Death of books. Smrt knih.

Smrt knih.

Lubomír Tomik

Při požárech knihoven,
morech,
conquistadorech v nepromazaných brněních,

uhrančivě
voníš lotosem
jsi

nespálíš mé čichové buňky
nevyléčíš smutek
nevložíš olej do švů mého brnění

uhrančivě voníš lotosem,
jsi.

Naučil jsem se rozumět.

Smrt knih je věc jedna,
přece dobře víme,
že jediný vir
jsou SLOVA,

hřejí,
léčí,
rvou maso z kostí.


Při požárech knihoven,
morech,
conquistadorech v nepromazaném brnění,

uhrančivě voníš lotosem



JSI.











Death of books.

Lubomír Tomik

In the case of library fires,
plagues,
conquistadors in unlubricated armor,

enchantingly
you smell a lotus
you are

you won't burn my olfactory cells
you will not cure my sorrow
you shall not put oil in the seams of my armor

you enchanting with a lotus,
you are.

I learned to understand.

The death of books is one thing
we know very well
that the only virus
are WORDS

they warm
heals
they tear meat from bones.

In the case of library fires,
plagues,,
conquistadors in unlubricated armor,

you smell enchantingly with a lotus,


YOU ARE.
TY

Večeře u Minského. Dinner at Minski´s.

Dinner at Minski´s. Read and recorded once for You, in Studio Shaark

Dinner at Minski´s.

Lubomír Tomik

She put her hand under the table on my thigh, 
still looking in front of her, talking to someone opposite,
I didn't know him.
the burnt meat of an Ethiopian tiger on plates,
 we both observe ourselves in the attitude of Aphrodite,

We watch the sweet asses are presented to the golden rain
I will use seven or eight tablespoons
servants bring on polished trays swallowing in Italian.

She put her hand under the top floor narrowing it down,
 it was a penguin's claw slowly sliding it inside,
 a salivating search inside the chest pressed against the lungs

She ran over the ribs, the grooves of her spine
it vibrated between a fan of air bubbles
there was nothing

suddenly, buch buch buch
not mine came up in the sky,
emerged from a hole in the moon from the veins of blood spewing blood,

stripes of earth in shades of steamed sweater
the clay grave is an indifferent time around
it just fails,

pieces of green flag torn in the morning
walled together in a narrow dream of exorcising the devil

Minski is coming.

Opens his mouth bites pieces of torso ,
asks what it is time ?

impersonal connection caress leaning against the metal wall of the toilet

YOU
EATING ME.

She withdrew her soaked hand I opened my mouth
let everything be scanned,

that real sorrow deep down when it then rushes to the surface tears you to pieces,
feast of worms in the endless footsteps of the goddess of war,
the squeal of little pigs somewhere in the distance
under the sky obsessed with the farting of thunder.

And she covered my eyes with the same palm,
I was just another run
for dinner at Minski´s.








/from ,,Dinner at Minski´s and  other poems ", 2016/

Banální básnické haraburdí známé od 19. století. Banal poetic junk known since the 19th century.

Image result for Edo japan
Read and recorded in Studio Shaark
Banal poetic junk known since the 19th century.
/To Milan K./

Lubomír Tomik

 In the raunchy neighborhood of Edo
 the sound of wooden sandals
 crosses a stone bridge.

 Her eyes,
 she has a light canopy of sorrow draped over them.

Edo – Wikipedia

Banal poetic junk known since the 19th century.

The title of the poem is from prof. Milan Knížák, Milan Knížák – Wikipedie (wikipedia.org) years ago he gave me a nice slap in his words, I needed her, thanks. Thanks for You time. These are his words:

„You use banal poetic junk known since the 19th century.“

Time …. a word.

Thank you ….words . But sincerely.

And after Your criticism, I wrote this poem…maybe special haiku.

Try to capture feelings. …..How does a sales woman feel?

Pátrám po Veronice Lakeové. I’m looking for Veronica Lake.

On the cover of my collection of poems is Veronica Lake and this is where a poem from and about her and about You and for You, my love.

And again….

Doporučuji první poslech VE SLUCHÁTKÁCH. Ideálně přitom zavřít oči.

I recommend first listening IN HEADPHONES. Ideally close your eyes.

I’m looking for Veronica Lake. Read and recorded in Studio Shaark Sound engineer Pavel … is a magician. For the first time, I heard it out loud, as I intended the poem.

I'm looking for Veronica Lake.

Lubomir Tomik

 I will crush a thin one hundred and fifty-one inches in my arms,
 even though I don't really know Her, I'm looking for Her.

 In the back alleys full of paper bags from cheap alcohol,
 in the trunks of abandoned cars,     
 cars squirting at night,
 in incinerators full of flesh of Ethiopian tiger meat,
 in the middle of pine forests.

 The last path leads over the ridge,
 through that rattling pile of bones.

 I'm looking for Veronica Lake,
 I'm taming,
 sometimes it's better
 when it's like this.