Double failure

You make me twofold, me, who’s
so decidedly singular.
My hurt, when the mind splits in
shattered affections,

between my acquired role,
tensely twisted into submission by
your awkward lack of sense, and my
notion of a double failure.

Double failure is:
Your escape, your lack.
You’re soft and my being cool
on the verge of

coldness melting with the crimson
of an on-stage argument. You run,
you’re weak, scared that my like to
reason does not weep for you.

I used to tread lightly; with lighter steps it meant
more casual, meant only touching on to
smooth surfaces, meant not being your drama.
Carelessly thought through to avoid all of you

it was still manageable. Now gone, pulled in
by you who came back, slightly, ever so slightly
shaking, appearing step by step, ignoring the past
success of my shallow attempts to slide by.

Clearly not clever enough to be alone I grew
heavy and bound by you to sink straight away,
still on my tiptoes, taking down all of us but talking
about your dramas, finally your bliss, your love, your crowd.


Nowhere else do the summer fires smell the same as in your hometown.
the brick-framed streets most apt at catching smoke signals from the air,
no other streets can emit so much calm as you do,
my Moravian corner.

Do you want fries with that? (for a non-existent podcast)

I drove to the window and said with my fake American accent that I would like a vegetarian burger and a large portion of fries and salad on the side, thank you very much.
The face behind the tinted glass stared at me intently and: Do you want fries with that? Do you really want fries with that? Raising her eyebrows really, really fast which made it into a very significant gesture repeating for the third time: Do you really want fries with that?
I stared back. I have no problems deciding usually, I am efficient and sharp and I multitask very well. When I want fries, I want fries. But now I did not know what to say. Do I actually want fries with my burger? Do I even want the burger? Who does it really matter to whether I am a vegetarian or not?
A car honked behind me. I honked back. Fuck this.
Yes please, I would like my fries with that.
The face smiled politely and said: that will be 12pounds 50 cents please.


In the old town
As a never-ending tourist I have been living in the old town for some weeks now.
In the mornings I wake up to the silent shuffle of summer rain
On the cobbled streets, church belling around the corner and the early tourists louding their awkward ways through the thick stone walls.
The sound of summer, for me will always keep with this house
With a cigarette of a non-smoker on the terrace overlooking
The royal palace. Little moment when cycling  
Behind every corner, by the boats.

Love note no.3
It is snowing today.
you can hide your freak love underneath the frozen heaps of whiteness.
Let’s crack
it I prey they melt, take you both away to the river
and drown the unwanted
precious words or phone calls dozen times a day
or cuddles in the bed or holding hands, oh no, my dear,
there’s no holding hands with me.

Love Note No.2
Boy, you don’t remember,
what they are called, your loves.
Not the ones taking their shirt off cheerfully in front of you,
not the ones so read in Kamasutra, strong legs flexed around invisible poles like sails,
not the ones to whom you recited your bad verses ten years ago filled with altruism and peace.
not even the little ones who stared at you wide-eyed, admiring and beautiful.
Not the ones you believed to be true.
Not the ones, nope.
I mean more like those loves you never left because you
did not know you could leave them.
I mean the maybe ugly loves, you will never shake off, as they bit deeper than that.
The ones you always go back to during your holidays,
and watch them from a dirty window on the train from Prague.
Covered with snow, or rained upon, or steaming hot.
I mean the early-born ones,
When your skin was softer and you were biting your nails.
the ones your parents grew in the garden
And made stew of during winter nights
The ones you can’t pay money to buy affection
Boy, why do you remember
Kisses and all those ladies’ eyes
And this months’ rent and to clean the bathroom,
But not me?

It is my birthday today and it is hard to believe
that I still breathe the same air as I have had for all those years.
back then, when the greatest of the moments
were to collect chestnuts with my so admired older

Sometime November 2017

I often remember my dark-haired friend
in songs that we used to be bitter to together
in the evenings, with another glass of wine.
Sometimes he had stopped smoking for the time
and I had not yet started.

I often miss my dark-haired memory of when
things were not any clearer, but the air was saltier
from the Scottish sea; with biting breeze and chunky seals.
All this salt, it made us hover above the ground for the while,
as that was always hard for both of us

I have not yet known (did you?)
that years will go hand in hand with words, yeah, still there,
but not the ones you can hug from the distance.
I should have laughed more back then but I didn’t know
it will be so hard to lock friends up to keep.

Jan 18

Many, many words later, there were
more words waiting to “save me
from becoming bitter.”
My beloved beasts,

I accept any bullshit that could
make me a -,
take me from -,
ply me a -.

Ply me a little more like you;
I will plough my own
river out of your
beliefs in higher order – high ordeal.

Make me see moments mildly,
mellow, meager, lined-up, colour-coded.
Monsters, make me a little less

Drive me to the churchyard and
let me in to convince me of
value. Try me on Sundays,
a converted in the sun.

fall 2017

Konstfest in Stockholm

Young, female, foreign,
There’s pretty and blonde too.
A career-killer,
A mood-setter,
on a middle-aged white
of artists used to wave their hairy b(r)ushes
around for decades.

Swedish maestros
don’t give a fuck
about gender-equality,
political correctness,
or replying to your work emails.
Too above
the land where
“we have had all that” and where
“you did not grow.”

Creative white men’s morals,
you cannot tread
away from on this ice
fast enough. Too thin
to dance, if you could,
too foreign,
not far-foreign enough
to invite. Creative wide morals
test-proven through

brew coffee, good manners,
clean-cut steel oats in an IKEA bowl
for a white-washed,
studio lunch. Ideal for:
young, foreign (not too foreign), female, 27,
good to stir,
steer nude (not naked)
behind the milk glass.

Not talk to.
Talked to,
just late at night,
at after-parties.

Lack of bad conscience.
A bad lack, which
should not be lacking
and tells a lot about our
lack of
taste. Lack of tact.
Of our liability
to lie. Lay low.
Bow your head
if she shows
up, if they see.
if not, for us
it’s too much fun,
too late
to take it back.
Too much lack
it proves
right people

With every other blow we grow sadder,
so we go thunder and scribble bitter words on walls
built of sand stones in another world a long time ago,
where if walls grew rotten people helped them crumble.

