POEM ABOUT A SHIP Atlantic, July 1982
(influenced by reading about pirates)

This vessel was home to all of us
Smugglers, troublemakers and bastards

It happened to be brothel, shelter and reserve
But as a palace sometimes as well

Cpt. Flint assured a high standard
Of her interior part -
And a set of dice for everyone

Treasures, beautiful women and open bars
On routes of gold, silk and faith

And on the end, so as nobody stays sulk
Solemn funeral in Davy Johnse’s dark...





ETERNAL WANDERING Home, August 1982

We farewell places, we welcome places
Not to settle anywhere for longer
Time does not favor departures
With the journey we don’t get spoiled
So move on forward my friend
Rest your head on the trunk
Because if you remain…
You’ll die, you’ll die.




CRUEL TROPIC Atlantic, July 1982

Cosmographic hermitage.
A ship imprisoned in a cellophane form,
a vacuum package,
imprinted by wind.

A feeling of deadly fish breathlessness
in the net entanglement
brought onto the deck.

Everyone and everything get repeated:
jokes, memories,
sunrises and sunsets-
best jokes of a day.

Flame yarns on the horizon…

Bloodhounds aren’t chasing game,
they stand sniffing and are waiting for a hunter’s sign.

The hunting with ropes has begun,
cornered animal,
is running around from barrier to barrier.

Here redness of a rug scares it,
there it gets blinded by the light from forest path.

Battue and barking dogs...

Memories are lurking nearby,
perhaps just behind the yarn of bloody clouds…

Telling fortunes is for nothing,
negotiations with insidious memory,
using montage and sowing intrigues.

Does this deceptive light
of a moveable space cause
the past and the future of those
events to remain the same?


For nothing a naive offer to get canned dead,
given to oblivion.
No means of bargaining
with the incorruptible past.


Formulas and codices,
taunted in the name of
illusions decoded in journey -

like furry devils
with pointed ears -
are no longer valid.

Memories of miracles from land,
hidden in a solemn ceremony
or hastily buried in sand,
like a dog’s trophy bone.

Hundreds of crosscutting streams
of speeding light
in the boundless field of abyss,
weightlessness and strong radiation.

In the narrow zone of consciousness
of evening illusions
and scornful confrontations
of reality and dreams.