I swore myself that
I won't die
Until I've found
the rhythm
With which to tap
the sense of my life
I've been searching for years
and
then it came
when I was lying with no thoughts
the neighbour
next door
hammered the walls
the clock was tick-tocking
the water was drip-dropping from the tap
I won't die
My land
What is it all about, guvner
am I not allowed to drink, spit or swear here
this hideous crowd of aggregate re-creation
after all this is my land
For years I've been meditating over the weirdness of mandala
stained with blood spots of the eternal Building-site
normal to all appearance
the digestive system of streets palpitates
there is no face below every eighth cap
– the national average
the addressees of the dumb neon signs are just like them
grotesque and defective
On the palm of my town
the line of happiness is already worn out
I stubbornly look after
the line of heart
The staircases blooming with urine
they are lumpen-proletariat parliament here
if it were not for the orphanages and the aged hotels
I would think that
WE ARE ALL VERY NEEDED HERE
I go past Bosch's mad ship
Queing to get Bosch drifters
What is wrong, guvner
I have only unsaddled my nerves with a few pints of beer
And what is in, er –
guvner
AAAh!!! to force
and to cry out a few m/orally forbidden words
And I could escape into myself but THEM
psychiatrists
are lurking
to reincarnate me
into an inter-hospital corridor-dweller
so, guvner
I'll stay here somehow for
there are two of us
ME AND MY TOWN
two faithful companions
Tattoo
what happened
under the Bodhi fig-tree
where drunk Gautama
mumbled that everything is
suffering
and he threw an empty bottle
at the Moon
the universe hugged Gautama
embraced
they are equally incomprehensible
by the white breast
of my lady
I do my best to forget
about suffering
on her thigh
there is a tattoo of a nude woman
and she is always smiling
Gautama,
does she not
suffer at all ?
I throw an empty bottle at the Moon
Martha and Maria
On foot-soled pavements
I've been seeking you, man-Friday's trace
In vultures' nests
I've been seeking you, the unmollusced pearl
In night bars
I've been seeking you, the morning dew
In the crowd of Marthas
I'm seeking for you, Maria
* * *
to Luke
for the verse 21, and the chapter 17
I have seen thousands running
I have seen thousands screaming
I have seen thousands praying
and not a single
god
I buy spectacles
I can see millions running
I can see millions screaming
I can see millions praying
and not a single
god
I turn my eyes inside
I can see billions running
I can see billions screaming
I can see billions praying
gods
and not a single one...
Jesus
Near the forest track
Which owes its existence to the drunk villagers` bikes
Is sitting
Jesus
Whom owe their existence the drunk villagers
The rain
Is compassionately washing the polichromy down
From His head
But every night
Some sadist
Again and again paints the eyes
On His face
* * *
yes
I did pray for long
but when you consider
god's age
much too short
and god was angry
I did search for god briefly
but when you consider
the speed of Creation
far too long
and god's look was sour
yes
I did give alms
but
the arrogance of intention
and god was indignant
I did preach love
but
drunken interacts
and god
no
I do not believe in god
I believe in Man
it's nearly the same
Books in the snow
one morning in December
I stroll around the supermarket
brave as a medal
I can see homeless drunkers
lying in the snow
on that very day I sell all my books
and the word became a product
and became rotten among us
say no if I am wrong
say yes if I am right
cry
snarl
but do not be silent
my head
The little match girl
She did not trade with matches
but cheap wine
Mr. Andersen
and she would exchange herself for a moan
of Babylon coins
It was not in winter but in summer, sir,
not in snow but just round the corner
pale legs in the pale sun
and she got them after God's Creation
Wrapped not in a shall but in mastery
of the local hairdresser
shackled in a corset not with the flame of matches
she tempted
but with her eyebrows' fire
Lady Rogue
a harlot
a regular whore, Mr. Andersen
lonely
The opening of the exhibition
to Vincent
everything as usual
bla- bla- blabbing about
the price of Mercedes
and Richard's new lover
then scarfed males
went to a champagne dance
and even someone drunk
tried to discuss the art of painting
and it would have been
a nice opening day
if just before the closing
some idiot
had not cut off his ear
Taming the lack of You
I look at You
under the pale skin I can see
a SKULL
an empty plate
after vermin's breakfast
already without eyes
you'll be
I touch your hands
BONES they'll
outlast
the flesh will fertilize the sand
I can see You're getting smaller
a micron this year
paling
when you decay
it blossoms
within me for You
love
a warm sharing
but I
me too
DEATH is
immortal
teaches me to live
with loving seconds
* * *
Buddha is a woman
she sometimes beats a carpet
murmuring holy vibration
Ommm...