There is an honest small folks’ need to swear the soul
out loud: “We know what you tell us stinks
of poisoned lead dipped in meadow hill-hatched honey
that you own, but have not paid.”

Now we know but hey, to kick we don’t really dare.
Instead, we write lines fuelled on the heat of fire,
fed with fears and lies we’ve heard for months and years
and we mean it, we mean all the f-s and damns and do-s,

for all the broken promised hands really start to bruise.
So count on us, we’re always sure to come with
some empty words and brags and fingers stretched
whenever they can point and reach and blame the law.

So angry, so angry on our walls that do not crumble,
where the ink does not dry and the paper does not peel
when embedded on the screen. The words sound sharper,
stronger, real, so much that we can feel how

we can change the world in a single line. Say:
“Tomorrow – we will take justice to the street.”
Yet too few of us would go and drum the walls
with clubs in hands and votes and bells to toll.

I don’t pose on podiums, not naked and paid no more.
Or wait – nude, we call it, us, the artists, we like the body
bare but not the sounds it breaks with its sweaty stumps
at night, when it has too much time to ask all these
fully-clothed, full-bodied questions. This silly sagging
body rambling on its tune, like: what now?


Added value
I relish the nights when I sniff my hands and they smell of ink,
like an old sheet of paper, like something with added value
external to the small being that I seem to have grown,
wishing to melt into lines to become eternal.
June 2016

At this lake

Already drinking too early or maybe it is too late?
A morning wine, just in my bra and with bike badly locked at the bar.
It seems lakes like to pretend that summer has arrived,
when in fact it still lures deep within the tides.

Lingering in the background are faintly foreign voices;
when caught in the slow motion of a lazy day they become somewhat coy,
stunned, softer in the way they let themselves be heard and carried on.
I can click them on my tongue and make them dive.

I want to make them mine, own these memories that found their way inside
of my senses caring not for what mess they have done.
I try to hold them nearer, mold them warmer, make them dearer.
Since I know that no image taken will make them any more alive.

What is it with this strangest air that my focus seems to shy away
at the slightest sight of strain? Wide gaping gaps hide in this seamless summer day;
invisible fish eager and so ready to be golden, promising small miracles,
teasing my hair slightly with fins stretched out in question if I will make love to you.

This lake, oh you, lake, you are making me escape when I should stay chained
to the ground. I would not think of the wrong lips and eyes if not for you,
with all your sunshine glitter, glowing fish scales and peace that blinds.
No, I would not think of the kisses so much if not for this subtly silent lake.

somewhere at the lake, too late summer 2016

Session II (portraits)

Today I sat on a little shabby theater-style stage lit by a dim diluted daylight and a stand spotlight only for my face.
Shining too sharply, too close-up, focusing too much on the features I do not necessarily know or even recognise
anymore. They changed slowly; small sneaky changes somehow gone unnoticed, neither liked nor disliked,
just slyly present and claiming some right of their own.

I sat there starry eyed, silently shifting in my seat with my lids hurting from trying hard not to blink, which made it worse and easier for the tears to thread their little wet ways out. Stared at; sharp stares some kinder than others – but all of them thinking to be honest, believing what they see, carrying the image from eye to pencil to paper and back up to the eye now hesitant what it had really seen.

I was thinking of exactly nothing, thinking that I should be thinking of something important when I have
this space, this time, this stage, all this concentrated attention just for myself. This all, mine.
You could pinch the density between a thumb and forefinger and break it loudly. If you wanted.
It covered me like a soft blanket together with the stage dust of all plays never applauded to,

a slightly sickening softness, hard enough to keep the sore eyes open and blank mind awake trying
not to show it in my gaze. (Cough. Excuse me. Could you keep your hands still?) Thoughts split up
in strange light spasms and heat waves. One hundred and one fucked up ways to earn money.
How many more odd jobs to take on, how many more foreign eyes to please to pay the rent?

And all the time the tiredness, wanting to sleep but not really, if you know what I mean? Leg cramps and sore knees;
the old guy’s little furry dog with funny wobbly tail running around. Thinking you know something so well until watching from the other side. Thinking you know a bit better than others. Thinking, also, that you were even sillier before. Thinking there are much worse jobs to do. Thinking how you enjoy the nakedness a lot more, feeling at ease with the body because

       no one can read you through the flesh but easy, easy enough when the eyes, the smile betray you.

Melting slowly underneath the heat.
Seeing some of the portraits, well-made, poorly-made, showing a face beautified a thousand times.
Musing where have they lost me from eye to hand to paper. Where have I gone.
Laughing for no reason to myself, at? composing myself again, tearing eyes, a bit high on the spotlights.

My Happy Stomach Lining

Happy, so happy at moments I feel like
something must necessarily burst on the inside.
Back home we have držťková, a soup made of
cow’s stomach lininig. There are times I think it would not be that bad
of an end for a vegetarian. From nose to tail, they say.

But – not yet, not yet.
Let me stay like this for a moment beyond.
Let me keep still, silent, sashaying over my two bridges
like a little full speed ahead steam train, high on snow, snow-higher as the wind chills.
(So excited: Look, look! This is the winter, the real Swedish winter!)

Let me long longer,
let me breathe fuller, let me blow the soft balloon further out of
all perspective, with the air coming from the hot healing springs
guarded by the Swedish trolls (who are not really trolls:
they’re the Moomintrolls).

Every day passing
the birch alleys,
the broken sea,
the old mill,
the Globen curves, gladly over-exposed in a golden haze.

