I sat next to you the way you sit at risk.
There and back again. In between,
your hand lost in a sleeve, one button undone—
I know you entirely, though I never touched your coat.

You can’t survive what refuses destruction.
Some things dream themselves elsewhere,
finish their lives in another place.
You shoot me with effects pretending to be causes;
I turn my back—still the bullet finds my neck.

What keeps us warm is born from ash.
You scream into a fire you haven’t entered yet,
a room where you opened yourself
but left the door intact.

Which end of the thread was I pushed through?
Hell is still softening me, kneading me human.
Later, I’ll harden.
An ace in the sleeve is one thing—
another, when it sweeps the table clean.

I sat next to you the way you sit at risk.
There and back again. In between,
your hand lost in a sleeve, one button undone—
I know you entirely, though I never touched your coat.

You can’t survive what refuses destruction.
Some things dream themselves elsewhere,
finish their lives in another place.
You shoot me with effects pretending to be causes;
I turn my back—still the bullet finds my neck.

What keeps us warm is born from ash.
You scream into a fire you haven’t entered yet,
a room where you opened yourself
but left the door intact.

Which end of the thread was I pushed through?
Hell is still softening me, kneading me human.
Later, I’ll harden.
An ace in the sleeve is one thing—
another, when it sweeps the table clean.

An ace in the sleeve is one thing—
another, when it takes the whole table.

Some places I arrived too early,
others already closed.
Now I’m sugar beside your coffee—
don’t dilute me further.

An empty bottle is a horror story.
Once upon a time ends badly.

My soul isn’t empty—
it’s just unfurnished.
Every passing tourist
turns it into a landscape.

What I keep under my cap
belongs to every circus tent.
It drives me out, pulls me back in,
along the wall.

Lethe splashes ahead of me.
A river is a river.
My memory is already thin
before they find its bones.

I’m on the right bank.
My blanket is there.
You flowed into me
and still haven’t flowed out.

Only the hard thing in my soul
keeps crunching.

An ace in the sleeve is one thing—
another, when it takes the whole table.

Some places I arrived too early,
others already closed.
Now I’m sugar beside your coffee—
don’t dilute me further.

An empty bottle is a horror story.
Once upon a time ends badly.

My soul isn’t empty—
it’s just unfurnished.
Every passing tourist
turns it into a landscape.

What I keep under my cap
belongs to every circus tent.
It drives me out, pulls me back in,
along the wall.

Lethe splashes ahead of me.
A river is a river.
My memory is already thin
before they find its bones.

I’m on the right bank.
My blanket is there.
You flowed into me
and still haven’t flowed out.

Only the hard thing in my soul
keeps crunching.

Only the hard thing in my soul keeps crunching—
you knit yourself a sweater from my ribs.

Sadness sits down at the card table.
The trump is always the Black Peter.

A woman holds the beginning of the world.
And the end.
Don’t be fooled by a girl’s name—Ariadne.
Her thread leads me back to myself,
but only after I pass myself first.

Both ends are knotted—
correctly, though not evenly.
The world, or just a button?
In the palm it turns into a stigma.

Life isn’t a sharp clap you can cut away.
Not an extra button outside the order.

Only something sharp can afford
to be wrong with you.

What’s missing beneath an angel’s feathers
no feather will ever hide.

Only the hard thing in my soul keeps crunching—
you knit yourself a sweater from my ribs.

Sadness sits down at the card table.
The trump is always the Black Peter.

A woman holds the beginning of the world.
And the end.
Don’t be fooled by a girl’s name—Ariadne.
Her thread leads me back to myself,
but only after I pass myself first.

Both ends are knotted—
correctly, though not evenly.
The world, or just a button?
In the palm it turns into a stigma.

Life isn’t a sharp clap you can cut away.
Not an extra button outside the order.

Only something sharp can afford
to be wrong with you.

What’s missing beneath an angel’s feathers
no feather will ever hide.

What no feather can hide beneath an angel
was once in my head—now under the jester’s cap.
Another day brings me no new day.
I don’t want to be an honest gigolo
repenting after infidelity.

Night stretches itself;
morning becomes a funeral hour.
Gambling is a risky game—
but never a playful one.

Which game am I allowed to play
with my left hand, with my right?
The world sheds its skin—
clipped wool sliding off the body.

I know how much mountain pasture fits in a bed,
with legs together, and between legs.
Fasten the button—twist it.
It grinds me down.

Let me say it differently: je t’aime—ah.
Will that change the subject?
How much happiness can give—and still deny me.
Love is a beast, agitated by the smell of blood.

What no feather can hide beneath an angel
was once in my head—now under the jester’s cap.
Another day brings me no new day.
I don’t want to be an honest gigolo
repenting after infidelity.

