(...) so perfect we are
like a wax dolls
as the children of our age
we are better than it was presumed
we don’t believe in god anymore
neither in Sunday Times
everything got mixed inside
as a sour and sweet puree
to shut my mouth (...)
The moment when all the town's streetlamps light up
simultaneously. The moment when you say
your incredible 'no,' and suddenly I don't know what
to do next: die? go away? not respond?
The moment in the sunshine when I watch you from the bus,
your face different from when you know I'm looking
– and now you can't see me, you're looking into nothing, into the glassy
sheen in front of me. Not me anymore, not with me,
not in this way, not here. Anything can
happen, since everything happens. Everything is defined
by three basic positions: man on top of woman,
woman on top of man, or the one right now
– woman and man divided by the light.
here
we'll be lovers, in a peeling house
at the crossroads, we'll cross with each other,
peeling, right through
mattress? sure, a mattress, only the mattress,
and ashtray? an ashtray, two
cups and mugs, a kettle, a plate, two,
and music? music, music without end
slowly the layers, more and more layers,
the layer of shadow, the hand above the body, slowly
the texture, slowly the roughness
the sky unveils itself,
separates, like a curtain,
there appears a clear-lit cave.