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A Display Painting, dedicated to Sabina Nore

Merchants pass art
Like an abandoned church
Doubled, the painting breaks

Across the Holy place,
A kitschy stall
And up for sale

A yellowed picture of the entire family,
Manipulative and false.

Can Vanity even paint?
Even if so, what does it see

A putrid nest of the Vain man
Will grow old with them
While the blindness smirks
Bribed with applause

A sigh
Follows my eyes
To the death of that morning
To the graveground of art
Where I detoured for a while
To light a candle
For its soul.
An impure cheek
Got entangled with a venal hand

The pallet is dying, the she-painter
Smugly swings (herself) at the canvas
digitally

Too much misery have I seen,
Enough to leave.

I might be Russian already,
Set in the eternal capsule and floating
Towards a Siberia of frozen veins.

The pain need not be replaced with hatred
Nor self-loathing.

The pain need be cast out of oneself,
Cast out by crying,
A stream of tears
Instead of blood.

So that they pour out evenly
In its inexhaustibility.

 

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poetry, proza

The Spark Of Life, unedited

I had too much tragedy in my life, that I was, unfortunately, used to being abandoned and betrayed by people who have no business abandoning me and betraying me, and that I  have also trusted people who have let me down.  Also I’ve developed friendships with people who have taken advantage of my kindness. I have been used and abused but I still continue to show my strength and my spark for life.

 

I reached out for the moon
with a hand that caressed brightness
I reached out for a rose
with a hand that caressed thorns
And I blessed Brutus and Judas
I kissed their wickedness
my hands were slain,
and their knives were laughing
And I let my blood to flow
into river no one has ever seen
where I was drowning myself, my tears, better to say…
with them I efflorescented my ordinary sorrows

My betrayers have escaped
and their scoundrels went off
They slipped out of blood with deft of guileful

The moon is darkened
the moon is darkened
with the treacherous skill
while they guarded their misdeed

I tore off a rose petal
the other
and the third
all their green youth

I picked up…

The first blackguard
the second
then the third

I became Mars
I became iron
I became stone

with myself
I branded wretches
villains, hypocrites and scoundrels
with myself
I kissed an evil ones
and hugged all the wiles
and toads, and idolaters
Still

My heart goes out to innocent blood
My heart goes out to tender hearts
My heart goes out to spark of life

 

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poezija

IN THE AGE OF FALSE TONGUE, Leila Samarrai “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

janus__roman_god_by_davidsanchezart-d6lkxmb

image found here

Оh, stupidity, how many mouths have you fed
And how many masks sweetened!
How many spirits barred with rusty taste.

To know false flattery,
To smell infertile life;
Mirrors to the wolf
Galleys on lies, in trance.

But I know that naked truth is a dressed lie,
Magnificent urge watching the ruins.

In the age of false tongue
Without weapons and prow
I cannot conquer the world with symbols of certainty.

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