A bus crawls...

I

A bus crawls through a silent city with darkened lanterns.
With plastered fingers we touch a great fireball.
Something goes down inside.
Silence stands upon like an impenetrable roof.
Embers, smoldering still.
Reflecting images of mirrors, in the back, from a distance.
The mouths of the passengers cross-stitched together.
They do not fill for nothing.
Could silence be made more visible still?
The game is over when the inspector arrives.
You can crawl in twice, but the third time you will be fined.
The order of the domino pieces is predetermined.
When we are told to dress off our shoes from our feet.
The bus glides to the depot, a haven which cannot be seen.

II

Quickly buildings rise, whole generations die, while the parts of a sentence are stretching out their limbs.
A stretcher was being prepared already.
For whom do the bells ring on this beginning of a Sunday?
The jar was already filled with tears, when the porter broke it.
Paths burst in front of the lost ones.
But they are so far away.
Manna went by as an express delivery to the sky.
Slow elephants, sank into thoughts, marched quicker than the busy ones.
The Zoo was closed, in a buried graveyard the keys of the guard were lost.
A cage caught another meaning when it was loaded with eyeless chickens.
A journey is a logical game, where words have their place.
In language it was all lost.
Even the last passenger.

III

The department of roads ruined my day on purpose.
I made an issue of this matter too.
A small stick caused a deep wound.
The sticks were all around, on the bed too.
I pushed stick by stick through the skin as I searched for the syllables. Phrases were kept on as evidence. Nothing could stop them from appearing.
A fat one, some skinny and medium-sized ones competed with each other as having the greatest form.
Was the channel wrong after all.
Antennas tuned in every direction, but recipients cannot be connected.
It felt like I was in the middle of the events, but I did not know, where.
Clouds drag clouds behind them, nothing cannot be made for them.
Clouds cover the clouds inside them. There is no other secret.
Who would like to pull a trigger on one’s own forehead, even if the purpose
was another: to end the torture or to reach for the deeper images.
In some cases the one who pulls is another.
Someone wastes a whole life in learning to aim himself better:
giving up convenience food, and move on to raw nourishment.
This person would find a machine, a yard.
On rainless days that person might see better, because clouds are invisible or absent.

published in Metamorphoses

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