my poem no. 19

You gave me this pencil in December

Now I'll stick it into my arm, pulling the blood smelling of you

until I'm drenched dry

Follow the red blotches – Fra Angelico's painting

I met Him again. This time he has cat-like eyes and messy hair

And I want to think I knew it was Him from the very first moment

We used to sit on a train bridge

desire overflowing us from the organic subconsciousness of the city

The myth about star-crossed lovers

Only in our case the stars were lined perfectly

Still everything we saw had already passed in a blur

We peered through a cracked surface into time that hasn't ever existed

We thought we still managed to steel some of it

and in my head I lived thirty eight lives with him on this borrowed currency

Heat of blood rushing to cheeks

Eventually it caught up with me

After three months my thighs aged for 3879 days

Pleasure, pain, blindness, numbness

Sweet thrusts

Cracks. In the mattress

How many times

will I have to dig my painted nails into palm's skin

in an animal instinct

Self-restrain

Self-harm

Seeing red

Before the wall I built so carefully tumbles down again

How many times

will I be able to keep the shadows at bay before...

And you'll freak out

And you'll run to the girl made to be loved

I'll paint you the picture

It has a dark red background with wildly yellow stars

The foreground consists of vague shapes of gray, some of church-like silhouettes, some more like crawling bodies

Single light line across the composition

You are a picture too, my dear

A mirror reflection

Spot of sun made on wall by one's watch or knife

How could I catch you?

You always came after I stopped expecting you, not before I gave up on hope of seeing you

You are my future indeed

Too bad future doesn't exist

The presence, always pregnant with it, never delivers

There's too much blood and pain in giving new life, she thinks

We gravitated to life we never could have achieved

The eternal bliss and sadness of unreachable

And I realize now I couldn't have it any other way

because my heart is too much alive

just like yours is

Every night I cocooned myself in the time gap we inhabited and in the sounds of our love-making

I fell asleep

Misplaced cravings

Spilled wine

Assumptions and whispers

accompanied me everywhere I went

I laid in their bed legs spread open, pink, not caring if it was wrong

I built a seedbed of phantasm around us

around you – my blackest, most concentrated spot in mind materialized

River under the bridge was deep, cold and unwelcoming

and I didn't realize first my soul was dead

leaving only instinct, body, feelings and strange light

The train bridge was the only witness of truth

Nobody else knew what was right anymore amongst the spots of Time

And yet once “the right” was all that mattered

At the end it all comes down to the light, shadows and flow

Only thing left is the moment your hands caged my waist right under my ribs

Because knowledge isn't here to understand but for decisions

I decided

to follow your cat-like eyes

And did so until there was anything of me left

Now follow my blood

instruction manuals

my poems no. 14, 15, 16, 17 and 18

When your hands are shaking
get some wine - although it's only morning and they'll look at you funny -
and pretend everything is alright

When you are sad
Walk through the city as long as it takes to turn the sadness into the blues
most importantly don't call anybody
this is a lonely business

When everybody is looking at you funny
Go to the bathroom and take a peep in the mirror for possible dots on your forehead

When you put on makeup but he didn't show up
Go out for a late coffee and repeat to yourself: I'm not gonna do it again
Don't take yourself seriously, put on makeup next time

When you love him but he has a girlfriend
note: He loves you back
Stand on the bench where you kissed and cry: I don't want you!
It won't help.

my poems no. 11, 12 and 13

Late autumn came to Prague so it's cold, foggy and grey in here. And I developed a habit of going to the river to walk and think nearly every day. Hence all the water, swans, boats and reflection in my recent poems.

The river is mystical

when the lamps still light on village railway platforms

Wind is blowing and the water folds

There's no end seen through the haze

Everything is grey and non-existent

It's the morning when - if you're out of luck and woken up by freezing feet - you consider going to the river bank and walk into the stream very slowly, wearing a coat, until your head sinks bellow the surface

Then you reconsider, it's icy

You turn over, ignore your cold feet as well as the bare trees by the river

Behind your bedroom walls I'll pass by in train

the sound blending with dream

Nobody will believe what happened when, later, the mist will rise

Swans have assembled in rows on night river surface

without anybody noticing

Boats passing by, their dinning rooms lit

You can't see properly from light into dark

All the white birds have their heads turned against the stream

The haze is coming

I'm sitting by the river

and words start creeping in fluidly

They'd be about the black sky on the left

I shouldn't look over there, it swallows swans

they sail there in four-file

and that is always a bad sign

The railway bridge in front on the other hand...

lighten trains

modest steel arches

it doesn't even have a name, on all the maps it's simply written: railway bridge

There's too much happening on the right

the sky being still absolutely transparent over there

Everything is laid down on the river

And it doesn't feel, it doesn't freeze, it doesn't crave like I do

sitting and staring

contemplating how would the words sound if only I'd put them on paper

you're too far to tell you

me performing, title and form loosely inspired - yet again - by Bas Jan Ader's performance I'm too sad to tell you

my poem no. 10

Today I got a flower
And it made me think of you
Like every day something does
I wanted to throw it away
But then started to pretend - on my way home in night tram - that it was from my lover

I even touched the blossom

When I came home I stripped naked
To lay under the duvet only in panties
(It felt appropriate)
And I wrote this poem without metaphores and figures

I wrote it so you know

Bas Jan Ader, ladies and gents.

Realized just recently how little people know about him. Even those "interested in art". Although he was not only one of the pioneers of perfomance art but also one of the best artists ever. 

P. S. I'm back.

Waves

(tribute to Allen Ginsberg's rhythm)

my poem no. 9

It's my scream

MY howl to the waves

It's the voice of my people

- I don't wanna ba a success,

go away bright colored women with gigantic breasts

I wanna be special

For once in my life I wanna hear the secret music

I'm always talking about

I wanna stop fearing people in the crowd -

It's the pray of my people

I'm running from them

They scare me

They need help from me

- You, looking at my boobs
I don't mind

you're not one of my own,

so feel free to imagine fucking me from behind.

You, great-looking guys,

my future husbands and lovers,

wouldn't understand.

You're looking at the sky and see blue -

It's lying on the carpet

spent and heavy and sweaty

hunt by the raised eyebrow of my mother

beating - beating - beating !

my head against the air

I feel guilty about my lesbian dream, mum

it would have disgusted you

My people would have told me it's OK

Keep your slaps

Keep your understanding

I don't want girls

I don't want guys

they have faces...

It's the constant flight

I'm running from my people

they scare me

they always find me

and I find them

repelled by their truth

by the fact that I'm not alone in my craziness

and SO crossed when they tell me something nice

when they wanna fuck me

when they turn to be humans

when they don't understand what I'm saying either

None of us undestands

We lost the rhythm

We lost the rhythm

the rhythm of the waves

no longer runs our hearts

There’s no space

no compassion of minds

no blinding madness in screams at night!

- There’s the scream again

the sound NOBODY

is brave enough to make

not any more. –

Scream, clever people,

scream at strangers.

Scream in your pillows.

Scream at your parents.

They don’t know the war

they live in a coma

interrupted by occasional happiness upon new-born children

- Healthy and just marvelous! –

You poor little thing.

Tell it, tell it, right on the birth-bed

Tell it to howl to the moon

that there’s no rhythm

no way of happy life

no way to be pure

no way to sin.

No beat to keep…