Life belly up.
The reeds.
The wind is hissing
death
downstream,
a river holds
its vapour breath
and leaves black lips
of tar and fish
a bloated shore.
Prague at Dusk
by Sam Vaknin
Prague lays over its inhabitants in shades of grey.
Oppressively close to the surface, some of us duck, others
simply walk carefully, our shoulders stooped, trying to
avoid the monochrome rainbow at the end of the hesitant
rain. Prague rains itself on us, impaled on one hundreds
towers, on a thousand immolated golden domes. We
pretend not to see it bleeding to the river. We just cross
each other in ornate street corners, from behind
exquisite palaces. We don't shake heads politely anymore.
We are not sure whether they will stay connected if we do.
It is in such times that I remember an especially sad song,
Arabic sounds interlaced with Jewish wailing. Wall after
wall, turret after turret, I re-visit my homeland. It is
there, in that city, which is not Arab, nor Jewish, not
entirely modern, nor decidedly antique that I met her.
And the pain was strong.
In Moist Propinquity
by Sam Vaknin
Hemmed in our bed,
in moist propinquity,
'tis night and starry
and the neighbourhood inebriated,
in the vomitary of our street.
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