serving the smoothie, or the game of freedom

BOOK 1
BEYOND THE DARKNESS

serving the smoothie, or the game of freedom
(ep «zunda water», B-side)

13

the seven seraphim stand over me
and my hero must be asleep somewhere
he can't get up at all, he's rusty steel
he inhales wormwood through the nostrils of dawn
leaves + wind – like the equation of leaffall
madness + emptiness – like an autoessay
the poet's pedestal, Something There's More
the crown of cloth with which I was crowned

asphodelus... rimbaud... cyberpunk...
feel the difference... or maybe just the similarities?


14

they executed water, gave birth to wine
drowned out our thoughts, a turbulent current
we are forced to go to bed by the stars
guessing in them when to start
a notebook, a poem, or maybe just the sea
which is the union of all rivers
which, when you find it
you become a Titan of Small Words

Cato, Cato, we wonder, really
don't turn away your eyes from our furnace...


15

the slaves have hid the martens in the hoards
of snow, ashes, mud, sperm and blood
they rake the dust from the library with their hands
at the flea market you'll find more than that!
they sell even names and birthmarks
the herbs of Siberia will tell us more
how we loved, for what and when we died
what land we'll go to, what will be our ch(i)ronic crypt
one thing I know for sure, only for that I can speak frankly to you
I didn't bet on Jesus Christ and I didn't bet on Naveen either
I'm not in the habit of betting at all
I am not ever bet on nobody
I've betrayed, but I've betrayed to his face

who'll call me Judas, who'll crucify me?
I am a slave of Liberty just as much as you racists and worshippers


16

from the incised neck flow poetry
I notice it, I choose my words
so that I can be buried
with great honors, as you like to do
Dunkirk was a mistake, Dresden is the shame of the 21st century
we don't remember the names of the cranks buried there
we don't remember things for which we would be ashamed
we don't remember regalia, literature, or complete nonsense
Jacques Pr;vert calls me soulmate
he and I are the last two candles over the bell
ah, if only we could open all the asylums
and let the ravenous dogs and poets out

then, and only then, I believe – the waters would calm down
a new life would begin – beyond the darkness