Treasure Island

I.F. Kobjelska

(31.5.1991)

We Are Like Eyes That Can See Spacesuits


Silence is like nails that are getting stuck between fingers,
when you have hardly enough strength
to listen to people,
when nails drop down from them like buttons on a rusty clarinet,
and you make a rough noise
while bypassing skins, wet cobwebs grown on bodies
that you have been licking for a long time
in order to find people.

In silence the eyebrows are stabbing screwdrivers too hard into the body.
it grows into too narrow pipings
and hair too short are falling from its eyes
as if they wanted to lick them entirely into the emptiness.

Silence is like two semitones of a quite fragile bosom of a ballerina
hung over our heads
you will let it ferment in the bisexual fields,
colour the roots grey and cheeks blue
and although all the interlaced information
you will let it drain straight
into the body.

Submitted: Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, March 27, 2013

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