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(the windows we had to abandon)

those windows of the heartbroken homes

you were forced to abandon,

some shattered completely,

some waiting for the traces of light,

they mourn you like children,

who wake to the sounds of the sirens,

they mourn you like widows,

whose husbands were taken at night.

this year stained us all,

so many were broken to pieces.

the earth’s gotten dark,

like the windows we left in the cold.

may you see again those windows,

and let them bear witness

to the strength and the beauty,

that stained glass can bring to the world.


Sitting by the window of the Amsterdam Central train station cafe

May the poetry of the window

Stay with me for a pouring second,

May the hands of the women passing

Tremble less with the cold of others.

May the music of morning anguish

Lift the birds from the lines of power,

As the man with a look about him

Beats the earth in revenge for blindness.

May the glass, that so thinly shields me

From the gaze of the craving giant,

Feed the only eye that would pin me

Feed the eye of the wild haired madman

Of the madman who knows no winter.


(a swing that shouldn’t be here)

Our cities are sick.

They have grown

Too loud,

Too fast,

Too big.

Our cities are sick.

They are not built for growing things.

They are not built for love.

They are not built to human scale.

And so, as we fail

To be the giants that they expect,

They reduce us to rats.

Or maybe to sparrows,

If we are lucky.

Our cities are sick.

So no animal in its right mind,

Would dare to dwell here,

If it was not for fear.

And so we make our own beasts

And let them eat us for breakfast.

And we ride all day in their

Swollen translucent bellies

Up and down the concrete rivers of lust.

Because, you see,

We are as sick as the cities we seek
to abandon.

And if any healing can be imagined at all,

It has to start now,

At once, at random,

On a swing that shouldn't be here.


It ain't easy

Being a woman:

Nobody sees you

Just as a fellow human.

They see you as a mother,

As a trophy, as a whore…

And then they don't see you

Any more.


Быть как писать

Писать как говорить

Говорить как петь

Петь как дышать

Дышать как спать

Спать как не быть

Быть как не быть

И все тут.


Ем пшенку с рыбой, смотрю на себя меньшого

Конструктором генным время сплетает лозы

И пусть детали другие, и город новый

А сказки те же, и те же акульи слезы

Все заживет, и новые вспыхнут лица

В вечной цепочке я больше не буду крайний

А там уж черед у другого края проститься

И в пшенке времени рыбой любви растаять


(I sing, soul electric)

I'm your electric soul,

Calling you from the cloud,

Telling you to relax,

Trust your electric God.

Your memories are stored,

Cross-analized and filed.

Death cannot get you now.

You may now close your eyes.

Let go of analogue

Transient carbon mess.

Light speed and silicone,

Float in the timelessness.

Death can not get you here,

You may now stop your heart.

What makes you so afraid?

Trust your electric God.


(Пляска Святого Витта)


Танцем влекомые

То ли мы боги

То ли насекомые

Кокон пластмассовый

Земле обугленной -

Крылья же в космосе

Нужны упругие

В мутном болоте

Видовой ипохондрии

То ли мы блохи

То ли митохондрии

Гребемся навзрыд

Удаленными пальцами

В светлый тупик



Слышится пение

На судном празднике


Ввысь одномерными

Ляжем колосьями

Не стерпит время



I look through the eyes of the dead

I drink from the blood of the sound

I look through the lids of the words

I breathe through the lungs of my son

I hear through the mouths of the creek

I tremble the strings of the night

I hear through the tongues of the waves

I eat of the death of the sun

I am of the null and the void

I am of the eye and the head

I am of the blue and the quiet

I look through the eyes of the dead


(Small Talk)

What do you do

for a living?


please hold your well-practiced

shield of a semi-acceptable answer.

I’m not

really asking

about the slow

and solid Gods

who send the barbed wire transfers

helping to keep you straight

and your leaky balance

mostly afloat

in exchange

for timely sacrifice:

not being visibly strange

during the working hours

mindless whoring

of what talent

you may still have,

castrating your thought,

and shipping it dead,

sanitized, on time and compliant,

gods that help

stuff your void

numb and silent...

Let them be,

let them think that they

know and measure

your final worth.

But what on earth

do you really do for a living?


How do you cope

with the cancerous,

sensuous onslaught

of sheer existence?

How do you keep

the bowels of time

from rocking and churning

you into a half-digested

poisonous man-jelly?

What kind of lubricant

helps you protect

your mind’s metabolic engine

from the natural, rational

autoimmune kind of madness?

How do you keep your own heart
(or is it the testes?)

from ripping apart

your lifeboat's belly?

