The first day of autumn.

The first day of autumn.

Lubomír Tomik

On the first day of autumn, I feasted on a bat
he was bitter and chewing didn't seem to help.

She offered to help
bit, twitched her head, and didn't want to let go
tore

She thought as she did so
above the tattoo directly on Her heart muscle

It would stand there:

BROKEN 
From the collection of poems ,, Bowel of fancy fish“ /2017/

I published the poem in Czech, not in English, had it on an old blog before it was canceled..so..it is my page, I am a poet and so publish .. in another language … brokenly, maybe wrong, … .This is my reality … I can write in it that I love you and nothing matters …. don’t care how it turns out …… so published poem and love you, girl, forever

Empty corridors. Prázdné chodby.



Empty corridors.

Lubomír Tomik

Empty corridors,
glowing oranges on the wall,
otherwise dark,
off,

there is no such thing as an easy victory,
there is no such thing

after each attack
there are days without you,
rows of trenches,
rows of crosses,
rows of food for machine guns of life,

so what if i worship you
so what

you know how hard it is
with my imagination,
don’t think about
You in someone else’s arms,
every second
it’s like a disease
on which there is no cure,

which was,
empty corridors,
places without return,
somewhere in the distance,
in deep lakes and beyond,
Your scared smile.

Prázdné chodby.

Lubomír Tomik

Prázdné chodby,
na stěně dál žhnoucí pomeranče,
jinak tma,
zhasnuto,

není nic takového jako snadné vítězství,
nic takového neexistuje

po každém útoku
jsou tady dny bez Tebe,
řady zákopů,
řady křížů,
řady potravy pro kulomety života,

no a co když Tě uctívám,
no a co

víš jak je to těžké,
s mou představivostí,
nemyslet na
Tebe v náručí někoho jiného,
každou vteřinu,
je to jako nemoc,
na níž není lék,

co zbylo,
prázdné koridory,
místa bez návratu,
někde v dálce,
v jezerech hlubokých a dál
Tvůj vyděšený úsměv.

Archimedes statue. Archimédova socha.





Archimedes statue.

Lubomír Tomik

Bronze,
 took to the streets today,
tripped over morbid dreams thrown into lives,
mobile dreams of a tanks on wheels,
shit s.u.v,

unnecessary bandas with milk lam,
she tripped
there,
where everyone wanted to be exceptional,
nobody wanted to be a target,

why do Your arrows hit me with unprecedented accuracy,

I pulled a rope into the streets
and first I wanted to send statue to the ground,
but why,

let it pass
let the body compress the disgust to the size of sardine boxes
let it be just us
and tanks to devour the junkyard,
let it be just us
and not a square monster box,

you want to prove how special you are
lift your ass and do something

and don't wait for death in a tin box,
 when you're old, 
you can only get in a wooden car or a parked urn anyway,
parked on all the time of the world.
Archimédova socha.

Lubomír Tomik

Bronzová,
vyrazila si do ulic dneška,
zakopávala  o morbidní sny vrhnuté do životů,
mobilní sny o  tancích na kolech,
posraná s.u.v,

nepotřebné bandasky s mlékem lam,

zakopávala,
tam 
kde všichni chtěli být vyjímeční,
nikdo nechtěl být terč,

proč jen mne zasahují Tvé šípy s nevídanou přesností,

natáhnul jsem do ulic lana
a nejdřív jsem ji chtěl poslat k zemi, 
ale proč,
ať se projde,
ať slisuje karosérie hnusu do velikosti  krabiček od sardinek
ať jsem to jen my
a tanky ať sežerou vrakoviště,
ať jsme to jen my,
a ne hranaté monstr krabice , 

chceš si dokázat jak jsi jedinečný,
zvedni prdel , něco dělej,
a nečekej na smrt v plechové krabici, 
až zestárneš, 
stejně se vlezeš jen do povozu ze dřeva, 
nebo napořád zaparkované urny.

Under the white blouse.

Under the white blouse.

Lubomír Tomik

under the white blouse are the towers of medieval castles,
bombarded by beautiful bodies of courtesans full of plague ulcers,

under a white blouse pulled to the body by the tenderness of warm palms,
cohorts fluttering in the wind,

 preparing to attack,
                                  waving delicate features of lipstick,

under the white blouse are the towers of medieval castles
ready to succumb.

The Queen hurried to the walls,
palms on temples, eyes narrowed,
into memories printed memories of You.

She will take my hand and turn around. 

/from the collection of poems ,,Bowl of fancy fish.“ /2017/ on the cover Sylvia Plath on the beach…once