We, who walk upon the leaves
it is us, the very same us who sleep
on the pillows stuffed with the rotten antlers
of deers us who rubbed their phalluses against the green,
sulphurous ocean of the homeland.
that rotten peace shines silver like a wounded teenager’s lip
each time when, petrified,
walking upon the leaves
we return to the city
from the nearby stars. I cannot think of
a better description of this street at four A.M.
it is the twisted rosemary field, again, in the red-hot wind
biljana died and ohrid now evaporates insects
only to return as the apocryphal dollar rain.
in the dorm-room no. 5 the lights are switched off
black like a blackbird in a snowy wintry forest,
a condom enters the anus of an angel:
cicciolina, I love, I love you too.