Dlouhé léto před koncem světa.

Long summer before the end of the world.

Long summer before the end of the world. Read and recorded for You in Studio Shaark
Long summer before the end of the world.

Lubomír Tomik


 
When I ran my hands over the greasy clay of You,
 wrapped in a drying peel of mud,
 burned from within with your own breath,

 long summer before the end of the world
 we just hugged,

 there was no time for anything more.

 There was no time
 was not
 time

Completely attack. Úplně napadrť.

Dnes speciálně pro Tebe, ať údery boxovací rukavice , které zazní, úplně napadrť rozbijí Tvou nemoc.





Read and recorded in Studio Shaark
Napadrť.
Completely attack.

Lubomír Tomik

 under 
the blows
 of hands 
tearing 
me
 to
 pieces
 stomachs
 broken 
gushing
 vermilion
 in 
the palms 
of the wreckage 
of the eyes


 completely attack.

from the collections of poem ,,Dinner at Minski´s „/2016/ For You.

Boiler full of necks. Kotel plný hrdel.


Albrecht Dürer: Utrpení deseti tisíc křesťanů, 1508
Foto: Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum © KHM-Museumsverband
Albrecht Dürer: Utrpení deseti tisíc křesťanů, 1508
Boiler full of necks. Read and recorded in Studio Shaark For You, my Love

Boiler full of necks.

Lubomír Tomik

 the boiler full of throats overflows
 and the characters as from Durer's woodcut,
 they disappear and appear
 above the surface of the saddled goulash of blood,
 wooden spoon disappears somewhere in the clouds
 feet appear

the image is suddenly colored,
 is red, smudges of green, black to brown
 full of movement and lamentation:

 Halving a bull in a poppy field.

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?

Impozantní chřestová polévka. Impressive asparagus soup.

Impressive asparagus soup.
Nahráno ve Studio Shaark
Impressive asparagus soup.
Impressive asparagus soup.
/For You /

Lubomír Tomik

 part one.

 back to the scum in the traps of outgoing women,
 I tilt my head,
 closed eyes soak inside

 through the breathing tube they travel to my heart

 she stares at him in amazement
 he sees withered blackened bits of sorrow
 and hatred

 Hate.

 Sadness.

 But it was a long time ago.



 part two.

 dreams furrowed by ghosts flying sukkub attacking breasts,
 saliva leaving the mouth ajar,
 quiet delicious dripping

 I'm heading for the harbor
 barge full of white snow

 I'm heading for the morgue

 I cross thousands of lips blackened with opium tincture

I walk through the crowd of demimondens with crooked hats

 I grab the Maguey worm in my teeth

 the real soul of every human being
 it is hidden in its own darkness
 in that unkind girlfriend of us all

 it is not advisable to look into this abyss

 you have to try:
 dreams furrowed by ghosts torn pajama by cocks,
 in which no one dreams those dreams anymore,
 furrowed by You

we swim in an impressive asparagus soup, all around,
over and over.





From      ,,Dinner at Minski " /2016/

Seléné pobídla koně. Selene spurred the horse.

Image result for Seléné
Nicolas Poussin: Selene and Endymion
Seléné pobídla koně. Nahráno ve Studiu Shaark, ve Bzenci.
Selene spurred the horse.

Lubomír Tomik

 The moon bit through the Earth
 he left a cheese hole so big in it,
  that all the locomotives of the World passed through it
 with purple roses on the front bumpers,
 they pounded with their silent silhouettes of the chimneys of Santa Fe,
 remnants of communist ,coquetters ,continents

  Europe disappearing in smoke and hissing sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks
  body
 they are stored in their positions of mortality
 you stroke their faces
 they lie down and cover them with dust

 open me and take my beating heart in your hands
 massage him with a fist
 try to revive me

 Selene spurred the horse.
 Both Dioscuri smiled.
From collections of my poems Dinner at Minski / 2016/

I saw in Number 1.A. /For You /

Number 1.A by Jackson Pollock /1948 /
I saw in number 1.A. Read and Recorded in Studio Shaark Bzenec. For You.
I saw in Number 1A.

Lubomír Tomik

 Through a crevice in the fist in Figure 1A
 I saw:

 Cheshire Cat and outlines of whales
 the body of a shipwrecked ant lifted
 hedges of the French coast
 contours of the breast in the middle
 wolf eyes mainly two rifles for rats
 pea pods falling to the ground during autumn
 legs of an eighteen-year-old figure skater after training
 coated with gear oil
 on the upper left welcoming the citizens of the tragedy
 bamboo from the pomegranate forests
 fake geisha as in Japanese paintings
 he stands by the river and discusses the long lines of ink for a long time
 head of a laughing old man from the mountain
 legions stretching through a snowy pass
 Black Panther God
  Pope with butterfly wings
 man with mirror hair
 owls crooked
 couch on which sits a Chinese porcelain doll
 fish with an open mouth sitting staring at you
 statue of a napoleonic soldier
 one-eyed dog creeping in the grass
 two figures in animal furs pressed infinitely together
 a pile of fallen broken red heels,

 I saw through the crack in my fist
 in Number 1.A.
From the ,,Večeře u Minského a jiné básně /2016/

Crowleyho osobní kocourek. Crowley’s personal boy.