Touch them let me.
On the metro a real smiling baby, still allowed to be loudly happy –
– on public transport ! – despite its genes of serious swedishness.
We wave at each other and I show it
my new book that made me miss the birch stop yet again

as I held my breath in expectation of how will the trial end.
(Guilty? Not guilty? Siberia? Biting the already bitten lower lip.)
Unbelievable, you say. All this for a dog-eared book?
But…they like it, the addictive softness of a dog ear nuzzling on the skin.
It makes them feel needed in the moment, knowing

that I will come back before falling, with the need to caress
what happens on the page 563 and then, gently,
on the pages of the next books. Who cares for your scorn?
I will make new shiny puppy’s velvet ears to keep
in my hands as the epitome of happy, today so easy to contain within

a) Paperback Russian novel read just on the train with passion
and baseball cap worn so low that you can’t reach me.
b) For lunch near black rye bread dipped in strong coffee,
the smell lingering in the kitchen for hours on,
snugly dressing my happy stomach lining.

In a cafe,
in a world that is supposed to be mine by nature,
mine by this land’s firstborn right of
                                                              simply naturally belonging here.
                                                              or not?
It’s gone away from me, direction of
abanoned mines, left to fill with water so deep you lose your breath
when you jump in always too fast.
That it’s beautiful you say, that it should be enough
and that we’re here and the sun and –
                                                              I said shut up you are drunk on love.

Betty stared at me blankly. She is a dumb dog. Literally. She can’t bark, she can’t growl, she can’t speak either. Her silence scares me sometimes, together with the silent me and the silent bitch and the silent house. We should have never bought a dog. I got her from my ex-husband to create a balance and to confirm that everything is all right. We’re fine. He took the cat, and the parrot, I ended up with Betty. “We will visit,” we said, mostly to our friends, “so that the animals don’t miss each other.” None of us believed it for a second, but we really tried hard to believe. We prepared. I shaved my legs and my armpits and smeared my body with coconut lotion so that the beliefs could penetrate through my skin with ease, no hair obstacles on the way. He trimmed his beard and put a crisp white shirt on – I ironed it, faking faith and hope, crisp and ready for the evening.
And we went together, hand in hand and with Betty happily trotting behind as she could not believe her happiness, seeing us both at the same time.

Dreams hidden in a bird song

It’s been years since all the birds have gone from our
birch-lined street. Rumour goes that they went hiding,
not long after the disappearance of the parrot from next
door. Shame, he was a sweet parrot who even learnt how to

the people said, and went and threw the old brass
cage away and lit a cigarette before dinner. But the little
girl cried her eyes out making salty puddles where they
found a pile of bright blue-coloured feather fluff,

as he was her only friend with whom she shared all
the grave secrets of her tender age and found comfort in
the shade of his soft blue wings. She searched for him
for months in the birch woods and one day lay down

tired of the bird-less sounds; she slept and slept
and did not want to wake up, thinking:
Who wants to live in a world without a bird’s song?
Parrots can’t.

My dreams ran away 

so I will run away too.
And she was gone, as was the parrot,
and the birds and slowly all the other girls’ dreams followed.
We were left with an empty street and cigarettes
to light alone childless, in silence.

Now it’s been years since all the birds have gone away
from our street. The rumour goes that they were led
to fight for peace by a large blue-feathered, soft-spoken
parrot-girl, for her dreams were hidden in a bird song.


Love Note no. 1
(the last one of 2015)

I want a
               soft fluffed-up love with a bit of stubble that is not
               going to bite or just a bit on the side.
I want it
               just twice a week on the good days and maybe
               three times when things go slightly bleak.
It should
               give me kisses on the ear and neck and all types
               of blanket fun but just when and how I need.
It won’t have
               any say in what love is all about, or me,
               or how the world should be, for us.
I need to
               run away from it any time without guilt
               or words aimed to hurt where it does not show.
No being told
               that I can’t do what I feel and it won’t mind
               any bedroom screams. I would like that.

Když mizí bílé včely

Už zase si čteš ve své knize lásek, lásko.
Laskáš stránky lesklé vlhkou tuží, kam připsala sis
další jméno blázna co nabízel ti srdce,
a ty mu na to, že maso nemáš ráda.
Se zvlněným koutkem vzhůru, lesknou se ti oči
chtíčem dálných světů. Tvá touha není sladká
jako jiných slečen. Ne, tvá touha táhne k zemi
a omamně voní těžkým rudým vínem
a kdo nechce pít, ať klidně táhne. Mámí tě
pořád ty tvoje dálky, znám to příliš dobře.
To něco, co nenechá tě za tmy spát a mučí
tvoje příliš smělé tělo dýmem děsu:

že nestihneš, že neuzřeš, že nebudeš milovat
všechno a všechny, a nejlíp hned a honem naráz.
Ze sna vzlykáš, že nikdy nepoletíš hvězdným
nebem, vstříc plánům zosnovaným každé nové ráno,

co načneš. Pláčeš, vědouce, že marně, pláčeš,
nad nikdy nerozlitým mlékem, nad nevyřčeným
slovem něhy, nad gestem, které bylo jasně dané,
nad polibkem, co nenastane.

Sníš příliš, milá, lásko vadná, dítě moje nepočaté,
Sníš příliš směle, mají pro to mříže. Když křičí
snílci rozlije se kapka rosy
a pohltí další bílou včelu.


Co bude zítra?
Zrána zeptala se tiše moje duše
a zněla přitom příliš znaveně a hluše na to,
že ruce se jí zatím třesou jenom v žáru lásky,
a že když pláče, tak neví ještě dost o skutečném žalu.

Řekla jsem jí, že zítra bude.
Že možná bude pršet, a vítr smýkat stromy
a možná, že snese se na vratké větve sníh.
Vždyť je to už pár týdnů zpátky, co podzim zmatněl severními stíny,
jež listí odnesly si do svých chladných síní a sní o věčném mládí.

A proč bude?
ptala se mně dále, hledíce krapet stranou,
jako by se bála, co jí řeknou moje oči, nechtíc ranit.
Proč… Protože zítřek neví jinak, drahá.
Protože bylo nám tak dáno.

Protože musí být.
Dravá řeka teče směrem od pramene k moři,
strhávaje sebou srdce, těžkopádně budované hráze,
za kterými tajně teskní nejen hora. Za náš bol je jí stydno
a touží býti ledem, zvolna tajíc tíhou zašeptané viny.

