Season of predators

Lubomír Tomik and Aleš Vencel

They set off, red eyes squinting into the night,
when they had lurked at the bottom of a ditch, driven into the muddy tracks of dead crustaceans,

they ended up in the arms of a girl hungry for the rustling of money,
ended up tuning radio Luxembourg ,,
twisting of the nipple buttons with salivated fingers,

they ended up in the hand of a whore who was breaking brick
brain, lightning couple,

they ended up in the algae of deep waters,
beautiful lakes,

they ended up faded washed, bells in New Orleans
  say softly and quietly: Noon. ,
blue jeans read the flash of a piece of white ass ,,
they ended up dusting the path along the way
a silk kiss,

they ended up dancing fans
in Lucretia, the whistling of helicopter rotors
over the jungle monotonous wild roses
full of moisture,
ended up dissected in the hyena of the abdomen,
red tablecloths, burqas crying softly,

they ended up without legs for a while, driving cars
across dusk, they lost everything, hulls, dreams
and crying and feeling,

they ended up pounding the hammers of a rock stove with the winking Frank Sinatra
punched in the eyebrows

they ended up in mushrooms in Alice's hats,
covered disgrace of holidays until dawn spits out and
it fades away, the pain is absorbed,
end up stuck on the hooks of freezing fishing boats,
six hundred minutes from inside the earth to hell with it all,
stay home and look in the mirror, red blood cell catching
by air molecules,

they ended up knocked down by a fantasy train, meat collected by drunk trainers for a bottle of rum,
baked in remosce together with pieces of run over cats,

they ended up being sucked out by the rough moon, the fever drove out the thermometer
to the explosion of mercury, ended up asleep, lifting skirts in
of raided carriages in empty hollows of lichens, overeating
the honey of your mouth the tooth enamel of an absolute darling,

they ended up in the art of listening to the sun, the wings of the wings, the kings of this land,
a tear on your face,

they ended up flying on cannonballs, engulfed by monsters in storms, monsters themselves,
maturing in the depths of the neglect of neglected data, harnessed to the reins of dreams,

they ended up in the shade of the intervention, all that was left of the queen was smoke, a pistol against his forehead
pistol against forehead,
shot!

 light year before the bullet shatters the skull

II.
beautiful, in the rain, in the rain, hair punished by strands of tenderness,
beautiful, arched eyes in the sky,
beautiful,
breasts, lips, ass
beautiful

III.
tide too fragrant,
hurricane whispers come on come on
sounds like a whistling color of wild roses
we are all dead, dead, dead
the season of predators is over.

Beautiful, you are.

You
           are.