The confession of a prisoner


If, when walking this city B.,
while moonwalking in its inverted glory
all I can see in my blinded sight is red fibre like
the resplendent body of blood dawn
the soil hardened overnight,
teeth chattering, and great dark clouds ran across
the threatening skyscrapers
and piled on snow falling in the form of slosh.
such a music… like myriads of bell towers,

You call me names, like… humdrum deaf prisoner
you may leave a tiny Tim poem to posterity,
like she swallowed a handful of ecstasy and that
she imagines all of this happening in a roomful of mirrors – numerous
Slime’s books in a single passage,
a secret of that trash whispering behind the scenes
Of Slime’s city, there is no place to get to

Still, I keep walking
Along with endless noise of impossibility,
bemused faeces and insane homeless people,
their fingers numb in the wind, extending their hands.

After so many years, only impurity, enormous chunks of
time blocking the thorough research of vile and
concrete, diabolical actions, the trash behind the curtains is
part of the show, taken out secretly and insidiously by a
lipstick-wearing actor.
So many treacheries, idiocies, drives to criticize me, destroy me, I,

I…I totally matter!

So I paint its portrait, feverishly shaking
A tyranny of the gut, this and nothing else.
The drunkenness of hate, this and… whatever other
mad souls think
the day in the day of chronicle
of irritations
that will forever remain silent,
Unfortunate in its own way,
dragging other boring grey days with it.

One written page, one bullet fired,
one rebellion squashed,
one decree.
Beyond the veil of blazing sullenness
Time is ticking. Space dying,
Loud, empty, but their eyes do not match their grinning teeth.

I become a stumbling cave dweller surrounded
by whirlwinds of dread and howls of the killed
and the slaughtered and ready for testing.

This is how a soul starts getting vile
a replica of an ancient corpse stumbling about caves.
with hidden knives, they were taught to use
to pick the victim’s innermost
layers of brain cutting their cingulum, with pleasure.
a hellish butcher with bloodthirsty pleasure
craves blood,
reading all of my innermost desires and fears

Inside was a real-life zombie land – wrinkled faces, pale as if robbed by a mysterious fever, hardened backs bent, scared and careful of the impending knife strike, like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.

Not a single NOBODY.
Nobody and somebody.
Nobody there.
All is Nobody and Somebody.
No-bloody.
No-Goddy.
Knotted in

Like those birds forever trapped mid-air,
shot with an arrow of the final reaper on earth.
The old Gods are dying of laughter,
Either the asylum or the sword remains.