A RAIN DRUNKEN POSTER

Alone at eight a.m. I brush my teeth,

For yesterday I ate glass crumbs.

Eight loaves of bread in the bakery,

Already 8 cigarettes in the ashtray.

A blackbird in rut under the window,

Behind it a face, a rain-drunken poster.

Have you ever noticed, whisky in the morning is more viscous,

Pyjamas are viscose,

Yet you lack sleep and newspapers are turning pale,

Even in a one-room flat.

A potato is stale,when hoed, and inedible when consumed.

Still, dry soil, dry flowers.

The amaryllis strikes aerial roots.

White frost clings to dried flowers.

Rusty cranes are undressing you with their gazes.

Sometimes milkmen place their jugs on construction sites,

so the milk froths easier.

To Hell with N2O. You have already nibbled on anxiolytics yesterday.

And you feel like a rising lemon tree,

In a world of orange trees,

Like pushing a door against a magnetic threshold,

That is how turbulence adds 10 seconds to the mayfly.

A gigantic dawn.

Set ablaze by the torch’s sparks, a rank point.

One does not drink water after the fire.

Solidarity.An overheated vacuum expands and

Fractures gravity into a polynomial.

All binominal, with gazes you dragged yourself

The morning last,Mimicking a handsome shoelace

That binds canvases and flaxen bags,

Sleeps little, yet is awkward with polyester fibbers...

That’s life.Ptke you tlinke. Horamba are kloks.

But glinki and riklavo butke.Butke. Blitk. Mangelwurzel.

Sedatives are white doves.

This heralds a monotonous clash.

Roe deer are after you for eating chestnuts.

Never again.In the stars’ core, thousands of degrees,

Yet, you find each one to be superfluous.

Plasma crumbles like dry crystal.

An old gypsy’s trivet is distilling water for the ninth time.

Even light gets darker with time.

Poppy is dandelion that leaks.

Red shift. Red tropine. Reddish-gray coma.

ABSINTHE, HOW I LOVE YOU ABSINTHE

Royal College Street 8, a three-nave church, intoxicated.
Evening fell, equivocal and dissembling.
L’orange est ivre, le bateau ivre, chacun comme un marin peut vivre.
The house is fusing with red velvet and green fumes,
the green fairy together with the smell of hashish
turns fourmis into termites.
Ferment the bitter rednesses of love!

A decadent canapé‚ decadent water,
water is the height of decadence.
Orange letters, brick smoke,
there is no paperweight for the telegrams.
Ink is catching fire,
every letter starts to burn with a different sound, color, sound.

The morning came so suddenly
the same as smelly breath, washed away by a bitter digestive.
I would like to drink the last drops of their love,
but I am puzzled by the bouteille d’huile.
The cats eat the remaining fish scraps, ungodly unctuous cats,
black could be the queen of vanity.

I stop to dream, by the long hangover scream,
Mother disturbs me, we go to a mass.​

The priest masturbates in the confessional and I explain
how, behind the fogged-up alcoholic windowpane, true passion
manifests itself as manifest.
Sexual rituals are holy, the incense is holy,
submissive mouths, ratios are non-Euclidean.

Rimbaud leaves by dawn’s early light,
the court jester has finished his work.
Perhaps now the one seduced will finally find me,
and together on the morrow we can renew our evening vows.