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.
Five old women prone to forget the keys in the locks
sit on a small newly painted bench in the park.
The corners of their eyes are full of empathy.
The smell of extraterrestrial food smothers the blackbirds,
passes through the keyholes, disperses.
The sun rises and the sun goes down,
and dragonflies with broken wings fight against lost spacecraft.
According to theosophists and UFO buffs,
erratic movements of some cyclists and lawn mowers clearly show that
they are just heavily transformed drops of mercury
from ancient thermometers, now set free.
As you surely know, these cheap mystics like to jam
that kind of gaudy bullshit into your head, and I do too.
But children still daydream about twisted metal rods on construction sites
which threaten heavens with unseemly renovations
and remind raccoons and coyotes of the pierced guts.
It’s the songs of naiads and alligators in the sewers
that hopelessly distort messages from outer space.
However, you can enjoy Saturnian wine much more
when you are here, far away from Saturn.
There is a sacrilege of walking water
And laughing stones
All around a pinpoint sky where
Camels are doomed to buy rare books.
Words are too clumsy for equine ears.
Vegetables suck the planets dry
And float away to bathe in the sea of
Idiocy with agoraphobic soap bars, to
Change the attitude to the one
Improper for revelation, to blatantly say:
End of story.