Night stretches itself;
morning becomes a funeral hour.
Gambling is a risky game—
but never a playful one.

Which game am I allowed to play
with my left hand, with my right?
The world sheds its skin—
clipped wool sliding off the body.

I know how much mountain pasture fits in a bed,
with legs together, and between legs.
Fasten the button—twist it.
It grinds me down.

Let me say it differently: je t’aime—ah.
Will that change the subject?
How much happiness can give—and still deny me.
Love is a beast, agitated by the smell of blood.

Love is a beast, agitated by the smell of blood.
I call it to the feast—here, here.
This foolish habit of cuddling
comes from a pedigree of puppies.

Feeling blocks my defense against feeling.

Being wrong with you, bound inside skin—
even without scabs, my blood congeals like jelly.
That’s everything. Everything except protection.
From bleeding gums rises the instinct of animals.

Nameless, in the name of the Father and the Son,
and in the name of the law—
I am victor and defeated.
I overcame myself.

I carry on my shoulders a horse
my fear has driven to exhaustion.

We move in one direction—
into all directions.

I put my mouth to your cheek.
You put a weapon to your cheek.
Blood spills—from one set of gums
onto another mouth.

Love is a beast, agitated by the smell of blood.
I call it to the feast—here, here.
This foolish habit of cuddling
comes from a pedigree of puppies.

Feeling blocks my defense against feeling.

Being wrong with you, bound inside skin—
even without scabs, my blood congeals like jelly.
That’s everything. Everything except protection.
From bleeding gums rises the instinct of animals.

Nameless, in the name of the Father and the Son,
and in the name of the law—
I am victor and defeated.
I overcame myself.

I carry on my shoulders a horse
my fear has driven to exhaustion.

We move in one direction—
into all directions.

I put my mouth to your cheek.
You put a weapon to your cheek.
Blood spills—from one set of gums
onto another mouth.

Blood spills—from one set of gums
onto another mouth.
I clean the barrel with a chimney brush.
I count—I know I won’t count everything.

You flowed in. You didn’t flow out.
There is only blood.

After a precise hit, only fear
falls out of me—loudly, sharply,
like bowling pins.

My second world will be—I’ve lost count.
Shorten the first one. Stretch it.

The one before the hangover
and the one after
both want what they don’t have.
So be it.

Another level added
to the Tower of Babel.

After love come murderers and hunters.
Two fingers to the neck of the instrument—
senses compressed.

It could be attack.
It could be defense.
It is certainly change.

Blood spills—from one set of gums
onto another mouth.
I clean the barrel with a chimney brush.
I count—I know I won’t count everything.

You flowed in. You didn’t flow out.
There is only blood.

After a precise hit, only fear
falls out of me—loudly, sharply,
like bowling pins.

My second world will be—I’ve lost count.
Shorten the first one. Stretch it.

The one before the hangover
and the one after
both want what they don’t have.
So be it.

Another level added
to the Tower of Babel.

After love come murderers and hunters.
Two fingers to the neck of the instrument—
senses compressed.

It could be attack.
It could be defense.
It is certainly change.

It could be attack.
It could be defense.
It is certainly change.

Strawberry wine on bloody stains.
That is how a woman changes—
by becoming desirous.

C’est la vie.
That is life. Life is like that.

I want you—plainly—
for the world of madmen,
where silence becomes a sad sermon
about happiness stealing from emptiness,
where after the storm
the air suffers from asthma.

You aim with your fingers.
You don’t shoot droplets.
Without instructions
you administer yourself into my body.

A storm?
You only grew into adult clothes.

And you’re in the book now.
You’ve settled accounts with the muses.
Fear lost its face beneath the saddle—
a leaden bust.

Blond mane, home alone.
A breeze—
a mustang in the eyes.

It could be attack.
It could be defense.
It is certainly change.

Strawberry wine on bloody stains.
That is how a woman changes—
by becoming desirous.

C’est la vie.
That is life. Life is like that.

I want you—plainly—
for the world of madmen,
where silence becomes a sad sermon
about happiness stealing from emptiness,
where after the storm
the air suffers from asthma.

You aim with your fingers.
You don’t shoot droplets.
Without instructions
you administer yourself into my body.

A storm?
You only grew into adult clothes.

And you’re in the book now.
You’ve settled accounts with the muses.
Fear lost its face beneath the saddle—
a leaden bust.

Blond mane, home alone.
A breeze—
a mustang in the eyes.

Blond mane, home alone.
A breeze—mustang in the eyes.

That’s life—c’est la vie.
That’s the right one. And the left.
Ah, Amor—
the reins properly loosened.