A bude lépe?
Nevím, snad jednou, po zimě…
Ale nikdy nebude už včera,
nikdy nevrátí se pramen k hoře.
Co bylo tvé, bylo jenom půjčkou.

my friend who has gone away to sea canals
Dear girl you are so pretty without knowing anything about it. Your skin
is glowing from within blinding my eyes that are already so tired.
With your elegant wrist twist you hold onto the wine glass and talk simply
talk like it was the most natural thing that friends do (you were born with it).
You said: ‘I met your friend just the day before he was gone it was nice but
then he tried to kiss me did you know anything about it?’
I said what was he drunk what did you do no I knew nothing about it poor boy.
And you just laughed no he just had a coffee and a beer and we say men are strange
and we continue where our dialogue stopped full of your smiles and my soul dripping
down under the table where your tights have dots on them oh how lovely your legs look.
Dear friend I am sorry I am laughing with her too you know what I am like
Some other day you might have stood a chance but now she laughs
 (she laughs a lot she’s got a nice voice too).
I say: well he’s gone away to sea canals I wonder how he is? I doubt he would be coming
back he’s going to find a lady of his heart finally and a sea anchor
will appear tattooed on his chest a romance of his life that is what
he’s been waiting for way too long by now. Now he’s gone I miss him more
than before I miss him a bit but I miss that part of myself who’s gone missing with him
and with his times and the times in the past.
We’ve been all  kidnapped by the soul-snatchers of the hyper-unreal future and
you are just merrily playing with your glass
laughing in that natural and simple manner.
               Dear friend I hope you are not seasick at the sea hold on to the railings ok?


Šeptala jsem samotě, že jsem tak ráda

jenom s ní. Stromy a jemný šustot listí

a potichu, samotně si snít. Malé zvuky

jenom slyšet, jít bez lidí, s chladným pískem v kapse

po cestě podél svahu, kde temně žlutě

zraje obilí. Slabě si broukat o dálkách, na chvíli

postát u pomníků kdysi poutníků, kterým nevadí

že dám jim jen pár chvil a kvítí k patníku

a slabý úsměv a pak zas dál když boty už

se touhou chvějí po jiných vůních a jiných zemích,

po méně slovech v méně dusných koutech.

A samota? Ta uhání, vždy o krok napřed a já jí za patami supím.

Špatně holka se mi chytá.

Je příliš hladká, hbitá a nechce, taky nechce mluvit,

nechat si podvázat své tenké hrdlo malým bílým šátkem

na náměstí u fontány pro potěchu davu.

A tak spíš jen šeptám směrem k ní, za pochodu:

Počkej, počkej přece. Mám písek, spoustu písku.

Vidíš ? Tam v jablečném sadu, hromady mám

pro tvou bílou pštrosí hlavu.

Tired mornings

You can’t sleep this night through. As
every other night sleep hurts; your hands
sweat and fingers cramp in twigs.
They must be done soon, surely, thinking
of the too loud, too bright birds who started
slightly early to define themselves against
the silent small-town streets. But as the hours drag
slowly towards the light that they want
so much to reach, the noise keeps rising
up, up, up, with wings that flap wetly in the dew.
With day-shy sigh there goes another one of
your vaguely wasted midweek nights. In these
tired mornings drooling toothpaste; sight
known so well to nightly polished tiles. Many times
tried mornings who cannot even pronounce it
right. What, dawn? Day? Dusk? As if you could say, birds.

Poslední léto

Už snad pár měsíců se táhne srpen,

S ním dusné léto nocí příliš teplých.

Tíha žáru tahá nahá torsa k půdě

A vlhce svazuje nám dlaně k sobě.

Na kopci kupka sena skrývá vůně výhně

Tebe i mě vděčně skryje v lůně.

Záře slunce, žlutě zprahlá pole

Někde blízko cvrká cvrček líně.

Pár polehlých klasů dala jsi mi za košili

Nazpět nechtěla jsi ani věčnou lásku.

Prý ti stačí za víčky, že svá štěstí máme

A že z drobných ňader zlehka slíbám tvoji krásu.

Je poslední léto, jediné co máme, stále horko.

Už teď na něj vzpomínáme vleže, nazí, ty

A tvoje bílé paže. Bojíme se zimy, jak se blíží,

jak se plíží krajem podél hráze.

Oba víme, jak se sněhem tvá něha studí.

S jinou vůní, na jiném místě, místo mě zas jiný blázen

kterému, jak jen ty to umíš, za košili na horké srdce

Zvolna vložíš ledové své ruce.

A Visit

You’re a fraud.

Aye, is that why you’re
here hiding with
geese hissing screams
sheltering their chicks

from you, yes, you.
They told us, see?
Begone or don’t talk
to us at least. Your lies,

smell miles away
we don’t need the
slime that leaves your
smiling lips like honey.

Granny Smith Anus

Have you ever properly looked

at the calyx of an apple?

Down its little dark hole; it is

obscene like a tight anus

with rough age spots and hair sticking

out of the wrong places,

all surrounded by white crispy flesh

of slightly sour Granny Smith aftertaste.

I never did – who cares what is the name

for the bottom of an apple?

But yesterday, I was hungry for words.

I asked my brother if he knows

and if he saw the beauty of how it carries

its past flower life within, the memory

of the whole apple history cherished,

rarely eaten.

Ha laughed and said no, but that

he is wiser now and if I don’t have better things to do.

Since then, every time I look at an apple

I can’t but long for my own stamens and sepals

to preserve all day dreams and memories gone void

into proud albums on the mantelpiece.

My very own calyx with blooming petals that would

remind me who I once was.

as it was

There was a loneliness
of one
and there was a loneliness
of two,

and then there was solitude
for both
and there was blame
for them too.

And so they wept,
oh how they did,
with eyes grown long,
backs a bit stiff.

Yet they kept it still,
the wee grass-fed tent,
to prove someone’s will,
to show lack of faith.

But that wasn’t enough
as all ever was
there was a loneliness
for one.

When the woods weep

There is a rugged grass-fed river floating past this house

alongside a railway barely used by deer for cold chase runs.

