Monday, 4 February 2013

4 Dark Poems

Her Portrait in Darkness
Pic from

The wind of oblivion is blowing in the cemetery.
Dust covers your playful smile;
It caresses the bleak joy in your dreamy eyes.
There is still a glare of hope in them;
Food for the maggots.
An eventless eternity is waiting for you, darling,
No room for dancing in the grave.
You are blurred memories in my feeble mind now,
Neurons dissolving in a bottle of wine.
Our happiness a desecrated grave,
A braindead child
Smiling at the abyss.
Us two actors in a coffin
Playing with the masks of despair.

Decomposing in Tears

The old woman hurried to the same place
Her shoulders hunched up
As if God himself pressed his boot on her back
Like a driver pushing the accelerator.
Her brain was bleeding.
Black, crying eyes rolled on the sidewalk.
When she lit the cigarette
Death slapped her wrinkled face
The abyss filled her mouth with sand
And she smiled like a retarded child
From out of nothing.

Feeling like she was behind life and death,
She buried herself in the garden
But no one noticed her absence
And she began crying and screaming in her unknown grave
Like a child in his mom’s womb.

After tasting the sand in her mouth for a while,
She shoved her knotty trembling hands in her head
And threw black and white memories chaotically around her;
Tea parties, she used to be so coquettish and sophisticated,
But her youth shrunk into a bitter mask
Decomposing in tears.

Dog Days

I am sorry, Mom, for smashing your face with my winter boots
And skating on your humid brains spread on the floor.
These dog days melted my mind.
But I have to tell you
I don't feel so good,
I think I have a headache,
and I'm not very happy.
Give me a hug!

Dad, I don't know what came over me
But it seems that I hung your intestines in the window,
There was too much light in the room, you see,
The sun ruined my privacy.
Why did I throw your head in the toilet?
Why did I stick your heart in the garbage?
What was I thinking?
I'm not sure if I adorned the apple tree in front of the house
with your limbs.
It's not Christmas yet.

Sis, it seems that I will sleep in your warm blood tonight,
Dream of our happy childhood,
Our first visit to the cemetery;
our mother's womb.

Darling, I must say,
Even dead, you look like a doll more than ever.
A dream seems to float before your beautiful eyes.
Do they play a movie on the wall?
What is it?
Tell me, please, tell me!
Look at me when I am talking to you!

Spring at the Slaughterhouse
Cutting the umbilical cord
connecting me to my dead body
has led to full paralysis.

Red, pulsating dreams are no longer growing
in empty parking lots.

Muddy memories of pale children, old stories,
and dusty music records,
float through my mind like sepia toned pictures.

I talk from time to time to the other patients.
Their words mingle in my brain,
dripping down my temples like sweat.

Once, the phone in our room started ringing
and we looked at each other.
No one could pick it up.  
After a while a nurse came and answered it.
"It's for you." she said, looking at me.

She placed the receiver next to my ear.

A familiar voice said:
"Spring has come to the slaughterhouse! Animals blossom!"

My ear bled,
as the receiver penetrated me
and the feeding resumed.

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