Рисуя вздернутую бровь,
Я не томлюсь пустой досадой,
И не кусаю губы в кровь,
Спокойно проводя помадой.
Мой черновик дождями смыт
Давно. И потому, быть может,
Я знаю, чем оплачен стыд,
При том, что плач – еще дороже.
Я не рискую в яму пасть
От взгляда или поцелуя.
Рычанье, шепот, кому, страсть,
И рай, и ад – всё нарисую.
The ancient female spirit is dancing to the ticking hands of the moon clock.
Under that moon, somewhere in the ocean of tears and blood,
Among solitary icebergs of pride and islands of doubt,
Where the Truth of the Ego and the Truth of the Soul
Swim toward or away from each other,
Somewhere there in the middle,
I shall meet you if you are brave.
I shall guide you if you are in dark.
I shall sing to you if you are tired.
I shall embrace you if you are cold.
I shall love you if you don’t need it.
The sun was three oaks high when Little Fairy
Woke up from her delightful little dreams
And moved her thigh covered in crushed red berry
Ardently being licked up by morning beams.
“Who would the daddy be this time, I wonder?”
She mumbled with a careless sleepy smile.
It takes a journey through some hell and thunder
To dream your future husband, fairy style.
It was a bear. He took her to his deadfall.
His iron hair under her digging nails.
His only tear, the dome where crippled bats crawl
And spiders cry, and swallows eat their tails.
It was a faun, you know, blue-blooded satyr.
You’ve seen him; he craves fairies day and night.
One low-pitched moan is all it takes to bait her,
Our poor lil hopelessly loveseeking sprite.
It was an angel, dressed in black like demon,
Emerging from a quiet misty lake.
– It wasn’t mist, but swans.
– Not swans. Drowned women.
They bathed him in their love, all his to take.
The crying bear, half-man in his repentance,
The shadowless and shameless furry faun,
The angel shackled in his earthly sentence –
All gone and vanished at the crack of dawn.
When faes give birth, you see, it’s fairly natural
For cyclons of both worlds to get mixed up.
From deepest dens of earth that smell like petrol
Red berries grow.
Bad berries grow.
Sad fairies dream.
Dead fairies sing.
They never stop.
Sketched with a pencil, trees are keeping guard
For my enchan…(scratch that) surrendered castle.
Under the bridge rests thick and darkened lard
Unfit to be a carrier to a vessel.
It’s been a while indeed since dragonflies
And sprightly fish disturbed the frigid water.
The anchored heron’s looking down at skies
Right at that spot where wind of change has brought her.
I’m rushing home through early dampish haze
In lustful seething act with dying ember.
The doorstep smells like coffee and always;
And lanterns smell like light and like December.
There’s still so much I need to do before
I give into the overrated bliss fuss
While seemingly maintaining status quo.
My son is almost nine. It’s almost Christmas.
We’ve lost the count, yet one more time
My rook commits her silly crime
And breaches all across the board.
My “Sorry!” duly gets ignored.
You’re growing weary of these draws.
No “calm and eerie” smile, no cause
For other move. The empty chair.
Inertia permeates the air.
All past and present get reduced
To “game” (the aegis of the used).
The bloodless page takes every scratch:
My flawless heart, my broken sketch.