Ivan P.

~ ~ ~ ~

deep in the
sky
hawks dream of
hairy tongues
and squeaky words from
rusty codices

~ ~ ~ ~

stewbums drowse entangled in hollow sunbeams:
it's only fluid flesh full of clear skies and summer songs

~ ~ ~ ~

have i ever stolen a handkerchief from a living saint
a wing from a tortured angel
a ground from a mumbling worm
a bedtime horror story from a child
a shit from a bull
a sun from a blind dog
a water from a laughing fish

~ ~ ~ ~

night is for empty freight trains
and raccoons endlessly gulping the moon
drunken policemen and hungry
noisy trees; joy for spiders
calm for the souls of butchers

~ ~ ~ ~

when bolsheviks came to power scriabin
already entertained
with his insanity whoever he had found
on the other side so
lenin just quietly
smelt chamomiles time and
again and idly dreamt of
hot nuns
in the northern convents

calm spread along his bald head and
the forests of holy russia
full of sacred three-legged hares
winged pedophiles
and pious worm-eaters