A dragonfly sleeps in a seedy apartment next to a frog
Waiting for tsunami or at least 60,000 water spirits
Reluctant to tear them apart
Stones of different colors like holes in the brain
Surround each soul discarded by the ancestors
Rodents like to sit on them talking nonsense
Or just repeating the word they hate the most


The memory of a ladder
consists of eleven hammers and twenty eighth towels.
The world is a missing limb of a snake,
and storytelling is the worst bit of it.
Monsters and mutants are looking for a blank page,
immaculate wall or a blackboard.
The world is eternally in a pouch of a hamster
that recites the love letters of Lenin.



Stained book covers declare war on ghosts.
Walking trees hide from yesterday inside uncountable nouns.
Angels write endless erratic fiction for senile atheists,
play soccer with the head of the first victim of outer space on weekends.
Never forget to rename the disfigured stars, my dear,
says an owl to an insomniac.


The day picket fences breathed erratically and gas fireplaces reflected the nature of broken oceans, I was born in a room achingly looking for a corner. Youngsters unknown to the school staff ran through the walls, the fingers broken like oceans. Seafarers said nothing but the air was too cheap to bother selling it so it was free, and the sunlight described it anew every moment. The last time my parents saw a huge mammal it was a monument to a famous firefighter. There were digits all over its body, but they didn’t constitute a number.



With the passage of time the stars
spread out underground.
Herons destroy bridges and dance on
ice floes, dead dogs and beer cans.
Names and monikers don’t stick to the living.


Tarot fools are doomed to chase fleeting
substances and creased dust jackets.
Names and monikers don’t stick to the living.
Multiplying voices of Moloch salad
shouldn’t disturb untimely dreams.


Crumbling void penetrates cold.
Heat makes lizards unceasingly chant the silence.
With the passage of time the risk
of spontaneous combustion increases.
Divination by stolen books is a perfect disaster.


The roadkill are fain to visit us at our humble abodes.
They are beautiful distortions, all sorts of creatures
speaking a poisonous language we faintly recognize,
even a few fish with big mouths. The words
we don’t understand dissolve them. Impartial eyes
place them between those words in the air.
We don’t want to know what they usually do.
Let us just say, they laugh at our expense.
Or they like to panhandle in the fields,
languidly becoming heraldic. They know what
humanity is. They know how to erase it from our souls.


Deer never know where they came from.
They flee from cumbersome light,
shunning ghost gates marked by rough wooden poles.
Trees get lost in the hills. Old age doesn’t bring
wisdom to hawks and stones, old gods are
prone to destroy the context of the world.


When you count animals to fall asleep,
they begin to change, grow spare legs, tails,
eyes and other body parts, quite purposeless,
blow silly brass gadgets and cautiously
tap at piano keys with the hooves,
intertwine, merge and scatter away
squeaking, howling, roaring, etc.,
crunching light bulbs and mushrooms,
mocking their own allegorical nature,
and the jovial cosmos eagerly
awaits the whole pageant to go bananas,
heavy layers of the void fill the cages,
kennels, pens, stables, coops, corrals, pastures
and the hungover heads of illiterate deities forever.


Amidst the smell of grass pissed over by coyotes,
gullies replete with insect spirits,
plants mocking menorahs,
sounds of animals that doubted my existence,
I was a rusty road sign that couldn’t read itself.