In the British Isles alone, 234 micro species of dandelion are recognized
to gravitate around the moon
since yesterday my chest has opened and it looks like a glass box
transparent and you can see my heart inside
an air bubble
around it dandelions lined up like planets: it’s good, I feel like I haven’t written in a long
long time but I can see inside the box now
deer and stags, leaves, humidity and deep green, a forest
I have forgotten how it’s like to write a poem but it’s easy to breathe now that they’re all lined up
where is your soul? it is (in) my whole body, like a circle in a poem
or a song
“where you heading, little lamb?” my grandpa used to sing
you’re in this circle; what’s it made of? what do you see?
I can’t see anything but emptiness and silence and it’s not me, it’s me at 12 years old
and I can’t see my face but you can
I’m alone with the circle right in the middle of it; it’s drawn on a wooden floor, maybe walnut
and it gravitates like a planet around the sun, this floor floats in space like I used to float in my dreams above the houses
my face is my soul my whole body and in this circle there’s just a tiny figure that I imagine being me
No one is, as a matter of fact. Sometimes, I find it hard to come back to myself and sometimes – I have no recollection of what happened yesterday. Like today, for example.
I woke up from another life, having no idea whatsoever about where I’ve been or what have I been doing yesterday. I was probably trying to escape Timberlake’s river but whatever I did, it was still there; so I let it all out. I let it out on the tube, and afterwards stepping outside into an early evening, in the quietness of the City. I let it out on the street and then alongside Thames, listening to buskers, I let it out as the sun set on Southbank. I let it out on the way back home and brought it back into the room. I took it in bed with me and let it out while falling asleep.
I feel now as if it never happened.
I feel like it was all a joke. It was a joke, right? That didn’t happen and it will never happen.
But then I checked my camera and apparently, in my unconscious state of justin timberlake I took a lot of pictures.
all skies look east except this one above looking right back at me
at me cleaning my footsteps and my thoughts from this universe
out of this dark tunnel on a train to brighton hoping that the sea has some answers
there’s grass and naked trees until the sea and yellow brownish landscapes
and it is getting greyer and greyer
shit by the time I get there it’s already time to go back
Also looking for the best X-rays of dreams in all formats, color and black-and-white. Successfully photographed memories, to be considered for airing on TV networks, paid extra. (Milorad Pavic, Landscape painted with tea)
no one said anything, it was just a step dance underground; and as we flew towards the day, our shadows were fading.
there was coffee all over the floor, broken glass, broken china and I was all scratched.
Some fingers were pointing at my dirty-smelly-coffee stained-dress and I knew that there was dust all over me and I had a red face. Grab it with your hands said the sand therapist
then write your poems with your toes at the sea side and hope for the best. You have yet to finish all those books you started to read years ago and give those voices to the characters you’ve been thinking about in your dreams
I wish I could use my camera when dreaming, I’m sure I would remember everything easier.
time flowed from the end to the beginning of life (Dictionary of the Khazars, M. Pavic)
there are only the ghosts of spiders from that corner in our balcony, that corner where we used to listen to the town’s urban dogs and cats and where we smoked our evenings out before going to sleep.
There’s only the smell of the neighbourhood’s smokehouses and of our spoken, sometimes written words; the smell of paper.
The blackness of our garden and our silence, fear digging up the ground; the earth, our roots digging themselves up amongst bunches of poppy flowers and spring onions, fresh garlic waking up its leaves with a sound so strange (like a howling), this green werewolf.
Our roots, our insectariums, our herbarium – a systematically arranged collection of dried plants.