Paradise Songs of Diocletian

1.

Blacker than the black night
a blue dog
with its head cut off
by the rusty moonlight
dances
to the mandolins and flutes
the dance
"The Devil Returns Again".

Oh, shepherdess,
with eyes ready to spill out!
I give you
this skeletal song!

Tighten my throat

tighter
with the noose of your kiss,
and on my grave
plant mint!

2.

Then:
birth pangs
of the sidewalk,

the black bell of the horse
swallows the moon,

spears of intuitive darkness
pierce the heart,

in the black hole of the palm
the space of Euclidean blossoms…

In a stone sarcophagus
put my soul:
a handful
of sad
ash…

3.

Grind,
grind this stone!

Already mirror-like palms,
already flame-throwing pigeons
passionately press
to the ribs,
peck out the greasy stub,
stick their heads deeper
and
coo wisely,
kissing each other's well-fed beaks

(!)

4.

And
there
poppies
lather themselves
with mortal
foam,
Neanderthal fangs
cultivate
dewy grasses,
heaviness
sticks a bodybuilder's chewing gum
into its cheek.
A blue dog dances,
holding its head
with palms in black holes

(?)

5.

The glass jaw
of the street
is parted -
brings cheekbones together.

Mannequins in pairs
float a few centimetres
above the ground.

Each one is
your stone guest.

In the dense labyrinth of eye sockets, the
cross spider
gives birth
to its
steel (…)

6.

Night…
Enamel…
Thirst
bronze statuette,
heated red-hot
by drunken pigeons.

Life!
Behind the cerebral curtains
of your indifference
to life,
everyone is equally right
equally wrong
before you.

Ah, magnificent shepherdess,
deceased,
like a virgin guillotine!

Would you like
candies
with the filling of a whore's striptease,
caressing a dancing
blue dog?!

7.

And so,
on geometrically
non-existent wheels,
stone growth rolls,
spurs dig into the triangular nets
of the eye,
penetrating the very essence of the
brimming
sarcophagus.

Poppies vomit up
sad quatrains
of epitaphs,
the devil raises
a dog's paw
on a narrow-faced icon

(.)

8.

Wish,
smack,
suffer,
cellophane shepherdess!

Warm and amuse yourself
with primordial delirium
in the asphalt-passionate
epicenter.

Lightning,
like a bone,
gnaws
at the dog's shaggy skull.

She is cold...

She is not surprised
by "greetings from Venice".

She is not satisfied
with depraved nasturtiums.

She -
dances -
affection cramps her cheekbones.

She -
dances
the only uniqueness
of her own unbecoming
"I").

Lyrical shepherdess,
spit on this polished filth!

A candle burns in the devil's head
and the blue dog
becomes a constellation...

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