I saw three at once the other day, too fast to follow far enough

or to escape by one long jump across the steam.

There in the woods full of wooden stillness I then felt for them.

I fell and felt

The fear on our tongues and sweat when hoofs stamp

too deep in the mud we go down with the river

hollow fall and soundless

bleating of our childless widowed mothers.

Hear us out you will not, oh sweet soft river bride what is a deer,
a man, a stone for you?

Hurried up hard steps and back and crawl away; we try to run

not seep inside of you, who seems as if at least a thousand

kisses deep the pasts have drowned where

the woods still weep for forgotten deer mothers’ dreams

some advice I got last year

a warm purring cat in my lap that is what I need I was told
by maybe someone who knows better

i do thank you for the advice but I don’t think I could even
find a cat that could purr with me in my mad mad flat

a beast that would not shrink away from my dead flies
lying in piles they’re remains of our little lies we made

together years ago we were so much saner then do you still
remember do you think of us back then?

Parents’ Hands

Back then home was the simplest word

There once upon a time when Words

were still read with a capital

and made sure things felt alright.

It’s a mess now.

We all know we ain’t gonna find home again.

Forgotten on purpose; we did

everything that we could have to lose it.

And yes, you say we will make a new one

and a good one it will be, with locks on doors

and with young trees in the garden

and far away, as far as it can be.

So why here we still mourn for our parents’ hands

their gentle touch the words gentler yet?

Who gives a damn about the trembling fingers

when their caress is the only one that cares?

It’s a bit late now.

All that we can do is to scream and shout and

only wish that wherever our children disappear,

they will still know how to read.

new (in) town

Land, the small scape of land here it escapes

My understanding of how this is possible

That I am here doing this smelling the grass when

Walking the cobbled streets little grey houses

the ground I smell dirt it smells fresh not of piss

like in the city everyone knows everyone here they

meet every week in the bowling club and nod

and smile at each other it’s so peaceful

it makes my spine shrivel the river is wild they say

the fishing season starts soon and hunting

there are deers and rabbits in the woods

waters deep they wince at vegetarians here

and walk with thick soled boots and sticks to

pierce the mud things look simple


as the mud slides down the hill

walking is a must here

the landscape here the scape of land here

I want to remember more

this is worth it I’ll walk through fully aware.

i’ll buy it all hiking boots and waterproofs

I will hunt if it helps

Howl at your steps

But it will not



 to Lucas

Hey it’s me again I don’t know what to tell you
It’s still the same nothing changed apart from
The season getting longer still the sea gale
Has been making my hands shiver shrink cold colder.
I hope you get better brighter breeze down there in the
southern lands where you lay with sounds of
sun dew in your ears and with supple dark eyed girls
caressing your hair and loving out your fears.
Oh and how is our old nostalgia foe friend? Has she
left in jealousy finally for good? Greening at the sight of
new memories that you will not share she must despair
but don’t turn back she’ll be alright  
we’re still together as you might have guessed that is
the one heart I can’t mess with break in brittle bones.
I think that is my penalty for all the others it should be or  
for feeling sorry for myself which makes the weakest of the weak
But: surely you can understand? that my exotic parrots rainbow
coloured beaks sharp and feathers soft and all that oh my if you  
could see! well they all turned out to be just plain birds with  
feather fluff on the ground leaking dye in the dying leaves
And that that is just not fair I know not fair is from the  
childhood years and we should not not not say now in any case
but they took them all away all the bits of myself of this
personality dissolved with years stolen by the fakest of the birds damn!
I thought I would have turned out better that’s it silly me
But back to the theme it’s good to hear from you
And I know that you are not judging me for empty
long gone dreams.  All is new now.
I miss you too I bought books I think you would
like a lot have you got a favourite plot of the month
to share? Let me know where you live the life near your river
bank I’ll send you a postcard down the stream
Take care say hi to the rabbits and don’t let them
starve if they scream plant a sugar-coated carrot patch
in few weeks all will sprout and sweeten up so hold on
don’t float away send me a  
lettre d’amour and a
lettre of the lettres and
just stay in touch
miss you lots

my-self has left me inside

Tonight there’s just nothing
to be said.
         I left my-self outside and I’d rather
         Not let her come back in.  
She is  
in a weird mood,  
she is
beyond herself,  
a lunatic. And it’s full moon. She is mad,
Madder a bit more than ever, maddened with
her grief for what she lost by splitting us in two, maddened
by desire for her own kind of cross-breeds
to mate dog style that is rough enough
for her furry midnight madness lust.
She’s grown stronger, she eats a lot of meat and
drinks bitter ruby coloured wine that stains her teeth but
she believes that with it her blood thickens and then
she might over-run the wolves
after they have fought for the juiciest bone to chew.
Maybe if she keeps out in the cold dark for a bit it will
cool down her burning thighs and make her want to
come inside. Will it make me want to
let her in? Is that what we need? I know her
She is not
an easy one to appease with the whiteness of white snow.
She’ll try and piss her name on it, smear with blood-stained spit
and then roll in and out barking at the moon.  
(She’s just a little bitch in the end,
no wolf would ever howl with her at midnight and oh she knows too well.)
But she just doesn’t care. It’s good to be an under-dog,
is it not? Pray tell is it not better to be full of life even if you’re running
out of line and gently, slightly mad?  

when I look at her rampage here from the windowsill I just
don’t know which one of us I feel sorrier for, who has really won it all?
You know, I used to try to calm her mad eyes down,
pat them with tender touch and poke with
birch twigs soaked in nettle broth.
I asked about her life and forced my voice to sound calm:
‘Maybe tonight you could try and come inside?  
Let’s have hot chocolate or tisane and talk
about how we used to be in love
And how the missionary sex was nice  
And how we did not twitch when we turned
around to see (what?
What was there that made us twitch the first time?  
Do you remember because I forgot since, there were
too many to make us sink down sick.)’

It must have been the cut we made in the middle of the night
and it was then when I gave up and drank the broth myself.
there’s not much left to say tonight.  
We are whispering nothings
through the keyhole.
          Was it I, was it you?
          You locked my-self inside so well.



