Prsti Jutra S pozlačenimi prsti vodi jutro obledele lutke dne. Vodi jih na zlatih nitkah. Noč je umrla s temnimi vekami. Zaprtimi v zamolčano misel. Dan prihaja s šumom pasjih tac po tlaku. Prihaja in ovohava ostanke noči: grmado pisanih trakov. (Z zobmi smo slačili noč.) Kje so vse besede. Kdo jih bo izgrebel iz prsti teme. Ko po robu teme leze kot majhna rožnata mravlja zarja. The Morning Touch With golden fingers, she starts the morning a shadowy figure of the previous day. She leads them on golden threads. The night hath died with darkened eyelids. Closed in a restrained thought. The day comes with hushed sounds of dogs walking on the pavement. It comes and sniffs the remains of the night: a cluster of colorful strings. (We undressed the night with teeth) Where are all of the words. Who will uproot them from the dark soil. When on the edge of the dark crawling like a small pinkish ant cometh the dawn.

Plavo Okno To je ljubezen, ki si jo ti iskal. To je pokrajina, ki si jo videl v temnem ogledalu samote. Zato pojdi proti toku reke. Na večerni strani te čaka tvoj dom. Kaj zato, če bo zdaj razbito plavo okno tvoje hiše. Prišel bo temen veter in metal kamenje zasmeha na slamo tvojih noči. Ampak nobeden več te ne bo klical z ogledalom pogube. Zato pojdi v deželo senc. In ne glej, kako žanjejo žareči srpi poldneva plavo polje neba. The Blue Window This is the love, that you have searched for, This is the country, that you saw in the gloomy mirror of loneliness. You should go against the river current. Your home awaits you on the side of the twilight. What does it matter, if your home's blue window is shattered now. A dark wind will come and throw sneering rocks upon the straw of your nights. But nobody is going to call you anymore with the mirror of doom. You should go into the land of shadows. And don't look at the beaming sickles of the noon, harvesting the blue field of the sky.

Tvoje srce obleži globoko pod razvalinami razbitega telesa. In misliš, da se smeješ. Ampak to je jok, ki rjove skoz tvoje preluknjano grlo. In misliš, da jokaš. Ampak smeh razteguje s sadističnimi prsti kožo na tvojih licih. Smeh valja rečno kamenje po tvojih ustih. Potem mečeš v zrak pisane kroglice svojih besed. Loviš jih z usti in jih z naslado požiraš. Ker ne moreš nikoli pasti. Nikoli do dna. Potem pride potepen pes in loka deževnico iz tvoje odprte lobanje. Živahne miši obglodajo tvoja ušesa. Tvoje ustnice. Podgane spletejo gnezdo v tvojih prsih. Potem se veselo zasmejejo tvoji goli zobje. Vstaneš bel, čist in brezčuten. Stopiš na prag novega dne. Sonce nastavi rog na tvoja usta. Vroš medeninast rog. Nikoli nisi padel. Faith Your heart comes to rest deep under the ruins of your decrepit body. And you think you are laughing. But that is a sob, roaring through your punctured throat. And you think, that you are sobbing. But laughter's sadistic fingers stretch the skin on your cheeks. Laughter rolls pebbles around your mouth. Then you toss into the air the colored beads of your words. Catch them with your mouth and swallow them voluptuously. For you can never fall. Not to the bottom. Then comes a stray dog and laps the rainwater from your open skull. Lively mice gnaw your ears. Your lips. Rats weave a nest in your chest. Then you laugh gaily with your naked teeth. You stand up pure and senseless. You stand on the threshold of a new day. The sun puts a bugle to your lips. A hot brass bugle. You have never fallen.

Kralj Sestavljen iz starih razpadlih verig, iz preluknjanega železa, z lepim obrazom, razjedenim od poljubov zavrženih žensk, tujec sebi in meni, je vstal pred mano kralj, kronan s krono iz temnih misli. Kje so tvoja kraljestva, kralj, sem ga vprašal. Zmajal je z glavo proti večerni strani. Gledal sem njegovo roko. Roko, ki je ubila. Vse, kar je imela rada. S prsti iz železa. Črvivega od rje. S petimi prstani. Oslepelimi, ker so jim draguljaste oči ukradli požrešni ptiči jutra. Kje so tvoji mrliči kralj, sem ga vprašal. Zmajal je z glavo proti večerni strani. In spomnil sem se na kralja z zlatom v očeh. Z zlatimi usti, z zlatim smehom med mehkimi zobmi. S srcem iz bele mesečine. Kralja, ki sem ga poznal. Ki sem ga hotel. Kje si kralj mojih noči, sem ga vprašal. Zmajal je z glavo proti večerni strani. In vstal je kralj pred mano. Kralj z zarjavelim obrazom. Kralj s hrošči v prsih. Požrešnimi hrošči. S pisanimi očmi. Sestavljenimi iz barv žalosti in zla. Z gibom železne roke, ki je me je hotel. Zase. Le zase. Za kraljevskega sužnja. Kaj hočeš od mene, kralj, sem ga vprašal. Zmajal je z glavo proti večerni strani. In ko sem pogledal proti večerni stran, sem videl sence nad kužno reko. In v sencah ples zlatih mrličev. Z razbitimi dragulji v prsih. In v reki pogubljeno življenje, ki plava v lačna usta večerne dežele, in kralja, ki mi vžiga v prsi temno podobo kraljevskega sovraštva. King Put together with old decrepit chains, made out of perforated iron, with a handsome face, eroded from kisses of discarded women, a stranger to himself and myself, stood a king before me, crowned with a crown of dark thoughts. Where are your kingdoms, king, I asked him. He nodded towards the evening side. I watched his hand. The hand that killed. Everything it loved. With fingers of iron. Rotted of rust. With five rings. Blinded, because their jewel eyes were stolen by rapacious birds of the morning. Where are your corpses, king, I asked him. He nodded towards the evening side. And I remembered a king with golden eyes. With golden lips and a golden laughter between his delicate teeth. With a white moonlit heart. A king I knew. A one I wanted. Where are you, king of my dreams, I asked him. He nodded towards the evening side. And a king got up before me. A king with a corroded face. A king with bugs in his chest. Starved bugs. With crazy eyes. Dyed with colors of sorrow and evil. With a hand, that reached for me. To have for himself. Only for himself. His royal slave. What do you want from me, king, I asked him. He nodded towards the evening side. And when I turned towards the evening side, I saw shadows over a poisonous river. And in the shadows, a dance of golden corpses. With shattered jewels upon their chests. And in the river, wasted life, that flows into the ravenous mouth of the evening land, and the king, branding into my chest the dark image of a royal detestation.