God is but a poster stolen by a couple of angels from a misogynist painter,
A view of the flesh from below, a roundless zero, a Chinese
Computer from the Han dynasty, a bottle of Hyperborean wine
That will make you blind and addicted to the inimical sounds of bestiaries.



Importunate, pretty and repetitive,
The saints are going to produce
Exquisite cages for extinct animals
Till the end of time.
You can buy each one for a song.



A door between a room with marble dolls
and a sliced river stinks at daybreak.
Crows regret they have never tasted
their favorite politicians before disappearing in the colorless sky.
Bloom, God says.
Fuck you, a flower replies.



It is wrong that the most probable place
To meet a ghost downtown is a public restroom
Monuments to the chaos of my friends
Among black ants and backwater herons
Forgotten by all sentient beings bring the light
To the people who hate it the fire to the sunburned
Dead ends shine like the underwear
Unsold for centuries and cracked flutes that has
Never been played


Birds deride fences and roofs
Being too small to blur the breath
By stones and lampposts twisted into a spiral.
No bedtime story is good for gods: they need
Something terribly awkward like losing a credit card.
Centaurs have left the planet. Unable to build a spaceship,
They simply ran away. And juvenile saints
Turn trees into ketchup unhindered.
I wake up and laugh like an idiot watching
Street musicians beat the shit out of the aliens
After each landing, inevitably.


It’s incredible how thieves can talk to tap water
Or hoodlums thrive on discerning spirits. My classmates
Used to write a long piece of advice to God, hiding
In one of the school restrooms from the teachers.
They thought He didn’t exist and were certain
It was bad not to exist even for Him. They filled the air.
The wicked talked too much back then, just as
They do now. Meanwhile I was reading
Crime and Punishment during the math classes.
Soccer was a religion. A pedophile walked the streets
Impervious to beating and mockery, a prophet,
The glory of his generation broken by the war.


Prayer means flattery, sacrifice bribery.
Apollo and Artemis hide in the snow from their followers,
in traffic lights, fractured ankles, or in equine farts.
They don’t have any vested interests, nor do they have vests.
Hundreds of buildings in obscure parts of the world
flaunt their features on the facades.
Thousands of mp3 files, downloaded millions of times,
keep their exclamations buried in the music.
You don’t have any idea.


Denizens of air make faces at meditating adepts,
physicians and veterinarians burn hair of their patients,
medications disappear in the cracks of wine and gasoline.
Unswallowed doors and windows shine like dead birds and trees
that cross all kinds of thresholds in front of the hoary daylight
before they reach the land of giggle and titter.
It is dangerous to worship a bank teller or supermarket employee
among hoards of fake mirrors and angelic babble.

on the surface

Freaks, impostors and charlatans found religions.
Later the squarest of the square become zealots, martyrs and saints.
It goes on, it seems, like a clockwork for a while.
Eventually you end up with a situation when all the population are saints
aside from a few freaks who are trying to found a few new religions.
However, it is hardly possible to preach to a crowd of saints.
Of course, every saint keeps a freak buried deep inside,
and that freak in turn cherishes a saint, and so on.
But those buried freaks, when they do surface,
they are too violent for any possible religion.

“The relationship between the natural and the supernatural is in itself so problematic that it is of no consequence if there is some ‘cheating’ in the ritual during an invocation.” – Knud Rasmussen


Birds with broken beaks leave
feathers on discolored porches, where no one
is going to pick them up, leave
lives, one after another,
in discolored skies, where God
can be likened to a rotten pineapple. Birds
never doubt the existence of death,
edible and insane.