4:08 a.m. Igor CyprjakEight past fourmy eyes crawl to the nails above the doorleft by the crossand the shadow that remainedand I would like to believe in singrandiloquence that gobbles gestures withina year ago, seven past fourand after this year I do not know anymoreif via a photosensitive fiber-optic cableyou’ll tell me – stay with Godor ask me to hail a caband take route half past dawnthe running on top gear meterwill show four hundred and eight kilometersto the city of Mauritaniansto Cordobato satin coversto bed-sheets cut out of Holy Mary’s paintingbecause in Cordobagrandiloquence is a greater gestureand for heresy and apostasythey give brand new passportsand sheets with Holy Maryit’s eight past four a.m.neither day nor nightmore or less in the middlebecause we are in betweensince morning in the hours of not being lovedfeathers in the pillow turn to stoneto Amenand in the citythe yapper’s crackleand deaf phoneseaten up by tapsand fear doesn’t know mercyafraid to say a wordby the skin of my teethby the hand of Godby the sparse audibility of the vinyl record crackling with sorrowyour voice will avoid mesteer clear as far as possibleand this makes me furiousgo to hellto hell I’ll gostaircase, room, banging my head on the corridorthe frame of the mirrorand than an hour in the tubin sterile water quieter and more classifieda quarter to five I sit at the tableover the herby water hemlock I drown in tea all opium and prayersfor heavy mashand lower on the bottom is an angel going through withdrawalthe tea cuts water till it bleedsbecause you’re probably sleepingby your holy husband satiated solitudeand I’m producing a thin poemwithout gratificationon low altitudeand from altitude lowshort flight straight on the smackerto stonetill Amenclose to ninestudy the art of napping in the cornerbecause it’s more comfyand your temple nervewith a dormant current aches a little lessa pleasant dayon my wall hangs a landscape in oiland seven prints made of thin lineon them the army of the Lordpick up the pot in rouletteand give death a hard timemust be fun to hit the bull’s eye in rouletteand get smacked for every “it’s my fault”must be fun to start blowing the whistlesomewherebehind the wallthe sexton oversleptand the bell didn’t until nowthe parish priest with stigmatistshe has gathered from the streetthe sexton oversleptmaybe he’s not in a hurrybecause he’s dyingten meetings in my calendarthis evening one banquetand during this banqueta pliable bimbowill get undressed from insideon a couch for twoand I unresponsivebecause I’m thinking about your childrenand about decencyabout a catholic paradise on the margin of EuropeExcuse me, mum – I must get sloshedI’m napping in the corner sectionthe yearning of misconnectionsand the bell only now tolled and weptthe sexton overslepthe’s not in a hurrybecause he’s dyingI get uprun to the church for massto the apostles to the fasttune the organ – not usedtheir memory they will loose one o clock they gather for prayguys with faces hungry with dismayand bodies adapted to their boundariesevery one of them wears a tieclammed into suits made to measureevery one of them knows St. Margaret holds her to her wordand takes her watcharmed menwith humble calmof support and bedrockdeep faiththat love is faithful and that a pledgemasters of routine caresseswhen the lights are outguys like armored motherspenitential with worry that they should repentand drown in Częstochowathe elementary value of valiant knightsthe guardians of virtuewith them progenythe narrowness of sightand the bed’s cleanyou cannot sweat out waterand theysaint Margaret’swhen you’re not looking at themso unofficially lonelythat you feel sorry for themwant to pick them from their kneesand to love themwithout perspectiveswith bravadoand the softness of the bodythey will uncover and whisperYou first loved me not with your belly, but with your mindwell, my ladywith inspirations unplannedit’s my job to tune the organprevention from cancer of the larynxfor peepingmeaning - for nothingwell, my ladyit’s my job to tune the organbefore the night go to tangopeople are staringsniffing with full lungsthey know – they don’t knowno difference at allarrhythmia of the heartthe killers eyebecause the eye stands stock-stillaround the corner stands a diveafter Dantesque raidsthe floor, sink and freak outrotgut and burned out draught and I order a better drinkmartini dryoliveand swingfrom behind the countera mirror stares not too brightly with it’s mugmakes you want to smash your knucklesthe martin’s gonepepper sweetens the bitter tonenever mindas long as it poisonsfingers on the counter hittingdied where he was sittingin the third minute he rose from the deadremembering the banquet and warm buttermilk’s dreadwhen the whores are much uglierand stand on your upper lipthis hostility of being pissed offmakes a scratchNot today, my dear, not todayon your lower lipinvoluntary saliva slipnot today, my dear, not todaydon’t ask, my dear, don’t askmake hair stand on endcatastrophe of experiencesand his eyes tells he’s a bastardwith a sharp split tongueglassed generalcharge ahead – aim chalet scare clients with your thick neckfingernails dug into the wallthe last calland the contents into the sinka small catharsis is borncoming from a fit of scornan than a silence of tripeallows you to describethis cathedral slimness of the handabove which ringing will be heardof a collection of jewelleryand the space of the eyesin the year of the fall and in them the gray smoke’s blueness it’s the rhythm of the eyelid’s positionstill mascara melts on lashesand the naivety of a childso lasciviously modestthat the imagination’s fertile panicand fits of being honest and tamewhich leaves you confused, it’s a shameand what will happen when it comes throughnaturally moist like dewabove the sinks edgebile to poison like one to onehere pure veinsno one completely diesand just before sunsetyou may risein human formeight past four I raise my eyesto the long distance of your legsand a curled tummyunder which a shadow of dampnesson the dichotomy of the breastswith the adjournment of deathand I hear you stifle oxygen in your lungsthrough my sighta pierced sideand thornand it’s a strainto stand like this in vainwhen I’m watchingand you do not knowis it already less or even moreopen your eyes under my gazeinsatiability and unsatisfied feelingsand Argentinian mazebecause I need to seewhen from the line of thy lipswater evaporatesand this is what I lovein over biological impulsesand this changes into the insatiability of unsatisfied needsand atavistic reactionsat eight past fouryou get dressed in hushed tonesand I for tomorrowsad and tense with sorrowhave scheduled a paralysis and I’m a bit more dead and mourningat eight past four in the morning.