lunchtime

Just stay unfrozen,
undead.
I want to see your
smile,
I want it so bad.

Cutting the face
with a sharp razor
of a smile and
cutting and
cutting
into
a room-wide smile,
which
shows
crooked teeth,
spooky stomach,
a-bomb stomach,
hungry stomach,
black hole stomach.

We –
two creatures
smiling in the dark,
and the dark
smiles back,
and the dark
moves closer,
closer,
until our smiles make one.

Oh, this imperfect
triangle,
three points forever connected.

The line of our mutual smile –
mine, yours, and
the dark's –
makes a new line,
the line of the horizon
of the sea,
and the sea smiles
with its dead old sailors,
with its never-dying submarines,
with its ever-drowning Jesuses.
We spread our hands,
trying to reach
the throat of the horizon.
We want to squeeze out the sun -
to let it shine
over the waters of our
unhappiness.

Where will it end?
Where will the line of the horizon
penetrate my spine?

Here are the young men,
lifting them all - young fresh-comers,
the spring mighty boys,
lifting the sea like Salvador-boy,
raising the waves like Leviathan,
raising the dead like an old King of the Jews,
lifting and throwing away -
into the line
of the horizon,
into the oven
of the horizon,
to the throat of fate.
Listen!
How it swallows
carefully,
gently.

It’s lunchtime,
my friend.

It’s lunchtime.