They tell me: deeper, deeper.
But I'm scared by three-headed dog,
Its bark reminds of a thoughtful wisper:
Don't stay! Here's a dreamless bog.
Its emerald eyes reflect internal flame and wardship.
Look out! Don't leave your humble surface,
Don't think of a dark enfeebled ship,
There you've got time, but here's only space.
I'm your friend. In the flaky architecture
Of yours I'm an elementary part.
The circle was exclusive, the author burnt his picture.
Don't think of blackness, don't crave for smart.
And peeping through its lapidonterous pattern
I see a boat and an oar of bamboo.
The river's sparking with high-lights. A cupreous lantern
Erupts some glimmers and some shaddows filled in blue.
september-october 1998
* * *
The autumn days are filled with incomprehensible emotion
For me. Walking through the path of the faded poplars
I think over the sweet lymph of an accident
And give myself up the vain dreams about the colour of yellow.
All the shades around me I could indicate
Only with the suffixes ness or less.
I recall one old poem, where an afterglow
Is compared to the troops. And now
I'm gazing blissfully at the soft luminescense from the horizon,
And I see no riders but only several lamas
In their unbleached linen hoods
Carring fragile fawn umbrellas
Moving one after another like the silent boats
Which are ferring nobody's oranges
Over the evening river without any oarsman.
october 1998
* * *
There's something surgical in dreary oblivion.
I catch only splashing of unnamed mixtures
and clinking of unskilful clips.
All the past proves to be unpicked,
my reality is denied of thread.
(I guess it pulled out like the
inflamed guts belonging to a crushed insect).
I was subjected to a monstreous operation
during my existence - and formerly,
when I'd reposed in the amethyst mounting
of the mother's abdomen.
Everyday it seems to me that I'm effaced
from here, from the muddled here.
october 1998
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