Heavens were pregnant with the flutists of Azathoth devouring a dragon once in a millennium
Later the angels used to urinate on Harappa and Babylon to chew the strings of the harps
The muses especially Calliope loved to play with rats and motel pillows
Good tea was an embittered enemy of Venetian lute music
The musicians threw the instruments into the canals stones at the listeners on the banks
Now let’s celebrate the horrors of the country we happen to live in
The freedoms of not being happy wastebaskets and dumpsters
Brimming with artistic sensibilities and rainbows and holy shit and the moon
And the smells of eternally young horses that can emanate several shadows and souls at once and


In the wake of a horror story between the eyes and heels
Of Artemis and Apollo rabbits were savoring the
Souls of the Presocratics. Animals hate squares and circles, you know.
They avoid straight lines either.
When they dance, the Pied Piper dies with all his doubts.
Crows dress like dead fish when they are happy.



There is a myth, long forgotten, of a centaur
Who came from a barren planet to taste
Potato chips, dandelions and whatnot.
Before he lost his conscience in the slums of
A city with the name too banal to remember
The residents didn’t know what to do
With their fingers, toes, tongues and ears.
He told them that history was pure refund,
That animals had the right to forgive,
That dreams belonged to the pool in the middle
Of Saturn, that all the Martians were stark mad,
He told them some other nonsense too.
There are years and centuries inaccessible to the wise.



The air is torn by the birds
And train whistles in the morning;
The jingle of the collar remains
When the dog is already too deep
Even for Orpheus. The clouds have
Been eaten up by antsy flowers
That would be pleased to speak of
The peoples from obscure mythologies
With the eyes to enter and go mad.

* *

People build towns on hills.
They don’t care what Noah would think about them.
There is always a way to learn the age of the water,
Always a way to ask what it doesn’t like to keep hidden.
Noah is jealous like a thousand beavers in a meadow,
Dead like stranded fish. But Jonah builds Trojan whales
And leaves them on the highest mountains he can reach.
They rot for centuries exposing the empty guts
To the genial sun and astounded silent birds.
The void conquers God while the prophets relax below.
The higher you climb, the less your voice needs you.



At the cardinal points people sing of the useless moon
And burn agricultural treatises and starships day and night.
The unborn and suicides dance away the future,
While the leviathan sends them emails about sailors dead for centuries.
Oceans rest like terrified puppies in the dearth of landscape.


too short

Philistines dream of being charlatans with the feet cut by crushed flowers,
Walking around the holes in gloomy skies, selling the sweet slavery of the omphaloi
To addicted children. Centaurs would have trampled them and then washed their hooves
In the appalled waters of hoary rivers, but we, being two-legged and hoofless,
Have memories too short to remember the exquisite executions of the ancestors.
Only some old shit like Mozart or Magnasco could revive those unholy scenes
On the cellular level. Happiness is a dangerous obsession indeed.



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.



Wearing the masks of petrified beasts,
three women ride a claustrophobic rat that
says hi to every high-heeled shoe they pass by
ahead of all the stones of the sun.
Heavy birds fall into the fissures far above,
only to reappear under the feet of the creatures whom
doors and windows of the air prevent from letting out.
The women count each other’s teeth and bruises.

before noon

when apollo discovered two extra muses wearing blooming digits on the slopes of a barking mountain fallen leaves avoided the palms of the insane every moment before noon

as usual

They say that the Tower of Babel had no windows
to avoid acrophobic fits. Dropouts sold magic carpets,
socks and panties at the entrance. Stilts too.
Spiders on the walls dreamt of icy surfaces
lit by invisible lamps. Shouts and songs disappeared
in the cracks in the sky. A deicide suddenly
discovered a word on the pillowcase and left town.
Dates of birth had become meaningless but
the celestial animals still hid in their abodes.

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.

no testament

Time exists only for the oppressed. Whenever we enter paradise, it disappears. I, John the Divine, have witnessed this phenomenon so many, haha, times that I feel almost disgusted talking of it. I have been killed by so many a man, given birth by so many a woman and remember all of them in so many a detail that it has all become a monstrous tattered rug which only the fools could use as a means of transportation; the wise would immediately leave it to a beggar with the shreds of memory attached to it, because the left armpit of Pontius Pilate is still hovering high above, invisible to the naked eye.

I walk an endless road that leads nowhere, I pick spoilt mangoes covered with dust and eat them, I drink from stale ponds deer don’t dare to approach. I can’t write but parrots discuss the typos I haven’t made in the deep of the woods, the leviathan sings the songs I have never composed but no one listens to it down there in the dark. The only one who you might think could, that guy so much bothered by inept prayers, the Wandering Jew who impeccably duped the human race by a fake sacrifice, that treacherous trannie, according to some slim anecdotal evidence, doesn’t give a shit about anything else but punk rock radio stations, whenever in the universe you are lucky to notice him, be it in Moscow, Lima, a Bushman village or the outskirts of a town on the twenty eighth planet circling Betelgeuse.

The sky has been falling on him so many, haha, times under the weight of all those unheard prayers, but he is tuning and tuning in, in love with each and every symptom of anarchy he can get his ears on.

I have his autograph on a crumpled pack of Camels, by the way.