And the window was (again) open, calling out to the animals in the backyard.
Calling out to me, also, ambiguously. I couldn’t move but I could see them
Swarming, half crouched, two legged and four legged or just swirling on the ground in
Hunger and desire, or was it fear? They crawled and pulled on each other
And the sea breeze brought in the sweet starchy smell of their perfume.
It reminded me of something and I couldn’t recall until I smelled my armpits and
It was the very same odour of stale youth and potential smeared with shame.

Out there this live mass of thick movement; the black bodies emitting some sort of
Inner lucid light, so bright in the undecided colourlessness of the hour of the wolf.
There was something about the spectacle why I couldn’t take my eyes off in disgust.
It was hard to say if they were enjoying themselves or fighting or just being.
And what was I doing, watching fascinated the life happening just a dozen metres away,
Unable to raise my hand, get up, stand, jump, let myself get carried away, somewhere,
Nowhere (-else) but so willingly on their sleek scaly backs?

And why was I tied to the bed with dust in my eyes and mouth filled with sticky hatred
So sweet not even wine mellowed with soap and sugar could wash it away?
(‘You have to soak onion in milk overnight and drink it will help you’ my grandmother used to say
where did it get her?) You are here now we don’t joke like that. Tell me how,
Why did you get to know me, why would you even want to, why did you choose my backyard?
Up along the street there are many of them; the one next door with yellow flowers and a dining
And happiness springing from every single little hole between the planks.

The neighbours are nice young people, a couple with a boy of five with straight straw hair
He always smiles at me and I smile back and at moments like that it’s easy
To feel alive and present and with limbs that function alright.
Really they wouldn’t deserve to have their groomed grass patch soiled with black tar dripping
From your toes and saliva shooting from your big open mouths in a grotesque grimace
Of feelings. Are you really so bad at imitating or is this us in all our beauty?
It is just a play for you; ‘that’s just children’s game’ they say apologetically.

And the ropes are still tightly secured around the head of the bed and tied and twisted
Underneath my back and bottom, sliding between my thighs and further on,
Cutting off the blood flow from the ankles. And it feels good, like an extension of this body
The pleasure when they slide the rope until you hear someone screaming, and who is it?
Freedom becomes futile with the occasional reminiscence of what it used to be like
And then touching my face, touching deep inside with an invisible hand (the nails grew a lot),
Thinking: ‘Reality never used to be so good’ and obstinately giggling through the gag.

Finally here they come, done with their sad orgy sliding over the window pane bringing the new day.
‘Happy white bleached day, brand new shiny day without any ties, day that
Makes you dance around if you ever get untied’ they laugh and drop slime
Over my wooden floor that has never been swept before, not even by hundreds of
Long lanky legs. And the smell becomes unbearable as they all cram into the room
But I am glad; they have a shy look now, white walls make everyone like that yet I am
Pleasant and skilled in social conversation as usually and invite them in my bed.

‘Come, it’s cold outside, we can all fit in and would you like to tie yourselves up too?’
We all get cosy, bound together by a piece of rope and where our skins touch we merge together
juices into one beautiful newborn being; animals together, now we trust each other,
We trust everyone and I can again ask: Why here with me with this stench (and now and not then)?
You already know that I knew too well so pushing your little dark fists in my mouth, in my ear
Whispering wetly for this is what we don’t want the walls to hear, my dear, you should
Shut up for once, sleep or soon you will see; for you we would double in size gladly.

I am not you

What is this what 

Is this


Is this

Thing sitting on my bed biting her nails till the quick bleeds on the sheets

She’s not supposed to be here today I threw her out the door the other night

When did she come back? I don’t know I didn’t see she must have sneaked in through the

Broken window the window stop is broken

Seal has cracked

your heart is that the punishment for my tearing it apart it and your sex

They were glued together too much really

Is this what you weak man weak men are always going to be like?

Where is your


You’ll hurt your knees

She said then and that’s when I kicked her out sprayed her with pepper and salt because

We’re always hungry

For something more

And they can’t know they have not starved

Now she’s back and what am I to do? I can never

Forgive her while

I forgave her already.

It’s true she does look pale she might have not eaten since

We parted but she

 would not come back just for food

She knows

I have nothing to 



oats maybe

A bowl of porridge is good I won’t do it again

(but she won’t promise as she knows she will do

It the very next time she can)

The spoons


Still with their own will as we eat

Don’t plead

With me please plead with him with them

For your harms

Go away after you are done



My little


Leave you have to feed yourself

Somewhere else bleed on

Someone else’s sheets

I cannot give you what you need I am not you

I am not you

I am not you

I am not you.

Rat(s) Dream

i dreamt of falling apart i think it was a dream so real 
there was
a rat in a plastic bag rattling
in the bin twice that very night
eating remains of my skin dust filled with
poisonous disease
yet unrevealed to me
when will it show
i got up to check the bin but could not touch them

it’s clenched
my stomach
in a tiny
i am scared
a lot
it hurts
and my ears are blocked
for more than a week trying to
tell me it is coming for me
two rats
will lay their little furry eggs and
multiply in thousands and
what then? not being able to touch a 1000
(even the ciphered number looks frightening)
is worse than one or two
what to do

tell me? because
i dreamt of falling apart
eaten alive by 
i was
eaten alive
an invisible bunch
with my ears hurting
aches cut
it off
i don’t know what

so much of the rats inside
i don’t want you to know they’re there
they smell
it’s them who brought the disease
up from the floor to my feet my heart beat beat
when did it start

no one is to help us
rat prayer on the lips a little kiss
with small sharp teeth it bleeds it makes
the god words stronger i miss my mum 
i am 
falling apart
to ends of my mind

that i have to sleep again
the rats 

The nearly last day of the past

Today is nearing towards its very sudden end:

It’s been ill expected for quite some time (strange,

as the weeks softly turned from slow motion

to this over-exposed speeded race).

But it’s in the nature of a sudden end that

you can’t really wait for it enough.

I was rolling my socks together just a minute ago

To reassure them in their approaching state of the unstable

And already missing the habitual humility of the task.