Alesteir Crowley
Recorded in Studio Shaark, Bzenec. From collectionsof poem Dinner at Minski´s /2016/
Crowley's personal boy.

Lubomír Tomik

 how many ice floes in the shape of protozoa,
 swaying on the freezing stream of the river,       probably february,
 dripping condensed breath,

 how much blood flows in the veins,
 how many generations of the unborn pass through the vas deferens.

 On the side of the road,
 protruding intestin,
 eyes full of tears ,
 cat fur coat embedded in asphalt road.

 Crowley's personal,
 rusty boy.

I eat Ezra Pound at breakfast. U snídaně se zalykám Ezrou Poundem.

I eat Ezra Pound at breakfast. Recorded in Studio Shaark, Bzenec.
I eat Ezra Pound at breakfast.

Lubomír Tomik

 at breakfast I swallow Ezra Pound and the metric system of rail poetry
 at breakfast I swallow hot coffee with milk sprinkled with a drop of hysteria

 I take off the gravedigger 's socks
 I take off the watery brioche

 I'm cutting down,
  falling to the heat of Your fireplace,
                                                          strike out with a match,

 I disappear,

 I will disappear with thousands of sparks,
 inside You.
From the ,,Večeře u Minského and other poems “ / 2016/

The famous ones, forests. Hvozdy.

The famous one, forests. Hvozdy. Read and recorded in Studio Shaark, Bzenec.




Forests.

Lubomír Tomik

 On moonless nights flickering shadows,
 the crowns of the trees obscure the sky,
 full of dry hermit bones,

 On yellow nights cheese eye,
 with craters of outcasts,

 These are the famous ones, forests,

 Those beasts of horrors of our minds,

 full of snarling monsters and tracks,
 ending in the dark.

Calatin’s daughters.

Čteno a nahráno pro Tebe,6.1.21 na hradě Malenovice.
Calatin's daughters.

 Lubomír Tomik

 White witch,
 the cauldron of birth is empty, 
I enter it with You in my heart, 
caress me ,
kiss me, 
release Calatin's daughters, tear me to pieces,
 leave the remains of my body intact so that you can connect them.

 So that you can reconnect US.

An experiment with frog hearts.

Pokus s žabími srdci. Read 29.12. at the monument in Mikulčice
An experiment with frog hearts.

Lubomír Tomik

 Tribute to His forked tongue,
 vanilla smoothies,
 full of poison, satin and velvet,
You ran your finger over the first verse

 only two coins
 for the potion of immortality
 only two coins
 for the tribute of Her forked tongue
 You moved your index finger,

 sliding on
 individual words

 "I was looking for Miss Lake
 in bars after midnight,
 in a raincoat with a pointed hat staggering with a lantern on the tide line
 under the same half of the moon,
 in the folds of your veil
 in the ghostly streets of the Portuguese tavern,
 in the eyes of the Sandwich peasants,
 in the deflection of the planets,
 in the reflections of the bows of tea clippers breaking through curtains of perfume,
 eyes fixed on the west,
 naked skin strewn with splinters of the oceans,"

 I finally found her:
 Dressed in Orion's belt,
 she took me by the arm and smiled gracefully.

 She wandered in a perfect labyrinth,
 Miss Lake.

 You.
ze sbírky Veronica a jiné básně /2018/

Růžová brigáda. Pink brigade.

Růžová brigáda. Pink brigade. Read and recorded for you, 29.1.21 on Lake Balaton, Nový Hrozenkov.
 
Pink Brigade.

 Lubomír Tomik

 In the blue sky, four lines of condensation, the scratches of a space wolf, 
stretch down the street of striptease bars for nine dollars a piece,
 he gnashes his teeth,
 he growls,
                    a saliva dripping from his mouth,
 mixed with blood,

 the cloudless blue of the sky is poisonous, 
poisonous like the chlorine of pool advertisements on everything,

 the last white butterfly ending the summer a almost missing Her lips,
 furiously lined with a half-smoked cigarette, 

wearing a coat,
 pulsing with a shy movement of a shot bead.

 The Pink Brigade set off. 
She measured everyone … with a sweet look.




 from the collection of poems Bowl of Fictional Fish / 2015 /
Růžová brigáda.

 Lubomír Tomik

 Na modrém nebi čtyři kondenzační čáry, škrábance vesmírného vlka,
táhne se ulicí striptýzových barů po devíti dolarech za kus,

 cení zuby, vrčí, z mordy mu kape šlem slin, smíchaný z krví,
 bezmračná modř oblohy jedovatá, 
jedovatá jako chlór bazénových reklam na všechno,

 poslední bílý motýl končícího léta o vlásek minul její rty, 
zuřivě potahující z napůl dokouřené cigarety,
 
na sobě navlečený špatně padnoucí baloňák,
pulsující plachým pohybem postřelené perličky.