Only my skin serves as civilian clothes.
First glance can be the first retreat.

A baptized ship is insured
by an unbaptized boat—
launched on the right side
at the very last moment.

From strawberries—wine.
From the body—blood, sweet on the mouth.
I am a nonbeliever:
I must unfasten, stroke.

You release from the cage
what you hold under a net.

You bathe in blue, naked into pink,
balancing—before you don’t.

You stretch denim eyes
over everything.

Blond mane, home alone.
A breeze—mustang in the eyes.

That’s life—c’est la vie.
That’s the right one. And the left.
Ah, Amor—
the reins properly loosened.

Only my skin serves as civilian clothes.
First glance can be the first retreat.

A baptized ship is insured
by an unbaptized boat—
launched on the right side
at the very last moment.

From strawberries—wine.
From the body—blood, sweet on the mouth.
I am a nonbeliever:
I must unfasten, stroke.

You release from the cage
what you hold under a net.

You bathe in blue, naked into pink,
balancing—before you don’t.

You stretch denim eyes
over everything.

You stretch denim eyes over everything.
I offer you strawberries like Adam to Eve—
nothing new for descendants of ancestors.

The toilet has one level.
The privy, another.

What flowed through you—I didn’t drink.
Even wild blood resembles strawberry juice.
Grafts make it strange.
Each leaves traces—from red to blood-red.

When juice turns into wine,
the jug doesn’t notice itself.

A lot of pain wants no witnesses.
Sulfur-clouded wine filters it.

Déjà vu again?
Doctor, I am Deburau.

Nothing is happening—
and with what a plot.

You stretch denim eyes over everything.
I offer you strawberries like Adam to Eve—
nothing new for descendants of ancestors.

The toilet has one level.
The privy, another.

What flowed through you—I didn’t drink.
Even wild blood resembles strawberry juice.
Grafts make it strange.
Each leaves traces—from red to blood-red.

When juice turns into wine,
the jug doesn’t notice itself.

A lot of pain wants no witnesses.
Sulfur-clouded wine filters it.

Déjà vu again?
Doctor, I am Deburau.

Nothing is happening—
and with what a plot.

Nothing is happening—
and with what a plot.

I wash off blood.
Moths attack me.

You appear only in those dreams—
in high heels,
in mouths and where mouths are not.

Atlas alone above the bed
does squats with the sky.

From clouds—bruises.
The canopy mimics them.

After every breaking
I glue smaller pieces.
The smaller the shards,
the larger the spleen inside them.

What flowed through me flowed at least briefly.
What is meant to last needs a lot of sulfur.

I burn—and already smell of hell.
When I desire you
I am painfully clear.

I lack animal instinct—
that’s why I’m not a rat.

I’m a poet
who bit you with his own poetry.

Nothing is happening—
and with what a plot.

I wash off blood.
Moths attack me.

You appear only in those dreams—
in high heels,
in mouths and where mouths are not.

Atlas alone above the bed
does squats with the sky.

From clouds—bruises.
The canopy mimics them.

After every breaking
I glue smaller pieces.
The smaller the shards,
the larger the spleen inside them.

What flowed through me flowed at least briefly.
What is meant to last needs a lot of sulfur.

I burn—and already smell of hell.
When I desire you
I am painfully clear.

I lack animal instinct—
that’s why I’m not a rat.

I’m a poet
who bit you with his own poetry.

I’m a poet who bit you with his own poetry
and smacked his lips—hrkú, hrkú.

From something comes salted caramel.
Something else sours.

My imagination is that moist.

Life is beautiful
between the front and the back.
Even more beautiful
between the left and the right.

I’ll be a pathologist
if you’ll be cold.

My head spins—
are the horns turning the head,
or the head the horns?

A stranger’s sleeve
is the best absorbent for tears.

What must I still do—and how?
I stir and harden
before plaster sets.

A star on the forehead
is not a skin infection.

To impale myself on them like stakes?
I will swear only
on your breasts.

I’m a poet who bit you with his own poetry
and smacked his lips—hrkú, hrkú.

From something comes salted caramel.
Something else sours.

My imagination is that moist.

Life is beautiful
between the front and the back.
Even more beautiful
between the left and the right.

I’ll be a pathologist
if you’ll be cold.

My head spins—
are the horns turning the head,
or the head the horns?

A stranger’s sleeve
is the best absorbent for tears.

What must I still do—and how?
I stir and harden
before plaster sets.

A star on the forehead
is not a skin infection.

To impale myself on them like stakes?
I will swear only
on your breasts.

I will swear only on your breasts.
I hold them from below like Atlas the sky—
two smooth pink handles,
the pink still warm.

What was—release it.
You sat astride.

A headlong ride, solo,
without a railing.

