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