dvrHold My Dead Branches!

“my soul was a door handle
as my mind never matched the steps”

the brunette refugee child with otherworldly descriptions
who lands down on the cage of my chest fluttering
your face is the gap called wound this evening

your eyes were a single country, the whole earth
the insensitivity of this era is a death trap
the thundering robbery, plunder, pillage of an avalanche
with its cooperative loam the red-brown marsh

depth and the subsiding weight do go away
lacking humanity that makes it lose its way
it has no roof to wash ashore or to take shelter
in September the unhugged body the surplus of water

the iceberg drifting from where it belongs is just like you
woven for the outer world a long time ago
its fragile body lessens by moments, from which
it adds itself to the water that will drown us all

wherever I turn the speed of light is the same
one’s circle, occasionally recurring mercy sprinkle

which pours down on the sift of the sky
from a long distance

Hold my dead branches! Hold my dead branches!
let the dead leaf fall!
let my crooked branch flatten...


The clutter of that abstract time is
a fingerprint on the ruins of the ancient cities
Limbs of unknown skeletons
have been taken out of them up to their hands
Starting with their mouths and eyes
The sense of making space of the turnings
that remained distant passes the place where it touches
It passes through all the living spaces
through the fertile womb
through a nibbled apple
through the passions that harass while taking root
It unquestioningly passes into the soil
Now the things experienced while we are alive
are unfortunately rather far removed
from creating a new measure
whose subject bears human values
on the scalepan of the day and night
identified with their black and white
interconnected by motion
Prohibitions divinely enthroned
suddenly fall down in the middle of our humanity
like a meteor
moving away from the vital one
with a deadlock they impose violence
on freedom for which innocence has passion
within its own nature
The metal coins on whose image death is written
are not widely accepted under their own wreckage
of the blood-sucking fascist dictators
who appraise the massacre of mankind
not having been able to learn their lesson from the historical range
So now's the time
it’s time to think once more
decluttering in favor of mankind
in order to bring the days that suit mankind

The Poem of the 100th Day

vinedresser, i linked my voice to sky, erase death
i am a stone-sculptor tonight i linked my voice to sky

my eyes sculpted what outweighed them
the crowd of my outside, the isolation of my inside
sculpted gently the side of me that was offended by life
i took it to the city square and left it there
i’m too lonely for anyone to notice me

my apprenticeship of stone age is a rodent in my chest cavity
my semi-skilled working, my bronze age,
the slip-of-tongue wing of whirligig
my iron age is my mastership, by inner beauty that attracts the devil
in a sleazy capstan-free well the cementer’s cap
vinedresser, i linked my voice to sky, erase death
i am a stone-sculptor tonight i linked my voice to sky
i sculpted what outweighed my tongue
seven generations, seven shirts off of the back of the stone
young and old alike the great powers off of the belly of the stone

i spilled from my skirt ash-colored and rose-scented
i took my heart out and loaded my emotional clamorous side
onto the hands of a callow off-tune musician

i sculpted the earth to cleanse it of its dirt
the lifeguard with little room and a large heart rang the bell
blew its whistle its vigorous siren
quite appropriate for a tale, quite against the genuine
the bite in her throat turned out to be a hard row to hoe
put her seamy lustful foot down

vinedresser, i linked my voice to sky, erase death
i am a stone-sculptor tonight i linked my voice to sky

two acrobats on one tightrope, impatient and fond of comfort,
the one heavily seethed the one whose face is down
the fond one and the one with no dreams all of them is a memory loss
their skulls are the size of a huge cave each of them
i eroded the surface, took it out, slam it down
my flesh blood and memory thought
it wouldn’t be heard when slammed
the joy of cleansing gleamed on the cutter

vinedresser, i linked my voice to sky, erase death
i am a stone-sculptor tonight i linked my voice to sky
i sculpted my heart, open wounds around it apparent
people passed by, passed away, hunger hasn’t had enough yet