Nicholas Cobic

Illness

Dostoyevski and Nietzsche are dead,
and I don't fell very well either.
I catch with my hand
my pale reflection in the mirror,
like a swear word someone chucked at me,
and I shut it in a jar
leaving it sealed over winter.

The skin I put on this morning
has the scent of a newly bought Bible.
My hearing and I live in a quarrel.

For only a moment,
I looked into the mirror's eyes;
It sighed and said to me:
Doesn't it seem that all people
inhabit a single fired torpedo?
Men - with headaches large as Russia;
Women - as loyal as ice cubes in a glass.

I wash my mouth by reading Szymborska aloud.
Perhaps I'll find out
whether poetry is an illness
or a chemical reaction.
Even the books have darkened from reading
like whiskey left in a barrel.

Maybe the new millennium will
place keyboards on mirrors
so we can adjust our reflection at will,
like sterile poets adjust their language.

Galaxies are just pills in a hand,
and black holes throats of allergic men.
I will swallow these verses and
drown myself in a dream.
That's how Bruce Lee died.

 

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