after 10 p.m.
the door-keeper drives her out of the back-yard
let PEOPLE sleep woman
Buddha is a woman
gentle
she feeds birds with vibration
Ommm...
she knows a lot about suffering of
births
diapers
bedsores
and of death
but she won't reveal that
not even to the woman next door
Ommm...
Buddha is a woman
she washes her underwear
dreaming about peaceful old age
Buddha is a woman
within me
Still hungry
my age becomes older
what used to hurt
the dead wings of a bird
a crying cat
and a sleepless night
it becomes dull
words lose their gloss
I do not know whether it is boredom or
silence
not waiting for anything
for is it worth anything
waiting for nothing
I creep to the kitchen
I am hungry
unwanted dishes grow in number
I get older
dying alive
death after death
and there is grass
so hungry
for grass
so much hungry
for love
The last judgement
forgive me that instead of pain
I fell in love with the eyes of
Brigitte Bardot
and I believed that a banner was a sign-post
forgive me that I lingered over sand-glasses
taming death
with Bayer
aspirin
forgive me that stubbornly
wearing stinking socks
I put banners on the moon in the crater of
Copernicus
forgive me that all that time
blind
proud
craving
in these last moments
I am flying among the doves of peace
I can see my innocent planet
she is still a virgin
although some time ago
he was always around her
the sun
here and there
with a blind dog on a lead
a man
is praying
a Friend
Christ Our Lord
he was guite a guy
think of
the wedding-party at Cana
or a fight with the merchants in the temple
sitting in a wine-bar
pouring cheap brandy from under the table
I think I wouldn't mind having a friend like that
I come back home
next to the church there is a cross
no one is hanged
on it
there are stains of blood
on my bed
I pick up thorns left in my pillow
I fall asleep
and I dream about a miracle
Virtue
Common-sense is a virtue
for a schizophrenic who
fires a gun
at the clouds
following him every day
it may really be a virtue
not to swallow a type-writer
in order to learn the alphabet
by heart
but you
please lose your reason at least for a moment
and you will see why every t r e a
is so beautifully different from other
tree
Look
when you do not believe in anything
have a look
at a burning away
cigarette
what it
could say
it dies with dignity
lesser only from that
of
a match
Healthy cooking
We cook our best feelings
strictly in accordance with the recipe
we put a pinch of love into a pan
a little faithfulness
and still stirring
we spice it with a drop of passion
We heat it up
strictly in accordance with the recipe
on a heat-proof pan
over a low flame
and we treat others to it on occasion
On week days
we eat it up cold over a newspaper
to make sure
that feelings
can burn neither themselves
nor us
strictly in accordance with the recipe
Stuck on myself
This kind of moaning
comes from the fear only
though It
was already born dumb
therefore the silence
of the hospital hall
feeds on the murmur
of slippers
though It
won't ever fight the thoughts
spinning their tango
round the head
Between me and the suns
there is a window-pane
and neuroleptic hosts
Stuck on myself
in the eyes of the window
pushed about in the morning
in the porridge line
before the pulse test
just in case
I borrow a heart from
No I don't play chess
with anyone
I take off my halo
before going to bed
and dream of the checkmate
while here
eternal as the thought of dead God
stalemate
Hop!
You said I would see You in two hours
The seventhousandtwohundredsecond waiting
Zen Buddhists say
that HOP! and in every second
we are born and we die 49 times
then waiting for You
I was born and died
threehundredfiftythousandeighthundred times
the worst of it is that you are gone
and you won't come
until tomorrow
HOP!
* * *
there is music
so sad
so much
that after it there is only
...there is breathing out
so deep
so much
that after it there is only
...there is life
so trivial sometimes
that after it
there is only
...there will be day
breathing in
and joyful
music