What the future didn’t steal from you
has a boat on Lethe
at the end of my paddle.

It can be said: je t’aime.
My head spins with ram’s horns.

I measure night by purgatory,
from morning to morning.

I count endings
by the number of chrysanthemums.

Even there, the pink hasn’t cooled.
For now—forever.
Forever is forever.
For now.

I will swear only on your breasts.
I hold them from below like Atlas the sky—
two smooth pink handles,
the pink still warm.

What was—release it.
You sat astride.

A headlong ride, solo,
without a railing.

What the future didn’t steal from you
has a boat on Lethe
at the end of my paddle.

It can be said: je t’aime.
My head spins with ram’s horns.

I measure night by purgatory,
from morning to morning.

I count endings
by the number of chrysanthemums.

Even there, the pink hasn’t cooled.
For now—forever.
Forever is forever.
For now.

For now—forever. Forever is forever. For now.

I swear—idiot, hoof—it holds.
I have a workshop in my soul,
but it lacks furniture,
and everyone’s already sunk something into it.

A message in a bottle.
A muzzle from a glass.

All beasts sail with me.
It pulls me down when I aim at myself.
When the bottom disappears,
Ararat appears.

Who drove it in?
My own body won’t tell me
whether fingers play executioner
or merely play with the zipper—
or are the zipper.

A keyhole is golden
where you are.

The formula has no constant,
only an invariable number.

I sat down.
I’m getting acquainted—with whose I am.

For now—forever. Forever is forever. For now.

I swear—idiot, hoof—it holds.
I have a workshop in my soul,
but it lacks furniture,
and everyone’s already sunk something into it.

A message in a bottle.
A muzzle from a glass.

All beasts sail with me.
It pulls me down when I aim at myself.
When the bottom disappears,
Ararat appears.

Who drove it in?
My own body won’t tell me
whether fingers play executioner
or merely play with the zipper—
or are the zipper.

A keyhole is golden
where you are.

The formula has no constant,
only an invariable number.

I sat down.
I’m getting acquainted—with whose I am.

I sat down, getting acquainted—with whose I am.
Just a casing for a rib?
A coat hanger?

Gambling is real closeness,
and fear is fear of fear.

I didn’t cut myself on blood—
taste it, add salt.

From amniotic water straight into the world.
It lets me near water,
holds me there by force.

In a game without rules
there must be a right to asylum.

You love—you burn—
shine for me while you do.

Mother-of-pearl on darkness—yours,
but from my bones.

A button in the hand.
A bullet-ace.

Someone else took over my life.
Fell. Rose. Fell. Fell again.

Suddenly my soul is wet, dry, wet.

I sat next to you
the way one sits at cards.

I sat down, getting acquainted—with whose I am.
Just a casing for a rib?
A coat hanger?

Gambling is real closeness,
and fear is fear of fear.

I didn’t cut myself on blood—
taste it, add salt.

From amniotic water straight into the world.
It lets me near water,
holds me there by force.

In a game without rules
there must be a right to asylum.

You love—you burn—
shine for me while you do.

Mother-of-pearl on darkness—yours,
but from my bones.

A button in the hand.
A bullet-ace.

Someone else took over my life.
Fell. Rose. Fell. Fell again.

Suddenly my soul is wet, dry, wet.

I sat next to you
the way one sits at cards.

I sat next to you the way one sits at cards.
An ace in the sleeve is one thing—
another, when it takes it all.

Only the hard thing in my soul keeps crunching.
What no feather can hide beneath an angel
no feather will ever hide.

Love is a beast, agitated by the smell of blood.
Blood spills—from one set of gums
onto another mouth.

It could be attack.
It could be defense.
It is certainly change.

Blond mane, home alone.
A breeze—mustang in the eyes.

You stretch denim eyes over everything.
Nothing is happening—
and with what a plot.

I’m a poet who bit you with his own poetry.

I will swear only on your breasts.
For now—forever. Forever is forever. For now.

I sat down—
getting acquainted—with whose I am.

I sat next to you the way one sits at cards.
An ace in the sleeve is one thing—
another, when it takes it all.

Only the hard thing in my soul keeps crunching.
What no feather can hide beneath an angel
no feather will ever hide.

Love is a beast, agitated by the smell of blood.
Blood spills—from one set of gums
onto another mouth.

It could be attack.
It could be defense.
It is certainly change.

Blond mane, home alone.
A breeze—mustang in the eyes.

You stretch denim eyes over everything.
Nothing is happening—
and with what a plot.

I’m a poet who bit you with his own poetry.

I will swear only on your breasts.
For now—forever. Forever is forever. For now.

I sat down—
getting acquainted—with whose I am.