Childlike Stories
Poetry …
While I’m slowly falling into a REM state,
I hear child scream from the yard under the balcony.
I get up and walk past the shelf from which it smells intoxicatingly - the scent of Jung’s books on psychoanalysis. It seems with kind of raspy sharpness they scream even louder, like the ones below.
I step on the balcony. I see black crows
how they circle over the gathered crowd of scratched children.
They drip from their beaks, pieces of molten plastic and chewed fat, angry utopias dripping from the eyes.
I see a child screaming into a loud megaphone.
He screams in a hoarse voice while the black crows
announcing another collapse of civilization, the stench wafts from the cellar.
It smelled like forgotten tubers and moldy emotions.
Exceptionally, I turn on the TV and fly through all the deaf channels, shows and their adult Children. Tasteless thoughts and words hang out of their pockets, wrinkled skin, they drag oversized dresses behind. They are worn and gray.
The first sleeps with crushed cubes, the second has
a broken model of his life on the nightstand.
The third set up a water mill in the stream behind the house.
With a blindfold over it, he stays loud and all glued flour
lands on a domestic plate.
In the end, I head from the Bedroom to the Living room,
drops of blood from my nostrils dripping on the floor.
I look over the balcony again and at the end
I see them, cut old men jumping around the playgrounds.
Children are no longer children at all.
I have realized again,
that there’s no past, no future.
There is only this moment.
There is only Now.
I have always saw their revenge as
a satanic principle, so I prefer to write this poem.
Author: Luka Višnikar
