Aerial empire of the spring leaves,
transparent wings of a squadron of gales
over the Crimson King.
Blue velvet, white sweatpants, a dappled horse, a duck on a spit.
Rain in the yard, lingonberry juice on the lip, a red speck on the knee.
Semolina quietly spreads across the gray wall.
In an unbreakable union
apple spheres with tears
of the precious infante.

The dove berries of anger,
red berries of speech,
vine tears of mine,
blue meat in the sand.
Ice ax in the skull as an arrow to south,
delicate, grassy braids on the ground.
When a train falls from a bridge
no flash is needed
while you are
in the fiery glow of an explosion.

Like all children who survived in the pandemic of detest,
I do not digest
whole love.

Healthy, rude, sincere
like oatmeal for breakfast.

Bright, clean, splashing with emotions
like a split orange.

Only the sick, weakened,
hunted, scared,
interrupted by outbreaks of aggression
and alienation.

Pasteurized.
With a flavor “happiness”
identical to natural one.

Life evaporates,
the cup of darkness and freedom holds the light,
the smell of Keats's fresh branches,
the new unmanifestation of pristine chaos,
fills with anger and pus.
Think quietly,
lie down as a calm faun,
cover up with a prickly favela
do not sleep.

Sand argues with blood in the lungs
burnt clay is easier to break
red and gray request to take home.
"Yot" and "iodine" soar and sing,
the stopped Cocytus will spill out a salty sea,
heal and weave with herbs.

Thou
fallest by the domino effect.
Deeply closed life
unfolds outwardly
on the spearhead principle.
Procreation of the world
from Mark to the Yam Suf.
A poet devoured during the Siege
dreams of concurrent, single
Last Judgment.

I like to examine for imperfections
the so called
normal reality
I saw my life in a stranger's face
It was mine
Some other breath, some other life
Death is indivisible
I'm still breathing
Guide to reality

Humans, cats, birds, dogs,
Constraints of big cities.
Blue-eyed lion
looks at the water -
thin curls are
between coarse hair and mane.
The blood, the juice, the stars,
the point of fate, the absolute zero
inside of me.

The forest flame,
summon my animals home.
Roaring fire,
tell: return back,
into the cool of spruce water.

Beasts do not run from you,
you do not leave a chance
for resistance
of muscles, skin, bones,
ashes and air.

By conjugation, interfacing,
tense inclination, worship
the fisher of men
catches the black seas of space
into the golden net,
heals by the salty sea of thoughts and feelings.
To trip out as an owl,
to drown with your head
in the deep belfry.