PART 1. THE DAY OF INSOMNIA
A hunt for me, then? It is adulterous to be part of a woman
In the eyes of a cold-blooded fraud two fangs
words of betrayal clad in banal f(loe)llow-up
For all those ice-skating fans
A killer whose mum
is a foretold habit!
(footnote „Silence, the Habit of a Killer…“, half of the 777th verse…)
Killers kill too, do they not?
Prove to me, o Lord, that your mercy is not a concocted sentiment…
That warmth isn’t a grave of cad falsehoods
Let him prove himself to me!
Do you hear, God, this blasphemeress!
(a hysterical shriek in the background)
Prove it, show yourself, God, you blasphemous coward!
No, I am not raising my tone, I am screaming! Not one
mortal… no… no… he could never hear
the foretuned idiotic cackle, behold where he says, that it is but an insane woman, flayed.
And she does not know…
…. Where begins, and where ends the memory of arrogance, of the black, fateful, deadly act
(stands silent without respite, listens without respite, ascertains from his throne, with virtuous hostility, pathologically scribbling with silence, the medical holy sacrament of misery)
I curse the day at the deathbed of anguished love
she is exhaling already, her fingers are exhaling…
And, how did she depart?
(does not reply, is convulsing)
I will curse the day when I met the freak who
for years has terrorized me with silence, vileness and will write atop his head the date and hour and will mumble: immorality!
I curse your corpse, with all due respect to the deceased
A nutcase less, but a new one lives
more complex, keen on skepticism and truths. A seeker.
I powdered myself for three days to make…
a catafalque for the deceived dead
lied down in the position of a temperamental countess
with rouged cheeks and no dental crown
is there anything else that is unclear in this report?
Do you have any poem where you’re not full of drama?
Oh, yes and she said to me: I lied, I lie, everyone lies, I killed, they all kill,
God are you laughing!
Or are you bored?