I'm losing the totems. Those poor little creatures are floundering in the brumal snowfields. They're unused to it, they don't know how to and cannot. They are spoilt.

Non, c'est moi. Je ne sais rien. C'est moi qui est gâté.

The snowflakes relentlessly cover the poor animals. Don't they understand that it is merely confusing to wander under the white covers. There is nothing but snow white.

I have lost the totems.

When the young sun is caressing the windows, when it's timidly flowing over the door sill and with thin silk of warmth it's covering the room floor, a girl with fair and uncombed hair is rushing outside to dress herself with the morning's sunshine. By the front door there's a weary old woman sitting on a bench, with a fair look she sees off the girl. The old lady's hands (maybe by force of habit set for a prayer) rest on the thick skirt. The house is shedding a tenebrous shadow, and the girl runs off. 

Only the evening sun talks the girl into coming back and embarrassed by the latter's tirelessness it colours her loose hair rosily. The bench by the house is still dull. The passing girl glows crimson on it. But the eyes of the old lady don't glint anymore. The hands mutely rest on the thick skirt. 

une tasse éternelle...

It cannot be otherwise, when tacky and tense sounds of a saxophone start cleaving the walls of an evening's kitchen. It cannot happen differently, when the sweetish smell of brewed camomiles is following the dense melody throughout the clingy walls. And this awkward knocking so fairly lightened by the forlorn street orb cannot be any different. And us both, we can't be smiling differently than now with our damp and coloured by the drowsing sun lips. Looking up with drowning in a secret eyes and diving in again. And hands, they're just resting here. By no means are they demanding and divining for a sapid touch - they're just laying on the table set with shadows. The tips of my fingers are playing solo of the flowered cup. Eyes of yours and mine glowing with a dim light are drowsing in a luscious mist. The sinking melody of the walls moves closer and webs my fingers. The blues lead them onto your warm cheek. My palm stills hand in hand with the nocturnal light on your unearthly face. The tea brews up again. 

Amid the rumble of the pavements you found an islet where you're paddling now in the absolute heat. Lucid pearls of light are dropping from every lash. And he is thawing in those pearls. 'I am afraid of drowning.' You couldn't take the mildness of the green bed, you hardly opened the sunk eyes. And when the pupils met the entire deluge, the reality started raining with sound, with colour, it came flowing and pulling and carrying you away with it, only... a very different sound, a very different colour flows in from the starry tiny droplets and lets you stay on this lone islet. And you're forever paddling in the absolute heat...

Twenty-four hours of hushed voices, of lonesome taciturnity is too much to bear. I cry for the moon, I call for the wane... break through! Or at least taste the unrest, the vacant hectic waves of disharmony. Not in a way to be scattered to the winds... but fairly enough to want and shed the bits of good on me... Seems I cry for too much, seems the moon frayed away this night.

It is still beyond my grasp and it will always remain this way - WHEREFORE. And I'll miss you for there is no other way. For you spoiled me with your presence. And the realm will discord your death as it was your best performance. "...but it's brute..." Now I'll be able to watch it inside-out and in slow motion. "...how can it be?.." Even with dirt in mouth you can evoke such susceptibilities! You rose and left. And once again I'm here with those drivellers... for they said 'it'll get better', and it doesn't. They said 'give it time!', and soon I'll be pushing daisies. And let's play Who's More - for I could purvey for a hundred parched. Except they all have seen the sea already...

But again I'm forth. O, music, adieu. For there is no other way.

Because I knew - when you go, I go hand in hand. And so you did.

Incubus...

The realm is filled with touch again. Once more you're playing the requiem. Whilst I'm fallen by the grand, clawed to your leg. I hail but the lips are sealed... and fingers stuck together. What happens now?.. "...so lurid!.."

I cried a river... I cried so...

"Get angry, dearest, with yourself." You're telling me but I'm only cross with you. And your god. For you said... dearest...

But again I'm forth...

in memoriam

'The lad's so scrawny, a slip of a boy, eyes of a basset hound... A gal visits him by night, one such with stilts. Don't know what she chews on. Isn't he ashamed?' Prudes next-door are slandering.

I imagine: as if a couple from a Gothic painting - arms spindly, bodies out of proportion. Willy-nilly they both settle themselves in my head. The images are seeping into my mind with no control from my side. Artistic, I muse.

Their gawky, bony bodies are moving in an even rhythmic manner. Parched lips, closed eyes, lids tingling. Their hands slipping pass the neck, verging on the shoulder blades, the nails clawing at the skin. The girl's nudging little bristols are like sour apples. Keeling over, stretching out the slender legs, crooking the toes with pleasure, they are panting. Running up, suspending. The gal's wailing. The lad's keeping himself manly even though the boyish body seems to be breaking in the instant...

It's an immodest way of thinking about seen or heard people. It's a vile method of creating a story, writing a pseudo biography from the tiny teeny slips of mind. Really, it's not thinking about the people at all and it's not their stories in the end. It works as dreams -- the things you find in the realm are the ones you fear or wish the most.

You're standing in a strange, foreign land, at the height providential to someone, on the structure lacking stability. You feel, you quaintly indulge in the heat, redolent of sour cherry and chemicals heat. You're feeling good. Never before have you tarried so much before throwing out the fag. Never before have you deliberately drawn in the already mean and gnawing puff. Because you're feeling good. You don't pout. You think of the present throbbing sound inside where the Bohemia breathes, where the ghosts walk. You sigh. You do? You are not. Only the little frame of a soul, the quaggy hinge of it, is. You don't know how many times have you already asked yourself where you are. If you don't know - who should? You plain - maybe nobody is...

You kiss the neck of the bottle, the warm with hands neck, you don't swallow a poison - it is the elixir of guts, of trust, of latitude. And you blink over and over again. Not even with eyes, your entire anima is flickering! To the wonder. To the delight of everything. And to the disparate else, too. Whilst this insolent Something is dilating, from the shy tip of a tongue it's growing, twisting, it thrives. And then you find yourself seated in the jungle of Something, where instead of a knife you're handling a thought. Not for the viperous waste, but for the path.

The perishing fear of this wraith keeping and never losing its form is enchaining me. I fear, I shudder to think of it that you will take up the spanless latitudes without even your very presence. That I'll keep seeing you in a beer mug,  in a wry letter of an essay, in a complex maths problem, in an eerie shadow in a gloomy alley, in each and every dour stone by the trains, in the genius of Gavelis' sentences, in the nonsense of any pathological behaviour...
 
   but the worst, the very excruciating thing is that you'll be looking at me from any, from all of them at once, from the cosmic loving face and you'll grin at my inability to turn away, and you'll take the pride in being able to drown out everybody without even your very presence.

It seems as if no one has a road ahead, really... We are strolling about like dossers: vacuous, with pride of half-full fifths in both hands and hopefully the lot in the sloppy knapsacks... or mirthful with the ephemeral novelties, too, mostly not as unworn as said. This voracity of pythons, which doesn't leave even the mouths themselves afterwards, simply sits on me, preys upon my mind and upon the ghost of my very own. And the manifold brain knowing which only leads to the merest wanton lunacy likewise. Doesn't it haunt anybody else?

You do not belong! Neither do I. I'm not even sure if there is anyone belonging... Sometimes it seems to me as if everyone is truly and madly miserable and lone, the honest blind alley underdogs. It is only the matter of time before they suss it out. Though when they do, when this sill of airiness is overstepped... they will lapse into illness. Into the lethal world of their true own. And then I ask: who are the sick?