Miroslav Válek - From the absolute diary 1

Miroslav Válek - From the absolute diary 1
(Z absolútneho denníka 1)

(2)

When you will hang on a thin wire
and your legs will dangle in the draft
you will understand,
that these are but next steps to emptiness,
So stop it, the fair is already over
and you sold yourself alive ...
You were always a tiny toy donkey, who runs in a little case,
you were always closed
it was possible to wind-up you with a key
and, carrying your load, you were carried,
but in other direction.
It is the very mechanic of motion,
it is the famous gig of a fool
who comes to make sure he is not here any more.
but, returning, he sees that he has not left yet
and so he sits there, wails on the stairs,
desperately crying against the roaring laughter of the audience :
"For my Lord's sake, who am I and where am I rushing ?"
The amount of time decreases like flour from a sack.
You could be a beautiful cadaver,
you could lie in the grass, look under the skirts of the world,
have a cricket in your ear,
become yellow by music,
you could be cited,
a confectionary could be named after you ...
And what are you ?
A null. A little bunch of bones. In the best case
a thing sometimes useful for lessons of anatomy.
You are already decaying
you and that old umbrella which is so often left behind,
nothing, mere skeletons in a dark cabinet ...
Below the basket of your thorax
let us play basketball with the Moon !
Nothing. Darkness, dust and chalk !
Only gradually
appear poplars and grasses, starfish,
the Earth tears apart, the continents separate and flow away from each other ...
Where were you at that time, homo sapiens ?
To try it again with you ?
Cover you with the silk shine ?
Oh, black umbrella,
the full stop after the life !
I want to be unbinding with you,
to play you from one ear to another like a banal music,
to decompose you in my head,
a meteor would become of you
you would excite the town !

(4)

We fall as if after run, we spit out bloody towns,
we leave them, suffocate them with our own hands
and in front of the mirror
we uncover the sex of underaged word,
ready to sleep with every better poem.
We envy each other, we hate each other.
We devour our narcotics like you your steaks
in order to see a butterfly going to the state of rose.
We worry women, we let ourselves to be worried by women,
we write, we write,
the last petticoat of the night is for a long time full with writing
and no one knows what the poetry is.
Some people define it as an accepted proposal to termination of virginity
and others as coitus interruptus of emotion with reason,
but it is a fatal error !
The poetry wears a motley shirt
and doesn't care about the good manners !
From this point of view
the comet in your head
and the moon behind your fingernail
can be quite suitable for a poem,
but the poetry is something else, dear friends !
It begins when you notice that the skeletoned man moved in your entrails,
that he reached your pocket from inside and inspects
the year, the month and the day when you were born,
the colour of your eyes,
your special signs ...
It is the time of a poem.
Shiver bacause it is coming
message in the form of seed,
pain and blood,
oil into fire.
So the white-hot nakedness hisses
everywhere around
merry-go-rounds of trees are revolving
and revolving ...
Every poem has its time,
but the time of the poem is shorter than you think.

(7)

Oh, aquamarines of the night are cold,
your eyes hurt me, orange flames !
Brown, the smell of burned leathers,
rope around the neck. White, skin
of lily-of-the-valley, knives and feathers !
Don't bother me, I know it,
you also used to wail
to the hair of a perfumery clerk.
At that time you were rich
and beloved !
Good morning, miss.
Honey shines in your premises,
madness of salvia,
purple, fire,
musks.
And where is the poem ?
Sorry, we haven't got it !
Oh, aquamarines are cold !

(9)

Poor poet who loots
the treasuries and the churches,
Faithful ox of plowing words,
with Andromeda in his muzzle !
Occasionally you will be booed out,
you will go to the fire,
all shames of the world in you will be counted
and their sum will add up to your debit.
Your humiliations will be categorized as the first and the second
And the first will enter the second,
to fulfil them while themselves fulfilled by them.
Oh, tender member !
Your name is loss of semen
and your pregnancies will never end by the cry of offsprings.
Anybody will spit on you
and women you loved will be present,
with their eyes so much narrowed,
that razor blades will shed tears under your feet ...
It is not like when you drunk
by various music of a casual body
to the necklines small moons vomitted !
Where is the woman who does not strip herself
in the iris of your eye ?
And anyway -
who, helpless before the mysteries of flower's stigmata,
prayed for patience ?
Who refused to eat lilies ?
Who even the naked dew did not lick ?
Who believed that all grains of pollen are counted ?
Who pitied the light dandelions ?
You swindler !
Nobody knows what you carried, but you carried it in such a way
so that all might believe you have a small carriage
into which you store
silver hoofs of lost happiness.
Gradually, you told your entire biography,
but you purposedly forgot some trifle thing,
that became the key point of the poem

(10)

The amount of time decreases - only look forward to the future.
You are the runner with a young fox under your shirt !