It’s nearly the last day of the past today

And I am at a loss of what socks and pants to pack.

It doesn’t help that the moon is full tonight

it shines too bright on the furniture that is to be

forgotten soon and pretends to have something to do

with me when clearly it must see that I am not here anymore.

Maybe it has already found me in the future day

In the other brand new place and time of moonlit realms

burnt its way through the new walls and new piles of dreams

And that is why I get its knowing shine on my face right now.

        So you must know it’s the last day

        Of my past today, do you not?

        My eyes closed but facing my burning friend

        To soak in his light

        Let’s share shall we, what tomorrow’s pasts will

        Throw at us. I will cry and you can smile

        Down at me. I know it’s not your

        Last day or not even your past

        But you shouldn’t have meddled in if

       You were not to

       Cast my dice with me.

Oh and he shines and he nods and so

I pack the chosen pants and my socks in a tidy

Little pack and pile them up

Underneath the empty bed to

Leave the past together tomorrow.

seaweed song for you dear swimmer lost long time ago

How thin can a thin line be line threaded carefully and a dreaded one between when she

           walked on the riverside and between when someone jumped over the bank and my pace

           was not fast enough to catch her. the empty space and a face flowing dreamily smiling

           gently caressed by little seaweed hands and here a small peck on the cheek from

           a young loving seagull or let’s say he is hungry his mother has not fed him well today

 meat is good for you they say and he knows it way too well to be a vegetarian.

How did the water feel? good? did it chill your boiling bones with coal on coal that’s the grownup way

          they say you 
          were weak that you just ran away I am so fucking sorry that I was not there but if I were I would
          what would I do jump too? you were too hot to touch to try to save you’d long ago burnt inside

          insane insanely in love with all your men in pain but you just needed them to suck you in and out 

To feel alive just a bit more but every day less and less instead stunned with the boredom of it all. 

At least you had fun haven’t you had so much? we can’t all say that about our stupid smalltown lives

         Just let them gossip whisper wetly in each other’s ear smearing spit and spite about how you
         liked men just a bit over-the-top who cares? old women’s jealous tits can’t help themselves

         we were all in love with your glowing skin and lips oh to kiss these lips all the girls we were jealous
         until we saw how the glow seeps in and slowly drip drip drips burning acid bits leaving

marks on your arms and a peephole burnt down there through which you let them squeeze. 

Oh how thin could that thin line be it must have been too thin to let you think in a blink of an eye you let it

all go I wish we could all sink in the seaweed and look so beautiful as you did. 

To a friend

There is a friend whom I shall not name

With big pair of feet and yet bigger hair

She’s lost in her dreams and that feat we share

She is my friend – and that is quite rare. 

There are some faults: she hates spicy food

And she does not want to pose for me nude

She likes her tea with milk in big heaps

But I still wish she had all that she needs

A little white house and a herd of striped cows

An oak tree to climb with apples on top

A stream to flow past with cider-fed fish

Where when you dunk in you get a bit drunk

She’s dear to my heart

What else to say

There is no man

Whom she could not race.

Small moments

Sometimes when you expect it the least

here it comes without fanfares

a little moment of personal grandeur

that might briefly fight the beast.

And maybe it is good that they are so rare

We do not deserve much more anyway

And our monsters they have the right to live

With their big sharp teeth and empty stare

and slightly foggy brain after a day’s long shift

And their own fears and their own mind games

Of solitude and life’s despair and love and stuff

It’s hard to stay and still play sane not lose the grip

It is not rare these days that have been going on for decades
Our weariness with ourselves weariness with what we have
Not achieved nor have not succeeded in the expected of us
We only get sticky sick of hearing it over and again.

Your need to please need not be overcome. If
You want to sustain the remains of your un-sound soul
Talk to yourself if you want to but do it in private so that
You don’t disturb the pathways the others were set safely on.

We’re here to stay and you know what? Forever. Yes.
And you with us just lick the boots in the wet way get through
The double skin you reach the bone you might even get
To chew on in the corner after you’ve been spent.

And what’s more that’s the code that’s the spokesman of the truth
You can’t travel dig yourself a hole in the mountains of Switzerland
We’re not in war anymore to be neutral to be blank is to give up
On yourself on what you were once there and hoped to be.

To fight to kick to bite while still the teeth hold and gums don’t bleed
Too much on your canvas that’s the right attitude dear artist
remember Naked Came I in this world or can’t you read? It’s
never been easy to be real to keep the pledge or to please.

What is inside me

The nice evening it was half an hour back

Got lost somewhere in a bloodshot mist

So easy to get caught in fatigue.


Oh please, and they keep hammering you on and on with such effort it is
Enviable. Really, where do you get this élan from? I swear,
There is this hidden swamp of thick muddy energy and only those
Who have big sturdy legs can dive in and fill their swelled stomachs to their hearts desire.

With each hit ‘We can mould you into something appropriate
Because our hammer is made of gold with fleur-de-lis embedded with diamonds
and that’s why it has such value you can only dream of
(and also because unlike you we know what we’re doing)’

I just wish they would make this more efficient, just one hit in the head
Would save all the golden sparks and all the wasted pearls and jewels
And they could go and throw them to the (other) pigs.
But no I am not fat enough yet ‘just eat a bit more, if not we will stuff it down your throat.’

Heaving heavily ‘this-will-teach-you-your-lesson’ and so I bow my head
In silent disappointment with myself and the humans as agreeing with both of them
(What are you saying what on earth are you talking about
When you cannot know at all you know nothing about us

Little liars of the straight eyes and honest smiles and gestures that look just right.)
There is nothing easier than to fool and be fooled and then again,
Isn’t it better like that? Because the surface is beautiful and that
Matters much more.

In the end even they get tired of their just cause; and seeing there is nothing more
To be done, no more damage, no more empty skin to blow up and give content to,
They leave ashamed of This Thing before them on the floor, throwing the hammer next to It.
Because It and I, we are better off settling things just between ourselves (such mates we are).



