Дата: 20-03-2005 | 22:17:31

It stands alone amid a lacquered desert
which tries all night to undermine, to haze it
with its unfolding, never-tiring wings:
the morning brings
some life into the room that moves around,
devoid of any objects, craving them,
receiving only thin distorted sound

of a black palm which slides along the stem
and chokes it. Chandelier strives to helm
its delicate resistance through the glow
that spreads below
and rises like a phantom of its doom
while still persisting, madly wriggling out
of copper-eating marigolds in bloom.

It rises up, to the triumphant crowd
of speckles on the ceiling, to the snout
of a cheap lamp, through the corroded roof
which lays its hoof
upon the attic badly overburdened
with idols, letters, dolls and rusty blades:
all sadness - even silence fails to want it.

It rises up, towards the sun that fades
behind the gloomy clouds, to the spades
of cypress-trees enduring, scooping out
the azure and the loud
resilient stiff shriek of early birds,
it passes branches stretching to the south
and turning back when their effort hurts,

it whizzes right into the gaping mouth
consuming rains in never-ending drouth:
the absolute, the oceans of chance
unleashing to enhance
vain deathlessness by killing what is mortal
and stopping every tiny impulse to
shut down their ever-spreading portal.

It rises down, towards the stench and glue
and bowels of the planet steeped in dew
of plants unborn and seeds begetting ghosts,
where every shadow loathes
to yoke its stale disintegrating flesh
which roams and waves its hands like a propeller
in an attempt to make the air fresh.

It rises down, waning, turning paler,
through misery and moan, towards the trailer
of the uncanny anti-absolute, the grin
of chances placed within
the undiscovered circle of bleak rivers
and tears lost in muddy gore-hued lakes
where every flute of reed laments and shivers,

it crashes to the core that never wakes,
just simmers balancing on splitting stakes
prolonged like legs of cranes with no feathers,
cut by the razors
of polished sun-rays penetrating through
this skull, through its tornadoes and volcanoes,
only to sink into the gore and glue.

But in the middle it is quiet, fluffy clowns
of moths are whirling and the window frowns,
the candle-fire glimmers like a star,
but from afar,
undone by molten paraffin and odours
of its annihilation, springing as
its own ghost from the elastic lotus

and climbing up the shaky golden rays,
investing substance on the fumy maze,
and it records all curves of the twin slates
and then procrastinates
when sunlight dissipates inside the belly
of night, the table falls abruptly back:
all ceased, to be reiterated daily.

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