What kind of a silly

hook or hope

still keeps you

away from the bottle,

the cave, the rope?

As for myself,

I mostly try

to earn a day’s wages

of sleep at night

and relative peace of wakehood

through violent bursts of vomiting

my brains' leftover content into

a growing variety

of media bowls,

occasional exercise,

hours of walking on end

to no particular end

but sometimes praying,

fasting to silence life,

by taking her in

fully and all at once,

writing this limping verse

in an attempt to get

rid of the clumsy words

dressing feelings as thoughts

bloodletting noise

to relieve the unbearable

resonant ringing

of human souls,

carving wood

to hurt my fingers

as if I made

a slightly less

transient dent

in the tree of days

while still all the way

practicing being

suspended alone

on a string

that fell too short

from my father’s ceiling

into the glue

of life -

that is what I

really do

for a living.

But now let's talk

about you.


This is the stuff of life:

the waiting rooms,

the plastic lids

the broken traffic lights

the half-read books

the half-abandoned parents

the printers low on ink

the empty words

and still more empty beds

the cracked sink

the interruptions


lame excuses

in-laws and in-betweens

sprained ankles

strained relationships

lost keys

hand dryers -

noise that deafens

dust that kills.

This is life's matter:

paying up the bills

replacing light bulbs

driving kids around

buying cold bread

forgetting ‘bout the eggs

back to the shop -

rejoining flimsy ranks

of prickly pickers of the earthly gifts

from the death-merchants

of the plastic needs

then finally home

to bear your labor's fruit:

hardly an hour

of being left to moan,

but left alone.

This is life's marrow:

staring at the screens

emptying bottles

breaking up the vows

cracking the eggs

feeding the worms with words

burying friends and facts

fearing divorce

smoking outside

and hoping for the birds -

This is life’s guts.

And you can spend a lifetime

frantically trying to shake off her dirt

you can despise it

try to minimise it

neglect it and eject yourself from it

noise-cancel it away

to find

in time

that it’s this stuff

that made life


her rhyme.


I brought you a bird from the yellow fields -

She's dead, but her soul's still feathered;

She sings in silence, for now she feels:

Her sadness will last forever.

I painted a picture from memory -

She's dead, but you still can have her;

She'll blind the blessed, so they don't see

That sadness will last forever.

I dug up a heart from my sorrow's depth -

She's dead and wrapped in old leather;

Would you please let her sit on your lap,

For sadness will last forever.


(reading e.e.)

i wish to feel that i too may have written

a poemm strong enough to dance around

the edge of language and take   readers with it

right to thecliff (and then… beyond the cl%ff_

while they are well aware of WHAT they’re reading

& st ill unable to r^esist the plunge

2 darker depths of nonesense which had gi\/en

BiHeadead birth to every grain of mean ing

before we war at were with oursleaves

and k new k not i me meow





imagine that there is

a cockroach inside your genes,

feasting on little crumbs

left behind every time

one cell divides in two

bringing your death to you

and to your children too

cockroach is life herself

ain't nothing you can do


(Almost through)

Our time is almost through:

unmanned and quiet

the Earth

shall travel forth

by her own streak,

for we are almost done

with mindless wiping

our little selves out,

off her burning cheek,

we're almost done

abusing and amusing

ourselves to death

in ever smarter ways,

we're almost done

conjoining and confusing

our dreams of glory

with our darkest fates.

We're almost through…

But in her forward motion

from time to time

will she remember us?

When her scars heal

and she regains composure,

as our concrete shells

that failed to shade

us from ourselves

are but last standing witness

to us, the symptoms of

her passing sickness,

will she remember still

and shed a tear,

engulfing all the fossils

of our madness?

Or will she sigh a storm

and make a vow

to cross her womb

and sail forever freely

through all the heavens' milk

and all their dark,

no body's prison

and nobody's arc?


(Marching Ahead)

Stinky old humans

Covered in sweat

Buried in bitterness

Drowning in debt

Longing past glories

That they never had

Marching ahead

Marching ahead

Poor old humans

Ready to melt

Clinging to ignorance

They never felt

Too scared of dying

To notice they're dead

Marching ahead

Marching ahead


It seems to me

that conscious self-destruction

is the most basic, undeniable,

unique and ultimate,

the only real

Human right. And yet

we constantly and forcefully

deny it

to the very people

we love the most;

O, foolish hypocrites,

pretending to know better,

engaging in the most bizarre

sour acts of mental acrobatics

to justify to no one but ourselves

that fellow humans who so happen

to have the guts

to choose to self-destruct

at evidently different pace,

or in different ways

than we do,

are in the wrong,

don't know what they are doing,

don't have the will, and so against their will

they ought to be tied to their chairs

and brought

immediately and for their own good

back into the sad fold

of us, numb people dying slowly -

for this is where, self-evidently,

all life worth living ever happens fully.