What seems like
A forever sore head and a curved wine glass
That does not seem to starve
It’s festive time.

It’s wrapped up pretty
In golden shreds and sparkly stars
As a deceit it works
So fine, for us.

And food, all these great feasts –
Hairless hamster cheeks
Stuffed with treasure hunts
(I heard he choked on a piece of bread.)

Poor fellow he missed
The sixth Christmas of his
Little daughter and what a pity as
Even the granny came

They say he might have
Done it on purpose but really,
Why would anyone, like this, on Christmas…?
Such a tragedy. Such a shame.

For the family, a decent lot.
A pretty wife. You’re not to blame.
He was…nothing could have been done.
Unlike for us, and here.

Even if it all seems to lack a content,
If it’s all of no importance
I’d still like to know the reason
Why to pretend (even) at Christmas.

(If you don’t eat the whole day
You might get to see
The golden pig that brings
Happiness for the next year

And if you close your eyes and
Make a wish
It might seem a bit more

Maybe the Baby Jesus
Will bring me all I long for
Maybe he’ll come with a little
Bright lit gas cooker.

And I won’t need to know,

< 2011

Podzim listí

Odshora dolů, pomaly, hladce,

Snáší se listí. Opodál sladce

Culí se cukrárna a na vývěsním štítu –

Cukroví, jak jinak. Půvab dřevorytu

Dokresluje průčelí v pastelových tónech. Závidí

Listoví jeho nevyrovnané barvy. Závidí

Lidem že nevidí

Lidem že neslyší

Lidem že umírají

V bolesti

A daleko od lidí.



Jen za mým oknem zase hřmí

Prší plané sny

Tak dávno včerejší




Do smrti



Buší mi do uší

Olympští bohové co nahlížejí oknem

Skrz mlžný mušelín záclon

Drobný kětinový vzor


Zátiší s ořechy

Schovává tajemství

Ona ví

Ve dveřích chybí klíč

Dovnitř se smí jen postelí

Nikdo neslyší vrzání parket


Ticho navěky věčné

Až na kapky

Tak už se svlečme



Bohové zemřeli

Hanbou za oknem-



šustí jen tiše slyšíš

odletí plaše neslyšně dýchne

do týla nikdo nic nevidí až potom

klejí v zakletí

v bělobě labutího snění

v samotě nahoty v temnotě zatoužení

ve sklonu šíje ve smyčce nitě

co naše rány nikdy nezašije

tak blaze je bláznům

co sil je potřeba

kdo ví jak

udržet rozbitou skořápku bytí

kdo ví



popel rozvíří

zmizí posléze

zmizíme i my

tak cizí jsme si

štěstí se snadno odcizí





„Otče náš, jenž jsi na nebesích.

Přijď království Tvé.

Buď vůle Tvá, jako v nebi, tak I na zemi.

Chléb náš vezdejší dej nám dnes.

A odpusť nám naše viny, jakož i my odpouštíme našim viníkům.

Neuveď nás v pokušení, ale zbav nás od zlého.


Amen, ještě jednou.

Hoďte kámen, když se zvednou.

Hoďte další, hoďte tucty, ten je hnusný, ten je tlustý,

Ta byla pyšná, tak ji zbijte.

Kdo jednou klesl, víc si nezaslouží žít.

To je tvůj přístup, Bože, viď?

Ach panebože, svět se před tebou třese

Modlíme se:

“Odpusť nám naše viny, jakož I my odpouštíme našim viníkům.”

A bojíme se a máme čeho. Ty nedáváš milost hříšníkům

Nemáš nikdy dost, chceš naši krev a pot a moč.

Denně odvádíme desátek a víc neptáme se proč.

Už děti znají otčenášek, už do kolébky liješ jed

Schováváš se za nevinnost, čistotu a ctnosti

Měl by ses začít modlit, začni radši hned

Jsi špatný Bože, ach tak špatný, že svět se třese zlostí  

Jen počkej, jednou si do dna vyžereš ty svoje hnusné hříchy

Za to, že nenaučil jsi nás odpouštět.


Vera Lynn

„We’ll meet again,

Don‘t know where, don‘t know when,

But I know we’ll meet again

Some sunny day…”

Jednou se zase potkáme.

Zase a zase a zas znova.

A možná nechtěně


Ty milované nikdy nepotkané,

Taky ty potkané nikdy nemilované,

Anebo jenom kdysi 

Dávno a možná krátce

Zbožňované a dnes ze studu (a předtím bez něj)

Hladce odseknuté zavěšené na oprátce


Pro jistotu ne ve skříni a ne za ní

A ne teď a ne tady

A ne tam a snad ne pro nás

A možná jednou

„Some sunny day…“



Od stěny ke stěně

A z bláta do louže.

Mně už to neklouže,

Říkám si zasněně.

Já už jsem v pohodě,

Zcela a jistě.

Na daném místě

Přihrávám náhodě.

Jen vůně oblohy,

Poklidně slunečná.

Stanice – konečná.

Myslete na bohy.

Nikoho neprosím.

Nechte si od cesty

Měďáky lítosti

Z kapsičky u vesty.






Nebyly by






Hned tak







Že jsme


S poutky


Za vším




Blázen –


S citem

S ironií.





Nebyly by



Byly by to




Nejsme nikdo bez viny



Krev beránkova


Zas a znova


S Evou

Lstiví hadi

Vždyť se měli

Jenom rádi

Ó Salomé

Ó Herode

Slizká touha


Bude vaše zhouba

A vina ach bože tak tíživá

Ženám ovisá ňadra

A mužům ohýbá záda

A lidi pohřbívá zaživa


A ty Josefe

Neodvracej hlavu slepě

Měl sis ženu

Hlídat lépe.

Ach Noeme

Ty naivko

Na co bylo třeba lodě?

Kdo dal ti právo

Vzít smrt vodě?

A ty A ty

A tamten taky

Hážeme kamení Hážeme špíny

Plivem si do ksichtů

A přece jsme vinni.

A vina ach bože tak tíživá

Ženám ovisá ňadra

A mužům ohýbá záda

A pohřbívá nás zaživa