On Loneliness by Ivan Lašán

19/05/2010 22:15


dropped off on the edge

you see her Face a Sun Too Pale


there is Smoke from her

burning bridges

billowing somewhere


you smell it go as you stand

“you’re in a wrong song

but it’s your song”

it’s the constant Howl of

her Revving Engines—


and not even spitting out

that Lemony Saliva

would make you feel

any haughtier


for you know and—ah, so well

this Rocky Desert always likes:

a Young Man’s Flesh




photo: Katarína Koreňová