On this day I will be tired, though still have belief in myself
in you
in us
I will read Kiš’s poem about the laystall
I’ve needed one since forever ago
for recycling
maybe next to the cake I can line up a gun
and furniture and books
and the gray hair which I do not have
I just made it up
to be pathetic
and to tell myself, like I’m Aurelius or something:
“Leila, stoically, we are done”
You are late at your station of horridness
I hurry towards my own…
over there are visitors from
foreign planets and luminescent brilliants
while you kill yourself
I will read Dostoyevsky
by the way, I invited him to the party, d’you mind?
Both him and Netochka and Sonechka
I will moongaze with Homer
when we burry you, it will be
a graveyard made of hairs fallen
from out of the crow’s nest
I will dance with Nureyev, and Mozart will hop all over the electric minipiano
hop hop hop
lilt, well-crafted melodies
the Turkish march, a crystal chandelier and a long-nosed ballerina
and you and your deadly disease
nerve fatigue, distress and a pedestal for the eyes
pack your bags, dirtbags, and into the mindless whirlpool with you
how lovely to go insane so early,
ahead of an early climax when turning forty,
and in Serbia no less
without any reason, without a care, a small cute hothead
and a brain within her for Hannibal and two wicked hearts, a misfortune
lurks, hesitates and looks at itself in the sapphire colored mirror that is your eyes
Hurry now and shoot yourself, you’re having guests.
A lament of sorts for a life before this, quizás?

(zombies enter one after another, the party begins)



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