PRÓBY ZAPISU, A book of wasted flowers No. 4

2022-07-26 16:16

Milkchild

I respond to the traces. In Europe, further out, wherever
there is wind and lacking of lacks. Actually, there is no such place.
Excess chocolate on the skin – oh, there and there.
Can't breathe? Whoosh.

Later you’ll scoop nutella out of the jar. With your finger.
People die in silence. At least they don't
smell the headiness of gravity with which we voice
sentences. I press „w” five times, and it should have been „e”.
Next to each other. We are strangers.

Great lands of cattle, discoveries, ancient cities. They know,
they see, then I will start painting. Towards the end. You can do anything,
dream, intrigue friends, obliterate. Drag your hand over
the horses’ white backs. I allowed them to stop mid-flight, on the Indian
street. We bring flavours to life, without remorse.
And you don’t get nauseous.

I still think this is an evasion. Efflorescence. Pulling out petals,
one by one. Stepping out from behind a curtain into the snow,
as if you were made of pale blood and tulle. Powerless. Transparent.

[przełożyła Anna Błasiak]
© Małgorzata Południak

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