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.