ENG
"Soviet Gothica"
No more paintings in research of death,
Outlining black cupola.
In only physical reality,
Association skin
Answers to sounds of mosh pit
As papyrus is stretched on a cross.
Translated holes of its’ threaded Being
Are unfolded in numerous incinerations
To make consciousness between sins and righteousness.
The thing of which
Neither lens
Nor mirror
Extends phonology.
One must return round
When going down a leather well,
Being mud, mosaical evaporation
Of feathery ashes
That question tail of self.
Pattern in a removed beginning,
Lapsed years,
Wounded wooden floor,
White membrane, mathematicians.
Silence that does not move.
For placed in a half circle thought
Achieves ciphers only,
Not reasoning
Or departure from existential perception.
And thread takes us backwards,
To descends of a morning
Where sun builds speech,
And singing reminds of mortality.
Madness of earthly elements trapped people into scripts,
Soil of no phases.
Having deeply fallen eyes
And throat-bell circles,
Candles excessively notice
No more fingers in water
But in a physical reality only.
