Of Dreams and Pugmarks

Beer-sick nights
Children rolling around in bear-fever
Mothers needing to bear these children forever

Fifty nine pages of ill-digested laments
And they reach stardom for the same sacred werewolves

I’ve seen such nights naked in my bed
Dancing atop the mountains for the fools’ Sinai
Ah, what a sight -
Madness dancing atop sadness!

Prisoners filling up the sky
There’s no cup of gold or fountain of life
It’s just these crumpled yellow pages
And an old, forsaken Hart Crane sighing in my garden

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By the way, have I told you about my garden flowers?
I guess not, for there aren’t any…

I see these green slopes
I feel the water crying through them,
through those green leaves which hide the desert

And, unlike Casanova,
I prefer to talk a lot, though I never listen
Let me explain why,
You see, I’m not ready to share my silence with anybody
And I’m not interested in anybody’s silence but mine

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Roofs – they close down at times
And at other times they just disappear
You look at the cat catwalking along the window-sill,
You hear the strange harmony of the clock
and think that it’s Time talking to you
And you start visualizing some graveyard with
thirty eight clumsy rows and forty five orderly columns of scarecrows in place of crosses

Well, a clown’s judgment never gets clouded
Because the cloud is here,
between my lips,
And there,
between the skulls of motion and stillness

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When the curtain drops,
And the puppet-master decides to call it a day,
The strings get loose,
You start thinking of the stars and madness and eternity….



Even then, freedom is essential

And, here I stand:
A scarred moon with broken jaws and hollow eyes.

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