4:08 a.m.

Igor Cyprjak

Eight past four
my eyes crawl to the nails above the door
left by the cross
and the shadow that remained

and I would like to believe in sin
grandiloquence that gobbles gestures within

a year ago, seven past four
and after this year I do not know anymore
if via a photosensitive fiber-optic cable
you’ll tell me – stay with God

or ask me to hail a cab
and take route half past dawn
the running on top gear meter
will show four hundred and eight kilometers

to the city of Mauritanians
to Cordoba
to satin covers
to bed-sheets cut out of Holy Mary’s painting

because in Cordoba
grandiloquence is a greater gesture
and for heresy and apostasy
they give brand new passports
and sheets with Holy Mary

it’s eight past four a.m.
neither day nor night
more or less in the middle
because we are in between

since morning in the hours of not being loved
feathers in the pillow turn to stone
to Amen

and in the city
the yapper’s crackle
and deaf phones
eaten up by taps
and fear doesn’t know mercy
afraid to say a word
by the skin of my teeth
by the hand of God
by the sparse audibility of the vinyl record crackling with sorrow
your voice will avoid me
steer clear as far as possible

and this makes me furious
go to hell
to hell I’ll go
staircase, room, banging my head on the corridor
the frame of the mirror

and than an hour in the tub
in sterile water quieter and more classified
a quarter to five I sit at the table
over the herby water hemlock
I drown in tea all opium and prayers
for heavy mash
and lower on the bottom is an angel going through withdrawal
the tea cuts water till it bleeds
because you’re probably sleeping
by your holy husband satiated solitude
and I’m producing a thin poem
without gratification
on low altitude
and from altitude low
short flight straight on the smacker
to stone
till Amen

close to nine
study the art of napping in the corner
because it’s more comfy
and your temple nerve
with a dormant current aches a little less

a pleasant day

on my wall hangs a landscape in oil
and seven prints made of thin line
on them the army of the Lord
pick up the pot in roulette
and give death a hard time

must be fun to hit the bull’s eye in roulette
and get smacked for every “it’s my fault”
must be fun to start blowing the whistle

behind the wall
the sexton overslept
and the bell didn’t until now

the parish priest with stigmatists
he has gathered from the street

the sexton overslept
maybe he’s not in a hurry
because he’s dying

ten meetings in my calendar
this evening one banquet
and during this banquet
a pliable bimbo
will get undressed from inside

on a couch for two
and I unresponsive

because I’m thinking about your children
and about decency
about a catholic paradise on the margin of Europe
Excuse me, mum – I must get sloshed

I’m napping in the corner section
the yearning of misconnections
and the bell only now tolled and wept
the sexton overslept
he’s not in a hurry
because he’s dying

I get up
run to the church for mass
to the apostles to the fast
tune the organ – not used
their memory they will loose

one o clock they gather for pray
guys with faces hungry with dismay
and bodies adapted to their boundaries
every one of them wears a tie
clammed into suits made to measure
every one of them knows St. Margaret
holds her to her word
and takes her watch

armed men
with humble calm
of support and bedrock
deep faith
that love is faithful and that a pledge
masters of routine caresses
when the lights are out

guys like armored mothers
penitential with worry that they should repent
and drown in Częstochowa
the elementary value of valiant knights
the guardians of virtue
with them progeny
the narrowness of sight
and the bed’s clean
you cannot sweat out water

and they
saint Margaret’s
when you’re not looking at them
so unofficially lonely
that you feel sorry for them
want to pick them from their knees
and to love them

without perspectives
with bravado
and the softness of the body
they will uncover and whisper
You first loved me not with your belly, but with your mind

well, my lady
with inspirations unplanned
it’s my job to tune the organ

prevention from cancer of the larynx
for peeping
meaning – for nothing

well, my lady
it’s my job to tune the organ

before the night go to tango
people are staring
sniffing with full lungs

they know – they don’t know
no difference at all
arrhythmia of the heart
the killers eye
because the eye stands stock-still

around the corner stands a dive
after Dantesque raids

the floor, sink and freak out

rotgut and burned out draught

and I order a better drink
martini dry
and swing

from behind the counter
a mirror stares not too brightly with it’s mug
makes you want to smash your knuckles

the martin’s gone
pepper sweetens the bitter tone
never mind
as long as it poisons

fingers on the counter hitting
died where he was sitting
in the third minute he rose from the dead
remembering the banquet and warm buttermilk’s dread
when the whores are much uglier

and stand on your upper lip
this hostility of being pissed off
makes a scratch
Not today, my dear, not today

on your lower lip
involuntary saliva slip
not today, my dear, not today
don’t ask, my dear, don’t ask

make hair stand on end
catastrophe of experiences
and his eyes tells he’s a bastard
with a sharp split tongue

glassed general
charge ahead – aim chalet
scare clients with your thick neck
fingernails dug into the wall
the last call
and the contents into the sink

a small catharsis is born
coming from a fit of scorn

an than a silence of tripe
allows you to describe
this cathedral slimness of the hand
above which ringing will be heard
of a collection of jewellery
and the space of the eyes
in the year of the fall
and in them the gray smoke’s blueness
it’s the rhythm of the eyelid’s positions
till mascara melts on lashes

and the naivety of a child
so lasciviously modest
that the imagination’s fertile panic
and fits of being honest and tame
which leaves you confused, it’s a shame
and what will happen when it comes through
naturally moist like dew

above the sinks edge
bile to poison like one to one
here pure veins
no one completely dies
and just before sunset
you may rise
in human form

eight past four
I raise my eyes
to the long distance of your legs
and a curled tummy
under which a shadow of dampness
on the dichotomy of the breasts

with the adjournment of death
and I hear you stifle oxygen in your lungs
through my sight
a pierced side
and thorn

and it’s a strain
to stand like this in vain
when I’m watching
and you do not know
is it already less or even more

open your eyes under my gaze
insatiability and unsatisfied feelings
and Argentinian maze

because I need to see
when from the line of thy lips
water evaporates
and this is what I love
in over biological impulses
and this changes into the insatiability of unsatisfied needs
and atavistic reactions

at eight past four
you get dressed in hushed tones
and I for tomorrow
sad and tense with sorrow
have scheduled a paralysis

and I’m a bit more dead and mourning
at eight past four in the morning.

Portrait In Reverse & 4.08 AM



Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *