1.
We are surrounded by
Objects and people
Both of them wound the eye
It’s better to live in the dark
I’m in a park
Sitting on a bench, following
the passing family up
I’m sick of light
It’s January, winter; in
Accordance with calendar
When dark makes me badly sick
I’ll start off talking whereat
2.
Time’s come. I’m ready to start
Regardless of matter, to open
My mouth, I can dummy up, but
It’s better for me to talk of
What of? Of the days and the nights
Either of nothing at all
Or of the objects around
Of the objects around, not of
Men, they are sure to die
All of them, me in this row
This job is as much futile
As peeing when cold wind blows
3.
My own blood is cold
Its cold is fiercer than
A river frozen to bottom
I do not do love men
Their look doesn’t appeal
To me, with their faces some kind
Of unleavable view
Is inculcated to life
There’s something in all of their
Faces, that’s nasty to nous
That does express flattery
Whom to? Only heaven knows
4.
Objects are better, there is
Nothing of moral kind
Externally and if you look in
Them it’s the same from the inside
Inside of an object there’s dust.
Teredo beetles. Some ash.
Parietes. Dried bloodworm.
Uncomfortable for hands.
Dust. And the light (that’s turned on)
Will illuminate only dust
Even if object is sealed
Hermetically with glass.
5.
An old sideboard from the inside
The same way outwardly
Reminds me of the good old
"Notre Dame de Paris"
In subsoils of the sideboard it’s dark
Swob’s just another stole
The dust will not be rubbed
An object itself as a rule
Does not overcome the dust.
Does not strain the eyebrow. For
The dust is the body of time
Its blood, its body, its soul
6.
Lately I’ve got used to
Sleeping in broad daylight
Apparently my own doom
Has started tempting me by
bringing, in spite of my breath
A mirror up to my mouth –
The same way I’m standing the
Nothingness under the sun
I’m standing still, my two
Hips are as much cold as
Ice. My venous blue
Has some kind of marble’s smack
7.
Presenting a surprise with
Sum of its angles an
Object is doing a miss
Out of word order
An Object neither stands nor
Moves, it’s a delusion an
Object is a space beyond
Which there is no object
You can bang the object or burn
Disembowel it or just break
Throw it away and it won’t
Shout to you “Go to hell”
8.
A tree, a shadow, some ground
Under the tree for roots.
A kind of crooked monograms.
Clay and a ridge of stones.
The Roots. Their binding. The
Stone whose own load
Frees the owner from a
Given system of bonds
It’s immobile you can
Neither move it nor take
The shadow. A man in shade
Is like a fish in the net
9.
An object. The brown color of
The object whose contour is wiped
Off. Twilight. There is no
Anything else. Still life.
Death will come and then find
The body whose surface will
Repel a visit of death like
Some nasty woman’s coming
This is lies, an absurdity:
A skull, a skeleton, a scythe
Death will come and she
Will (as said) have your eyes
10.
The mother is saying to Christ
-Are you my son or my
God ? You’re nailed to cross
How can I go home?
How can I cross the threshold:
Not having realized and decided
Are you my son or my God?
Namely, are you dead or alive?
He’s answering her
-Be I alive or be dead
There’s no difference, woman
I’m yours, whoever I am.