THE CHRONICLE OF MATINEE TOGETHERNESS   by   Dominika Maria Kruczkowska

                                              Quite to the Margit
 

I dream of The Second Dawn

In a soul of Mine
In unrecognized
Movements
Of
Your instructions
In the body of our odours
In temple of obscure almonds of our memories
Balanced cups on a sad morning

As my
How does Your
So mine so Yours


In disembodied smokes
Broken cigarettes
On full receptacles

Luxurious would be my afternoon dream
In Your bed of goodly skulls
As soft as my face
Luxurious as Your breasts
After the Sunsets of all the horizons

Not sure what You are doing
Foolishly in Your blue shoes
In the blue of Your eyes
In Your independent carton
In the maze of my shutout
Your nonsense Your absurd
My bluest mirror with a pale
Reflection somewhere now being unzipped

With elbows bent over the past
With wrists hurt by Together
So hard to keep the ego parenthetic
Hard to keep faith with shorter fingers
Harder much to remember
The crumbs of magic
Inside the voiced sand-glass
(Lost in the precious evening)
A touch of small distorted hands
Is stretching out in blue slow-motion

Portentous feet under a bed sheet
Dark circlets of a bed mat nigh
Blues of the winter
Narrow streaks of a day
Hitched on all windows with a tearing hurry
Slide off nocturnal lines with wild but thudded howl
Light shatters yet around inside a clammy dawn

The night now left behind a meanwhile
A snow is creased and rotten
A perished silence under a firm sole
As if it was the hollow part of nothing

Comments (4)

Show/hide comment form

Email

Comment

smaller | bigger

Write the displayed characters

Add Comment