képek, betűk

The drumbeat from the back garden
the thud of an apple falling onto concrete,
the music in my ears is soft, like polyester,
the insulation between our mirror images
squinting at themselves. This snow-covered,
desolate wardrobe -- from its chest a floor lamp grew,
casting light onto my hand, projecting monsters,
two starving rabbit heads, dancing spiders.

The smile of indifference toward apathy,
the same for everyone -- childish,
the laughter of the dead set upon rocking horses,
something they call human: alas,
the days filled with insignificant things,
and the utmost of without-yous, the absence
of loveless minutes spent without games,
unyielding armies of monkeys around us,
behind insensitivity, the same old pains,
arranged in sequence, people.
In each, their own hell, their own fence,
self-built sacrificial chalices and screaming,
and still: they believe the other is made of ice.