There is only a limited amount
of angels per square mile of the firmament,
wailing, trembling, somersaulting, relaxing,
angels mumbling and crawling upside down,
chanting psalms to the void.
Can you swim, they ask each other
in those rare moments when they meet,
can you fucking swim, you bastard?
They have a secret place owned
by fish and mushrooms where they stash
their nail pairings and play checkers with
melancholia-addicted beasts of burden.
They poorly assimilate and eat only paper money,
don’t let other creatures splash in heaven,
their vehicles rot in space.
Voices of invisible birds tear the air to shreds,
trees and snakes hide in the grass,
unhewn stone steps lead to eternal banality,
thoughts and clouds pass by and the words remain,
blooming heads of frost gatherers sway in the wind,-
they don’t pay attention.
They don’t exist here on earth at all,
which apparently makes them a laughing stock
when they care.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s