscles
and a hairy hothouse garden
that silverplates the flesh.


“I am a man”,
he says as he goes to bed
but his voice is so weak
that the sleeping beauty
deep in the bowels of his body
cannot even hear him.


SLEEPING BEAUTY



Her attitude to life
is summed up by a single verb:
to breathe.


She sleeps too long: her dream
has flowed out into the room –
it has flooded the clock
and is tugging the icon
of the Madonna with Child.


She wakes up, horrified.


She gradually comes to her senses
and realizes – unhurriedly
someone is admiring
her body.


Alas, it’s not a prince, so,
regretfully, she goes back to sleep.


WORDS



As the many
before me
I wrote I love you
on the wet sand
and I also drew there
a heart


As the many
before me
I saw how the waves
washed away the words
and bit by bit
deleted the heart


The words were mine
but whose was
the heart?



HERITAGE



When my father died
I inherited
his numerous collapsed
sandcastles


I hope I will be
a better father –
when I die
my son will inherit
my fully intact
castles in the air


LUCKY DIGITS




What can you say
to the waitress? –
dizzy on her high heels,
giddy with her high hopes,
dazed from the maelstroms of light
in the glasses,
feeling the gravitation
of her clients’ eyes.
What can you tell her,
when your watch and your bill show the same
lucky digits,
other than
“Keep the change”?
ONLY


Only her dress
is red
in the black-and-white photo
but this is not proof
of murder

it is not proof
of love

 

the night train crosses
from one day to another
the door of the cabin opens
alone

 

Only his eyes
are blue
in the black-and-white photo
but this is not а sign of weakness

 

nor is it а sign
of life

 

the night train crosses
from one darkness
to another
the door of the cabin closes

alone

CATHARSIS



Leaving the hotel room
I forgot her sweater,
she – mine.



I thought I’d returned with the speed of light,
but I found the room already virgin.
The beds sterile,
the ashtrays clean
like the soul of a dead
newborn.



In the wardrobe of course there was nothing
except for the quiet dusk of a confessional –
I entered it, crossed myself
and began
to speak.
 

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