Poetry Analysis

Rust on hands

In a dry year the land is scarred like a serf's back my grandfather worked on it.

Sand fell on a gentle head, when my father held me, I played with his beard.

Today my soul is wet the musty smell of my room makes the emptiness colder.

Rust on my hands itches can't be scraped off.

My childhood blisters cracked soaked in a mossy grove but they still burn with every step.

I step into the marsh water presses on my chest moisture hugs me.

Fir grove

I went to the fir grove, where I last saw you, without you the forest falls apart into trees.

Frozen hours empty mouths cold hands.

Mother, I couldn't find my place behind your skirt.

First warmth then cold dryness ruin at the end a splinter under the eyelid.

Nailed to a tree resin stuck my hair.

Smile among shadows

Darkness settles in empty corners, a child holds its breath in silence. Welcome, solitude of sleepless nights, everyone died before me.

I only have this puppet, my sister gave it to me, so I wouldn't be alone. Its smile among shadows stayed in my eyes. I took it in my hands, stroked its red hair.

I grabbed it by the hair and tore off its head.

Then lightness, silence in the cold night.

Written in flesh

Where blood kisses ink, where flesh wraps a wound, there I will have your name written.

I carry a letter on me the words burn my shoulders.

Pass through thorns body wide open.

Silent words, skin screams.

Crack in creation

My empress's teeth crush burnt grains, her gentle gaze awakens me from dreaming of the mistake of the first day.

On your wounds, caused by me, Gethsemane sweat drips. I bite your fingertips a little harder.

My desire, tangled around ankles, knows no softer bed than your bony hips.

Family solitude

Love smelling of secret sobs in the toilet, endless boredom and early escapes to work, drives half-meter nails of reproach into you.

In the poverty of broken families little girls draw lines on their hands. In the poverty of broken families boys build bunkers from domestic emptiness.

Scars for life, heaven stuck in an elevator shaft, imprisoned there, where puddles in asphalt under windows are silent.

Sacrament of self-destruction

God cuts open his belly the walls of a crumbling barn look into red cracks.

A flood of blood rolls to the feet the earth beneath it does not breathe. A mute virgin from clotted blood lumps awakens in a feverish tremor.

Twisting in the agony of its stay blood and body of God swallows without ceremony.

New Jerusalem weeds empty troughs.

Borders of being

Ashes of lies poured on my head, when the purest milk flowed from my wounds, angels then only for me repeated a mantra.

Virgin Mary and Kali dance on the funeral pyre bodies blacken.

God's Child grows model by model in the rhythm of those who smothered the fire of my heart.

The child is both Beast and Christ in a new vessel.

New risk of the End

Infallible being bearing the glory of its creators, sign of a world, where value is bodiless.

Glory of the powerful today, more powerful tomorrow, glory of those who dare to risk, who are not afraid of the End.

Demons sitting on loops of dopamine make me a hungry spirit. I cannot reach happiness through the narrow neck of my time.

Last glance at singularity before falling beyond the horizon, last moments of the lived world before happy infinity.

Sacrifice

A child ran out of the forest its bare feet thumping the dusty field uncertain tremors yet marking a dash in its eyes fears floating terrors.

From a dark thicket a strange bird-like figure hurries rushes pushes through in haste legs fragile like a snake's claws strong like a harpy's an eagle's beak juts from its head a peacock tail shines behind.

The child buries its foot under the soil its boyish abrasions again blood-crusted

The bird creature digs claws into its back, in its beak an eye soon sleeps. Fed, the predator calls the wind with wings thus buries the carcass under the ground.

At night the mother with a lantern treads the earth the tears add moisture.

A black tulip blooms.