pain was only a woodpecker perched on a temple
ma, my hands are torn out
daddy, you are far
and we are not so much poets
to lie at the bottom of the ocean and lit a cigarette
till the moss flows and fills our mouths
and again a monday drunk and hard-moving, i shall push it out from my room,
and slam a door behind it,
i shall lie in bed and shoot out all the words stopped in the air
that rise walls between me and you,
then we have to choose different
rooms
cities
and hours
to die secretly from each other
oh, murder, you are the best book,
i am reading you then yerevan then you again
without any drop of damn sentiment,
and the eternity flourishes on my tongue like a flower
even when i sleep or i am leaving.
while i am catching a taxi standing on a rainy pavement
while thinking about the senility
yet not about it i would like to write right now
and, oh envy, my naughty girl
unchain my hands and and feet, raze my eyes with a black pen
scotch my mouth with a black tape
when i am crippled and fawned by the words
i am runnig to your arms like a happiness taken from the other
play with me and then throw me away
because i pitied the boys walking on the roofs,
what they found not was more than a body- meat, bones and money
guys, announce a cleansing day in your hearts,
feed the fish, set the library, clean out the memory
like a september wind is brushing the heads from the hats
blowing away the tomorrow, the hellos, the bird
and we are growing into cacti under the coats
a momentary happiness when the camera of the poem is off ,
i want to live beyond the shot, fall down and unfulfil dreams
i want to be not aware of the after, not to excuse, to leave and live
and there is the ghost following hidden from over the corner of the window
a boy, standing on the pavement catching a taxi
my hands are torn, ma
you are far, daddy
marijuana
the earth is a city of cannibals,
there are no models for a poem here,
push the cloud of smoke
out of the room by a hand,
and the boredom will grow like weed
on your body
can you live and die without glut?
once more and again, and repeatedly, like smoking all the time
then be calmly born on your birthday
and when the blade of fear slides through the middle of your body,
and you are turning the routine insomnia upside down
on the bed like an earthworm halved,
one might think that you and mrs Longing
may be making love this night
whereasmrs Longing is a real witch,
throwing drops pressed and unrestrained by eyelids towards me,
that blow up benath my feet like shells cast
and the dust of biography is spread up the room
the walls in the room start shaking
shattering the cup, the alarm clock, the records and the books to pieces,
everything appeared at my hand
now they can really think
what a lustful night we are having
meanwhile childhood was my last telescope
through which God could be seen from the earth
yet i left it hanging on the neck of my adultry
during one of our wars
mrs Longing laughs boisterously at me
she scratched my back
beat my neck black and blue
bit my upper lip
what shall think those who see,
when cops and ambulance arrive tomorrow,
gathering before our building
and poetry will come for sure,
without excessive haste
it will put its finger on my carotid artery
and say,
that i exist
no more
Translated by Tsovinar Chilnigaryan
