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[Oct. 28th, 2011|09:59 pm] |
"Bac šis iesnas" she says trying to stop sobbing. I leave
and retrace my past to pick up some piece of slaughtered life, down Brunienieku
and Source Street.
All the shops have changed - a cafe where the whorehouse used to be,
A locked up space for Japanese auto parts, and a place for the guts
of microbuses, live beer and designer velosipeds.
The red speckled cheeks of the alchos still support
dull but focused eyes, as their bodies circle like
lazy pollen looking for a bee to take them back to the hive.
The dead meat (there is no other kind) is slung over my back,
knocking against my rump as I squint against our setting star.
Its light-speed light alighting me to the fact of burned out buildings,
discharged grafitti, bezjedziga poetry.
The wheels of a jeep navigated by a representative of a social class
I have yet to classify
pulse blue and white in time with the digital-like flow
of the hand lying in hand with his passenger-seat liker.
the noise of the swept up dust of a civilisation
bearing the pinpricks of life and death. |
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