4 poems

Outskirtal Child

life called devils
the morning
sorrow and longing
fingers of native sun
thought only of themselves
blessed in exiled
colors of thunder
the ”who”, the “so”
of a stormy sunrise
strange vivifying
melancholy
warmth and power
in dead town eyes
filled with pain
where wait of strength
suicide streets
and years of frost
were islands
of I, who
was poor
wrong
and had age
to die like a dog
buried
nameless
unthinkingly
bleeding
on another
outskirtal
child

Kowalski

growing a beard, tanning himself
twixt desolate blocks, dying while
trying to be you, destroyed
allusion mouths, moving dying more
in pilgrimage and irony, still intense
and full, painted fresh spring colors
trembling, empty, remembering long
but elements rust, hurt distances passed
and time, went wrong, afraid and failed
he once crushed the world
mispronounced lakes, he’s rooted deep
jug shall come soon, I’ve driven before
certain forsaken
appears as life
early carpenter
Kowalski

Nadir of Static Beauty

melancholy almost like lightning
rigid as banks of the beggar’s river
stuck in the middle of powerless
things, those were the days of prayer
shadows lasted till silky touch
and women voices in blood-stained beds
said “takes to like it long”
whatever they meant by that
murderous kisses too, forsaken
I paid no attention
was looking for my father
remnants of my witness
living on rusted sunshine
overpowering life
leaves dried-up beyond me
like old Okudzhava song
felt like writing and fucking
golden all by myself
and my catholic quarter
earned its iconic drawings
indescribable poor winter
and lightning glances paid to myself
nadir of static beauty

Winter Living Woman

walk in death
down
ill clearly
awakening kisses
lament
take snow
horizon me
long
against the river
specific smells
of my imagination

you and gloom
blue
struck of
dying
beat death now
save the sorrowful herd
weep into snow
separation
be my fool
on the bridge
winter living woman