Save us, save us, Lord!


The flavors of joy are many

And may every soul find hers,

But it is my understanding

That at the heart of all joys

Is simply the bounds of selfhood

Dissolving in lucid glow

Of primal unity shining

Through time's ever-swirling flow.

Why then does my dying scare me?

Is it not a joyful task?

And who is here to fear it?

And who is here to ask?


The older man I may one day become

Is standing still before my wishful gaze:

His words are sparse and measured, raw and fresh,

His silver silence pregnant with its charge.

He is not proud, not bitter. Life has spared

The childish twinkle in his wrinkled eyes.

He's not afraid, not sorry. Through the years

He carries on the wisdom of the lambs.

And blessed with the ignorance of time,

Conversing with his giants and his trees

He fades away with dignity and style,

His own late gardener and his own last priest.

He doesn't need a heaven or a ring

To be at ease with what is soon to come -

He has forgiven me for murdering

The older man I wish I could become.



I dare to be timeless,

I dare to embrace

my bloodline of near blindness.


I dare to converse

with giants across

the chambers.

I dare to transcend,

to be boundless,

to sense the patterns of time,



ever ready to die,


I dare to be timeless.


The neck of a stranger

on the opposite side

of the railway car

is long and beautiful.

She probably knows it

and wears her shirt lightly

unbuttoned on purpose.

She may have noticed

me looking. But I care not:

the crowd and many strange lives

that stand between us

are not without their use.

The next stop is hers, anyway.

But let me pretend for a second

that the memory of her

long neck will stay

In my mind forever,

fresh and tempting,

and even a poem about it

or maybe a song

will still collect dust

on some remote bookshelf

long after both of us,

and the other unnamed lives

inside this railway car

have withered and turned

to that very same dust.

Isn't it soothing

that then, at last,

I may be able to rest

a tiny speck

of what I once was

on that beautiful neck

of hers?


(The trouble)

The trouble

with pottery

is that it breaks.

The trouble

with poetry

is that it flakes.

The trouble

with humans

is that they fall

in love

too deeply

too narrowly.

The trouble

with lightning

is that it bends.

The trouble

with living

is that it ends.

The trouble

with heavens

is that they're walled

with love

too high

to get over it.


a drowning man

a failing mankind

a burning earth

a naked death

such are the times

such are the choices

such is the truth

such is the path

for honest men

for troubled species

for fallen souls

for loving beasts

back to the wild

back to the waters

back to the woods

back to their peace

come, healing, come

come to my people

come what is due

come as it may

through what is gone

through what is burning

through cracked hearts

through open veins

take fallen men

take loving species

take honest souls

take troubled beasts

into the wild

into the waters

into the woods

into their peace


All roads that lead

to final dissolution

of Narrow Self

are equal in a sense.

But in another sense

some seem more noble,

others cut more straight.

The coward’s one

appears so sweet today,

that i’m almost jealous
of my hanging self,

blue in the face

and stiff around the neck,

but fully present in that final breath…

And then -
just gone.

But God knows, I'm no coward,

at least not in the matters of the soul.

And so, a mere habit of the Earth,

along a narrow road

I shall go forward,

along the road

that leads me back to Rome,

along the road

that leads me back to Jordan

and further still,

to that unholy place,

where bitterness and cold
unfold their hollows

and Narrow Self

can be at last



There are only the silent and yet to be silent.

There are only the honest and yet to be so.

There are only the fallen and presently falling.

There are only the flowing and swept by the flow.

There are only the humble and yet to be humbled.

There are only forgotten and still to forget.

There are only the crying and soon to be crying.

There are only the dying and already dead.


(yet to fall)

The arrowhead of countless generations,

I'm sitting empty-headed by the lake,

Wasting away their deaths and good intentions

On endlessly reliving their mistakes.

On dreaming through my life, where theirs were slaughtered,

On passing on their acids and their faults...

I'm sitting empty-handed by the waters,

Shaft of the arrow, which is yet to fall.


Of all the thoughts

that passed my empty mind

in recent days

some were banal,

some strange,

some lowly.

This one though...

I think it's coming back

at me again.

I'll put it down,

I'll capture it in ink.

