A lovely morning in 2023 January

We can fly over the frozen moments.
Those can be named Known;
I am disillusioned as pre-dawn
is more lifeless and rigid than your nest yesterday.
Her ice-laced tongue
is a sedative for surviving vengeance.
Smiling arrogance. Rotten romance.
Do your tears belong to you?
Your managers are in a parrot's mask
And try to snort a familiar melody. Snrrr. Prrr.
Preferably, you should listen to the wind's lovesong.
It is about winter. "January" is just a word in it.
No layers and deep meanings, and metaphors.
The year is the year. It can be a parody of Gustav
Courbet by sentences. Did you dare to mock the death?
It is an elusive counter back now. My suicide
will be the zero. I live in the forecast-based evil.
I am still determining what it is.
It might have been a free association;
it came to my mind when I evoked her ankle.
Weeping lampions. Today's cold with its silver
preserved packages. My fingers hid in your pocket;
they crumbed the wind ---- You.
I never will believe the existence of time.
Or, What, Medusa, Medusa -- tango of screams
And fornication of requests to the gateway of our mind
which decides what you will experience,
what is mandatory and restricted.
What do you enjoy, and what will you do?
Will you? Meandering from your teeth.
You still keep smiling. That's a devastating cold of this day.
When people dream about arriving in the spring,
how photons will burn their faces,
They hope their dream is an exception,
And those horrible things,
What they will read tomorrow morning
won't approach them. Neverending peace.
Neverending peace. Their Neverending peace.
I can hear your cackle from that direction,
Where I could see your silhouette
before your self was disintegrated
and disappeared from this verity.
Boneless rhymes covered by foreign thoughts
and squelch wellingtons in the park.
I would say that this month
was a fragment of a bee vomit,
the magical biofluid of your lovely Sir,
who does not even know you existed.
I love and love the running below balconies;
As I can see how they live, And think about that
I may be similar, seemingly happy,
and this sorrowful text you are reading did not happen.
Instead, we are stepping in soft and deep snow.
It smells like an oak-smoked hand cream. We are friends.
In that nightmare where I am now ---- You.
I was in another country,
And not in this pigocracy led by Mr Lie Machine
Which is so loved by his devout believers,
who are convinced about his divine perfection.
If you are lucky enough and were born in a democracy,
You may need help understanding the mass culture here.
This country never will be democratic
as the central majority of the culture
does not have a tradition of freedom,
and the majority do not want to change.
They enjoy their corruption, and they adore autocrats.
Traditions. The traditions. Traditions of corruption.
They want to obtain scapegoats and pseudo-enemies
provided by some autocrat who promises protection.
And this is repeated again, again, and again.
Some sociopath is coming, they grab the power
and build his autocratic pile of poo,
and when they disappear,
the majority want the next sociopath. Again, again.
It is Boring.
There is a minority who are different from this,
but that is insignificant. Nobody cares about them.
No worries, you won't understand this
from London or Paris; that's a different world
on the same continent.
I wish I was in a lovely place
where I should not have to see the daily ordures
of the propaganda they provide.
It is not a joke, as it is an absolute poison.
Medusa, medusa and Medusa.
There is still a heavy wind outside,
02:53 am, and I am sitting at the kitchen table,
and I am watching through the window,
my face stares back at me, and it is crying.
My reflection did not want to wail,
it just happens, but it has already stopped,
as no one should see his real sadness.