Čtení pro Tebe : A za ruku jsem držel astronautku Petersovou audio: Kapitola první.

And I held astronaut Peters by the hand.

Lubomír Tomik

Chapter one. Time is not just a matter of days and minutes.

At Big Ben, the famous London clock tower, two were just striking. It was like a roar of thunder.
He stared at the strange city.
He heard orders: -The curfew for residents.In strategic places, set up patrols… –
That handled everything.
He did not walk on a hidden smuggling path.

An hour later, he went to the newsstand opposite Parliament to buy a box of Havana cigars and went out in a plaid skirt like a Scottish bagpiper to the Metropol cinema, now watching the Drum Fire.
Time is not just a matter of days and minutes.
It was necessary to cross the oceans of the world. New countries have pushed the hitherto completely recent past. Plus, he got a fever the day after he arrived.
He was very old and strange, tiny, with a long white beard like a giant squid, a record of something important, snatched from the depths of the ages, or he was just raving. After many years, he went out and looked at the starry sky. She was endless, calling to him but not intimidating.
He already knew he would return to space.

There, behind a forest of oil rigs, was a rocky hillside, hot in the heat. A white dusted path led along it. Dazzling light, immersed in endless desire. Trees can be seen high on the ridge. Seagulls rise above them. They take off in dead tracks. Mad eyes clouded from the polar ice. The girls are a little scared of him. The light beam comes from a nice ass.

Voices of ladies, Unisono:

,,Work with bricks…thousands,ten thousand,million of bricks!“

Choirmaster: -Damn, those bricks. And the house is nowhere !!!! And to the sign of woman he had plays epileptic note.

Later, on a large green meadow, the ladies – they are young Italians – dial rhythmically according to the orders of the gym professor, who is standing on a wooden step at the edge of the meadow:
-At two, one to two, one to two three… –
-Time, eh -he say.-

-At two,one,two,one,three!-

Western and eastern borders, everything, red tongues of flame with charred algae, excited throats.- They all drank white coffee and the City was expanding.

He stepped in, holding a sleeping gun. The art of killing… thought about these words.That I did not have to kill a man. He returned to the bed and pressed the internal connection button. Great, it worked, the screen came to life and streaks appeared on it. Then blackened in a moment. It was high time.

Later that day, all the English evenings wrote in inch headlines:
-MERRY !!!! Letter from the President of the Republic:… The court-martial has just ventured-on order-to release a certain man… Obviously he is an agent from another planet, the problem is that he does not know why he was sent here, he forgot his precious message… DANGER A MORT. Distant drums sound better. Good old England loves its former rulers. The signal of the psycho cell is negative přenos. This time the transmission did not take place. –

The man was William Seward Burroughs, and now we were heading down narrow streets in ragged robes, passing charming brunettes in tight skirts, schoolgirls with boyish hairstyles, lips rolling over books, and nervous learning by heart-waiting to meet young Marcel Proust in the park after school. Magical young girls who walk with certain steps on low heels to the center.

And after London’s cobblestones damaged by winds and rains, a long line of gray animals ran in the grass between the boards, the whole family, the flying rats laboriously detached from the crumbling walls, twilight ensued, and the roads covered England from south to east and back to London, Mexico, Morocco, Paris, all the oceans and various interesting people and things and cities will appear on them and when William says: -You shouldn’t be dating those Mexicans, it’s a pack of con artists- I say: -Let’s get out of here, it’s too literary, — but he stops me: – That’s screaming! Here you are in heaven and not in some slum where foxes give a good night. Go, no one is holding you.-

But do you have a way back?

End of the first chapter.

Karta Crowleyho Tarotu na publikaci čtení pro Tebe je…. Yasmin. Again.

Crowley - 8 - spravedlnost


Překlad je jen z automatického překladače, časově bych to nikdy nestihl, pár úprav se povedlo.

Jakákoli podobnost s osobami či událostmi je čistě náhodná, napsáno bylo před více jak deseti lety.

Nahráno ve Studiu Midian….. a , čas není jen otázkou dní a minut, jednou….a bude to zítra, co říkáš,samé zítra a zítra a zítra ?

Atomic Mushrooms Harvest


A poetic collaboration with Lubomir Tomik aka Midian Poet

Behind the windows of a gray face
At the end of the road
Broken glass lanterns will never find glassmakers
And white nights
The shore is out in the haze of fog.

Faces like words
Expressions soundless
Seeking understanding
A metamorphosis
Into existence
Light in the haze
Finding the sixth sense
A glass that survives the crash
Shattering into renaissance

Faces silent
Suddenly changing
In the atomic mushrooms of you
In the morning mist you collect them in a basket
At breakfast
Then you will embrace me with tenderness
Coffee by you
Unbelievable you

Face masks cling
Eyes light up
In the oxygen that floats
You collect them in your breath
And embrace me with life
Your soul sparkles


Zobrazit původní příspěvěk

Poet Video ,, Návod k použití „

Natočeno ve Studiu Shaark na jaře 2020, upraveno ve Studiu Midian.
Větu ,,Cesta si vždy najde lásku “ čte D.O.
Zvuky z archivu BBC, k použití pro nekomerční účely, návod k použití přiložen.
lyrics :

Instructions for use.
Lubomír Tomik

Lean back comfortably.
Brush your teeth down your lower lip.
Close your eyes.
Expecting a light whisk of cold dead fish.
Nothing else.
Somewhere in the distance,
several pairs of palms clapped.

Ze sbírky ,,Večeře u Minského /2016/


Crowley - 0 - blazen

Po Mágovi ta nejlepší možná.


Fotografie od George Becker na Pexels.com



Lubomír Tomik

nikdo dnes nepřijde,
minulost skrytá 
ve sklíčku záhady,
lesknoucí se v ranním slunci

Ty nikde

No one.

Lubomír Tomik

no one will come today
past hidden
in the slide of mystery,
glistening in the morning sun

You are nowhere 

Crowley - rytir holi