guesses of the unreal
i don’t like when what’s mine is in fashion.
especially painful is my love
for bialoszewski,
although we have latvia, sartre, radom,
the language of cats and a mast in the forest
in common.
i am surprised, that poetic monoamory
and emotional hipsterhood
have not yet been called lack of erudition.
and – there we go: a kid with bialoszewski's “memoir…” says hi –
an epiphony of alienness in espadrilles clicks,
a magnetic card, banancino with whipped cream, colored charts
twitched and it is already clear what he’s spending on.
i'm surprised again: someone chose classes
just like me. I think, somewhere, someone has his
dental x-ray, and some priest remembers his sins.
did you see the google map boy in the window?
he has a blurry face
to me but someone likes to watch
him sleep. truth is the subject of interpretation.
we have nothing of our own.
A friend of mine visited me in Toronto and we decided to pay the Toronto Ripley's Aquarium a visit. And then I made this.
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