Death (but not really)
Your death would me so much to me
moans thrown against the wall
smoke-stained and soaked
into the dirty sheets

-screams echoed in empty glass
lovely, your death would mean
the world to me

and then I would die too.

We’d wake up
and you might be there
or you might not

but my words are too fine
and slip through your fingers
they are too smooth
so you breathe them
like air

-No
I can’t kill you
you mean to me too much
and I’m no murderer.

-June 9th, 2010

Alexander Lyamkin, Russian surrealist from Siberia.

I am tired of believing in peace.
The old Spanish island
Took a plane, me and you
drank in the sun
until it went down
and fell asleep in a
muggy hotel room
near the beach.

Come for me, into the water
a summer swim is what we need,
darling
Get your hair wet and let your
curls down.
Blue sea in the sun, and
pour our drinks in the sand.
Kiss me as that great ball
of fiery passion
descends below the dark
violent pink.
Four billion years from now
it will explode,
but we will be long dead,
just ghosts and stardust.

Here it is, the last one
The sand is sugary white,
and our towels are damp.
Our shoes washed away with
the sea.
I kissed you.
Then we cried as the sun
set long skeletal shadows
across our bodies.
Here it is, the last one.
I’ll tear it in half,
and give you the bigger.
Smoke with me, my darling,
our last cigarette against
the old light of the old days.

-March 17th, 2010