everything is heresy

In the city where my mother was born and where I have
Never been an infidel could hide
Behind a blade of air or cut the world into thin slices
Just for a grain of sand any vagabond could
Detach the roofs and towers from the sky and walk
Away laughing
Cursed by the snore of the empress
(Time on her temples dried faster than submarines after rain
Than the wine made on the fifth day of creation)
People ate rat tails and had sex with demented horses
Local angels were eternally out to lunch
And the street campfires smelt like the tongues
Of soused storytellers wrapped in blankets and towels



When collective memory becomes
A blessing to the soul of a sinner
Chasms of light one by one penetrated
By an anonymous scream
Doorknobs and keyholes are nuisance
Unbearable more than the last
Trace of a cloud to an innocent eye



There is always a crooked smile
Dissolved in the last page of a book,
In the moments of awakening and
Of birth. To those who have never witnessed
The fall of an empire someone dead is
Still singing in Russian about the stifling
Atmosphere of paradise. Perhaps he will
Always sing that banality.



Shaggy rodents ceaselessly look for the urine of the stars
In the roar of the stairwells too short to be tired of
Dry black grass scratches at the shadows of hoary beings
Forgotten somewhere between the folded waves of insomnia
And puddle light can’t help cursing the sun
Let me tell you a story too short for a pillow too crumpled
And huge to be smothered with



I hear the sky’s sediment kissing a broom
A shopping bag believing in uncombed forests
I can’t fathom how many songs end up with a handful of unsound suns
Whenever silence devours the eyes of a tyrant
Crossing the birdless air to save broken ashtrays



Birds facing extinction hide behind the
Smell of tortured harpsichords
And watered sofas. Darkness is
A sloppy fable where giant eggs grow
And sleeping beasts roam, wickedly toothless.



Slivers, I swear by water, by
The surface of abstinent flesh, of
A shattered sun belong to
Dying insects. But be careful: wine
Left for indigenous spirits after a bout
Can cut your tongue.
Foxes circle like the names of someone
Who should never be named
In the mouth of a sleazy priest,
Circle around the spots of
Eternal sleep. The tails
Burn your exhalations on the sly. Cows don’t
Perform miracles in the fields anymore.


now that

Now that we don’t have a place to return
We can finally stop and smell whatever
We can barely smell. Spoilt chairs
Ride nanny-goats high above over the windows,
Empty bottles crammed on the windowsills,
The taste forgotten, and the sound they make
We can barely hear. The books on the shelves
Don’t have to be translated, don’t have to
Be even understood. Sunflowers laugh
Under the cracked soles, and the mute brains
Of barking dogs can’t help enjoying
Leaves fallen centuries ago. And little rodents,
They make the skies happy
Hiding in the unfeasible holes of oblivion.
Long live archaic theaters, one inside another.
No blood, no sweat, no word, no ending.

narrow un-

From the existence of lampposts and creatures flying
In the erratic rays of artificial poisoned light
Life shrinks to the point of divine bureaucracy
Like leaves over the flowerpots
When the houseplants calmly count the moons
They can manage harmlessly
A mercenary hears time and again that feathers don’t bleed
But he doesn’t exist and doesn’t believe it


Stinking stairwells hide wet stars between discolored steps, smack dab in the walls
I have done things worse than swimming in homemade stone
Or divining by bleating cars of cast iron groves
No lover can touch a warbling jazz critter on the roof but
I believe in overdue pills buried in musty carpets of historic buildings
And neolithic weather reports and postponed haircuts
Splintery boards stretch out between clouds plundering time
Horror stories become shorter than cigarette butts in the prayers of children


A guest takes off the hat,
The wig, the head, almost drops on
The parquet clumsily, takes
A flute (the very kind you can buy
At a toy store) out of a pocket of his
Striped green and yellow pants and
Cockadoodledoos, then gets immersed
In counting his toes. The other guests,
Indifferent to the movements of
The insipid air, regret that
They haven’t washed their hooves
And feathers. Neither wood nor stone
Nor water is being exactly worshipped,
But empty flower pots immensely enjoyed,
Fire and earth consumed from
The cumbersome goblets,
As well as the furniture and
The hired musicians.
Do you, by any chance,
Speak Occitan? – cries someone
Into an open window.
What a charming travesty
Of being a host.


Stolen library books are stuffed with the words never ready for divination
With deafening reptilian noise of long sentences only humans would care to read
It is a wail of an unplucked flower on the verge of an unfinished sky
A forgotten wave of the harvest of a year broken with pacified mouths



Trains are raining frogs on sluggish fields
Between recyclable lampposts. Cars
Become merry watermelons with seeds on fire.
They smile afterwards like invented children
Retired gods forbid you to discover.


Brooks shatter the dwellings of the clouds
Hoary owners of the blind narratives the winds lose outside the universe
Rats disappear in the warehouses and universities
Lick uninhibited statues along the way that doves avoid