A fox and a dove have dropped their fables into a creek.
They have been listening to the drummer in
The center of the sun for too long.
They count the statues of primordial animals
That sleep in cracked rusty bowls day by day
Til their heads begin to throb. They wear human masks,
To lose the feel of their hair and feathers.
It is a pleasure to be nameless in this world.


There is a dying drummer in the middle of the sky.
The golden hands of beings called Awhile,
At, And, Along and After carry him away
Into the darkness which is someone’s face.
Afraid to sing, they see no bird, no blade of grass, no tree.
Afraid to lie, tombstones dance below.



Music is like bones
A procession of skeletons that would make
Amateur tarot readers laugh like charlatans
No they would rather consume pure
Abominable sugar which constitutes the surface
Of all the oceans, would rather chant
The words and numbers of their passwords
They haven’t changed for decades


and more

They are traveling gifts of the feminine death,
Flippant and indomitable,
Islands in the sky full of books too tiny to read,
Flowers too small to see,
Volatile smells of earthly formidable woods,
Talking animals mocking Egyptian deities.
The important thing is to keep human feet
When you tread on dead air.



What I miss is random almost random landscapes
Trimmed horizons overthrow the gaps between ramshackle mansions
I can’t find a crack in the sky nor food for a foot
I take heed of the lakes insane like butterflies and sunflowers
Radio stations are crumpled masks for divine sleep
Flat tires and hiccups blow up each asshole I love
Evaporate manifold puddles that soon become their eyes
I am to hear rare drops of water inside the roadkill
Good music always means death to the listener



When you dozed off in a public restroom stall
Some vainglorious archangel signed your t-shirt tag that
Stuck out on the neck and erased
All the traces of death from your body,
Then went back to perform the routine
Separation of snails from clouds.
Wake up, awkward doll; go look for
Your pungent shining hangover.



It is said that the ocean needs respect but what it really needs
Is long dead within us. The ocean is a lone huge dead eye,
Which is a pity, you might say, but there is nothing to see anyway.



Prairie dogs invite the sun underground,
And it enters the burrows, its nose bleeding, feet cracked.
Nights begin with cold air in the lungs of timid monsters,
With broken urinals in the public restrooms.
Birds can somehow take pictures with the eyes
And lose them far above in the morning.
The hair of light disappears in the songs;
It is singing that brings disaster, wearing
The masks of the living, one after another.


passing by

Towers and pyramids built for cattle and fowl to sleep and relax
pierce the eyes in the sky. Dogs quarrel behind yesteryear’s rain
and yesterday’s soup, pharmacists paint the puddles.
Your relatives would never bring to the grave
your favorite dish. Junk food is prohibited in the hereafter
unless you are Andy Warhol. An awkward figure
on a creaky bicycle wearing a frayed bathrobe
and carrying a scythe in an inept hand passes by
giant dismantled monuments to the last communists
and stranded submarines on fire. Towers and pyramids
built for cattle and fowl to sleep and relax have been always surrounded
by oddballs in search of another language.

as if

Revenants walk carefully as if
the earth were smiling at them.
Too much wine and music had
made them disgustingly beatified,
and saxophones laugh.
They follow the numbers
inside sweet puddles and
thrown stones. Out of thin air
into nothing float countless
curses of mythical animals.
Dreams don’t fit
passenger seats anymore,
but if mosquitoes can dream,
they dream of eating a saxophone,
and every feather lost by a bird
instills fear into the real McCoy.


I remember skiffs covered with cobwebs
drifting downstream, oar blades underwater,
spiders dancing above, their vast burning shadows
chilling trash on the banks, gulping vodka;
long feathered tongues of the earthlings
were unable to lick the chains of the puddles
off the streets with a cracked skyline.

The nights were cold for ancestor worship.
Planets and stars didn’t exist, nor did typos,
cigarettes didn’t light.
I was grateful to everything that could be silent:
currant bushes, outhouses, buckets of water.
Neighbors were looking for doormats and newspapers
to wrap themselves up. No one was going to die.


among dead trees and
sleeping winds boxed animals
make silence out
of human fibs (long life is
terrifying but it can be
everlasting) widowed eagles
get rid of the wings
dropping them on the roofs


unfinished churches and public restrooms are ideal places for barbershops
fish-garbed patrons usually leave them inebriated with the fine perfume of the dead
five steps away already forgetting the name of the brand dreaming about verbless novels
while the angels clutch at the hair clippings trying to figure out their characters

{from the comments on muffled}


Foreign comedians gather mushrooms, walking on the walls of the castles protected by UNESCO, gibbering, making obscene gestures. Mousetraps snap time and again, but they don’t hear; death never comes in advance, you know, however much you try. They think an ouroboros is a rare bird with an especially nasty voice.


Dead frogs and lost gloves
can hear the trains whistling underground.
Rain asks dead people every kind of question
they are not able to answer. It is
furious like a drunken ant at the bottom of a star,
the bottom most of us shall never reach.
Fish crawl all over the walls and fences
stealing our breath, transmuting
our blood into ketchup, gathering
the bottoms of our words. You know,
we are as phoney as serial killers.