Long summer before the end of the world.
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
Dainty. Lubomir Tomik Eyes glowed with orgasm, that's ragnarok thought to me, it's a rognarok, it's a regnorak, it's a ragnarok , and Fenrir is already wagging his tail. He would like a dainty.
Dnes speciálně pro Tebe, ať údery boxovací rukavice , které zazní, úplně napadrť rozbijí Tvou nemoc.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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/
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.
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.
A stejnou dlaní mi pak zakryla oči,
byl jsem jen další chod,
na Večeři…u Minského.
And then she covered my eyes with the same palm,
I was just another run,
at Dinner … at Minsk.
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. 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.
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.
Red ride. Lubomír Tomik I'll take a chair from the next table, sit down with him, we drink quietly. Isaac Babel. Shot at the age of 45. You swine! You swine!
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. 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.
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/
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
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.
At a body feast.
threw into the abyss,
hugged the squirrel,
the palm slid behind the pleats of the skirt,
cold and distant temptation,
at body feast.