The Waltz

*Image found HERE

The Waltz

An envoy of stuffed teddy bears
watches as we gobble down
cheap carton wine
and vomit out Helvetica,
the watercolors dry
and steady hands douse
the secret notes
on back of mathematic notebooks.
There are stories,
resting in a puff of smoke,
decapitated daffodils
mourning in a vase,
one, two, three;
two, two, three,
die;
live;
die.
Stick a straw inside the haslet
and suck until it’s dry;
the devil is bored of our loneliness.

This?
This is not a love letter,
this is a shank,
this is the arsenic speaking
haikus
in the voice of a morinel
that once played Wooden Mary
in the feathers of your pillow,
this is you before the scythe
unfolding your clothes
like litanies,
strip teasing dead cells,
this is you laughing like a lunatic
when people kill something
they thought you own,
trying to be that poem
hanging in the gallows
of your decrepitude.
Hide the guitar inside your spleen,
bake the hogtied harlequin
at 360 degrees,
one, two, three;
two, two, three;
Cry.
Dream.
Cry.
Tomorrow they will wash you off the streets,
Coppélia in the sewers,
grit in the eyes.

Somebody out there
missed someone
the jealous postman left them on the curb,
so I stole their postcard,
a black and white picture
of a man
flying a kite
and it was beautiful to be blue;
still, I live my life
pretending I am her,
one, two, three,
two, two, three,
Your train will be arriving,
we just don’t know when
and the train tracks lead back
to that one same name,
we hope to lose forever
in the ashes
of an October,
~*~*~*~

Valcer

Izaslanik od plishanih meda
gleda dok halapljivo gutamo
jeftino vino iz kartona
i povracamo Helvetiku,
vodene boje se sushe
i mirne ruke polivaju benzinom
tajne poruke
na poledjinama svesaka iz matematike.
Postoje priche koje se odmaraju
u oblachicima dima,
obezglavljeni narcisi
oplakuju iz vaze,
jedan, dva, tri;
dva, dva, tri,
umri;
zivi;
umri.
Nabi slamku u srce divlje zivotinje
i sisaj dok ne postane suvo.
Djavolu je dosadila nasha usamljenost.

Ovo?
Ovo nije ljubavno pismo,
ovo je trup,
ovo je arsenik koji recituje
haiku
glasom pijukavca
koji se nekad igrao Drvene Marije
u perju tvog jastuka,
ovo si ti pred kosom,
odvijash svoju odecu
kao litanije,
striptizirash mrtve celije,
ovo si ti dok se smejesh kao ludak,
kad ljudi ubiju neshto
sto su mislili da ti pripada,
pokushavajuci da budu bash ta pesma
koja visi na gubilistu
tvoje oronulosti.
Sakri gitaru u svojoj slezini,
peci uvezanu dvorsku ludu
na 360 stepeni,
jedan, dva, tri;
dva, dva, tri,
Plachi.
sanjaj.
Plachi.
Sutra ce te sprati sa ulica,
Coppélia u kanalizaciji,
shljunak u ochima.

Nekome tamo negde
neko je nedostajao,
ljubomorni poshtar ostavio ih je
na ivichnjaku trotoara,
te sam im ja ukrala razglednicu,
crno-belu fotografiju coveka
koji pushta zmaja
i bilo je prelepo biti plav;
ipak, zivim svoj zivot
pretvarajuci se da sam ona,
jedan, dva, tri;
dva, dva, tri.
Vash voz ce stici
samo ne znamo kad
a shine vode nazad
do onog jednog istog imena
koje se nadamo da cemo
zaboraviti zauvek
u pepelu
nekog Oktobra.