 Růžová brigáda vyrazila.
 Měřila si každého….sladkým pohledem.



 ze sbírky básní Mísa vymyšlených ryb /2015/
Právě tady.

Víly. Fairies.

Fairies.

 Lubomír Tomik

 The fairies took You from me,
 both,

 as in the masks of the Venetian carnivals,

 like horses
            to the depths of the gallop,

 seconds
            intervals,

 thoughts that may have shattered,
            but which did not turn black at night,

 rowboats,
                  which have never failed,

 fairies,
 fairies,

 let's lose Our breath together.





PS: This article will be written all day... I will add more and more pieces of the puzzle to it. Finally, when I put together Friday's  recordings from Lake Balaton, there will be an audio version of this poem …. for You. 
1.Time is : 9:53.
2.Time is :11:50
3: Time is 12:52  and we go to the finals


Víly. Fairies. Pro Tebe. For YOU. 29.1.21, Winter Lake Balaton, Czech, Nový Hrozenkov.

When I read my poem „Fairies“ for You and recorded it on a dictaphone, I had THIS view, …sitting on a wooden bench, under a snowy shelter ,cup of hot coffee,

in my heart You…. that’s all I have, my Goddess…YOU.

Víly.

 Lubomír Tomik

 Víly mi Tě vzaly,
 obě,
 jak v maskách benátské karnevaly,
 jak koní
            do hlubin cvaly,
 vteřin
            intervaly,
 myšlenky  které možná oprýskaly,
 které však nocí nezčernaly,
 veslice,
 které nikdy neztroskotaly,

 víle,
 víle,

 ztraťme spolu dech.

Na hostině těla. At the feast of the flesh.

Hudebníci | VENDY atelier
….všechny hudebníky shodila do propasti….
At the feast of the flesh. Na hostině těla.


At a body feast.

Lubomír Tomik

all musicians
threw into the abyss,
all wrinkles
hugged the squirrel,

SHE

the palm slid behind the pleats of the skirt,
cold and distant temptation,

                                                  at body feast.

Ve stínu. In the shadows.

Čtu 19.1.21 uvnitř exponátu letadla L-610 ve společnosti KovoSteel, nedaleko od KovoZoo, pro Tebe….
Vlci kroužící kolem letadla, do budoucna, co kdyby fantastická železná zvířata obživla a gorilla odjela na kyberpunkovém koni za zvuků plácání uší slonů a gejzírů šílících vorvaňů?



In the shadows.


Napsal, pro Tebe, Lubomír Tomik

She took another wet bloody patch of meat,
she rubbed it on both sides with a mixture of pain, desire and confusion,
sea urchins, porcupine needles,
packs craving the smell of prey,
reach into the heart, whisper:

Rusty wolf,
very beautiful
gateway for the defeated,
swaying censer,
photo trigger of my eyes.

Give up darling, tribute to poetics,
because what keeps us alive than our fantasies crumbling to pieces
outlines of reality:
Nothing,
than beauty
nothing but pain
tummy of the thumb passing through the sharpened edge of the razor.

Now,
coast,
coast of mind in flames,
every thought of you is a viking raider waving an ax,
tasting with a ladle from the cauldron of Macbeth’s witches,
a glass of wine from the walled cellars,
love of verses,
thousands of scents of Arabia.


PS LT: In the shadow it is called because a girl who rubs a mixture of thistle and other herbs pieces of raw meat, while depicting a trap for a pack of wolves, stands on the edge of the forest, in the shadow. Even in the shadow of thoughts, trying to separate reality from fantasy, but everything merges into one.
PS LT II: I try to write here in English as well, because I still believe in the possibility that you can take a brief look YOU … and because of that I will do my best if it happens.
a česky…..









Ve stínu.

/Pro Tebe/

Lubomír Tomik
Vzala ještě mokrý krvavý flák masa,
potřela ho z obou stran směsí bolesti ,touhy a oměje,
jehlice mořské, jehlice z dikobraza,
smečkám bažící po vůni kořisti,
šáhnout do srdce , zašeptat:

Rezavá vlčice,
nádherná velice,
slavobrána pro poražené,
komíhající se kadidelnice,
fotospoušť mých očí.

Vzdej miláčku, hold poetice,
protože co náš drží naživu než naše fantazie rvoucí na kusy
obrysy reality :
Nic,
než krása,
nic než bolest,
bříško palce projíždějící ostřeným okrajem břitvy.

Teď,
pobřeží,
pobřeží mysli v plamenech,
každá myšlenka na Tebe je vikingský nájezdník mávající sekerou,
ochutnávka naběračkou z kotle Macbethových čarodějnic,
pohár vína ze zazděných sklepů,
lásky veršotepců,
tisíce vůní Arábie.



PS LT: Ve stínu se to jmenuje proto, že dívka , která potírá směsí oměje a dalších bylin kusy syrového masa, když líčí past na smečku vlků, stojí na okraji lesa, ve stínu .Ovšem i ve stínu myšlenek, snaží se oddělit realitu od fantazie , přesto, vše jí splývá v jedno.