Like glued up insect

it will stay there, still

not bugging me

much longer.

Here it goes:

Oh, bugger!

Stupid thing

escaped again, while I

was putting all

the heaven's gears

in motion!

Too late now.

Should it ever

come around,

I'll have to get it

with my own


It seems, however that

it will not come.

It sucked my blood,

it bit me,

now it's gone.


I’m handing some of my misery,

I’m handing it down to you.

So I can go down in history

As someone who suffered too.

You’ll handle and grow it faithfully,

You’ll water it as your own.

My parents’ debts cost me dearly,

I’m passing them on, in turn.

My parents’ debts cost me dearly,

I’m passing them down the tree.

I’m passing some of my misery…

But all of it stays with me.


(on distrust of words)

Beware of eithers

and their ors,

beware of buts

and nots,

for there be dragons

where blunt words

cut through

the nervous knots,

for there be terrors

where sharp ifs

slice up one world

in two;

beware of everything

that stinks

like coffins

made for



The essence of the world

seems to be hiding

in its own shadow.

May it really be

that she can bear no light

of her own making,

like I,

who never could quite bear

the sound

of my own voice?

The marrow of the thought

seems to have reasons

to never leave the skull.

And there it stays



and wilfully imprisoned

until the day

I too

break out of clay.

And in the meantime

all the words break down

each time I try to give them

something real,

too true to wear

the wrinkled skin of ink,

too straight and soft

to bear the chains of sound.

The essence of the world

seems to be


with never

being born, put down

or found.



what a sad






to    be


How does it feel

to be old?

To be so cold

and settled

that nothing


move or rattle

your numb



How does it feel

to watch

new life

go by

every notch


unwilling to move

in fear

of stirring apart

your swollen

and sewed up


How does it feel

to not

be able to grasp

your own

seemingly clear


so muddled up

kid and corpse

in one,

the remnant

of ancient times,

of life well lived

well travelled

but still undone?

How does it feel

to be


but not quite



On monday

exploring my own guts

with disbelief

I found a jackal there,

a rattlesnake,

a thief

(yes, all of them I knew

quite well before -

they seem to have been there
all along

biting away

my time).

But what was really striking

was that they had

so much to say,

to cry

and to complain about,

as if

I didn’t do them justice every day

avoiding choices,

storing feelings up my sleeve

to only play them when

they had a shot

at making pain

that one could not relieve.

She was there too.

As ever, still and quiet.

Maybe a little older, yet the same.

And looking straight through me,

as if I was a stranger,

as if she couldn’t quite recall my name,

she smiled to heaven and told me to leave;

for this was no place for the faint of spirit

for it was time for her eternal plight,

for there is no way out, except to live it,

while understanding is a dead man’s right.


(For Gavin)

I want to rest in peace.

That is to say,

I want to rest assured


none of this:

no steps along my way

or missteps,

nothing I did,

nothing I didn't do -

that none of it

has any final meaning

in the grand scheme of things -

that would be good.

Or so it seems.

At first.

But then...

There might still be

another kind of peace

available for men -

the endless peace

of having made a dent

in mother nature's bark,

a dot

distinctly set

along her line.


It's her mark, really,

not mine.

Or better still:

I am that mark -

A wrinkle in her skin,
So necessary for that little twinkle

in her eye,
as indispensable as any other feature
of her peculiar smile.

In a short while

I shall go gently under her brown skin

 in peace
of having done

and having been.


(for Kening)

To feel

or not to feel -

that seems to me

to be the real



Or not

even a question,

but a mine

that someone planted

carefully down my spine:

it's set to blow

and smash my mind

to pieces.

Later, when,

after a dive to timeless

depths of darkness,

I get my head

above the streams again

and start,


to mend it back together,

piece by piece,

it's obvious:

all I can ever hope for -

is that next time

I don't break down

like this.


If we are anything specific

(which I doubt),

then we are surely

the nerves of mother nature,

not her muscles.

Yet again this morning

I confused

my longing to be moved

by winds of living spirit

with wild itching

somewhere down my thumb.



maybe dumb


to finally feel

on everything’s behalf

(which is of course my job,

if I have any).


Move me, Mother,

Else I shall die numb.


It seems sometimes

… and then it doesn't seem

at all.

Just like sometimes

it rains and then…

You get the story,

it may seem unfair.

Yet skies are really

always somewhat pregnant,

and life is still

somewhere in the air.


It seems to me

that at this very time

I happen to be stuck




And you are also

here:    .

But there's no room for both.

So hold your breath.

A little longer.


This is the end

and we can all move forth.