Listen to poem:
Bushland
A long ago, during warm midsummer-nights glow worms reminded me
That constellations in the sky were not the only bright specks,
I’d run my life checks
Irregular but stern
As if I were a dying drifter
Who throws rocks left and right
Of the long railway of life
As if marching uphill rugged Brumby bushland
For the last stand
To defend not only the fragile Earth’s crust
One providentially stands on
But also to withstand the tastiness of madness
The present provides in filled up Phoenician stone vases
That were resting on the bottom of the sea
Until the lungs of young divers
Brought them back to the surface
Right into the nexus of our lives
Like a gong of a cosmic time system
With the purpose of timing heart beats
Of the living,
And the decay process of the dead.
Aesthetically the battle might have been pleasing
In the realm of morbidly catatonic reality
In the end, it turned out to be
Just a slice of the vintage Hermelin
Often served in the Central Bohemia
Where big breasted waitresses know very little
But compensate with the Karamoazovian smiles, so well.
Terra firma, I stand on, I battle on.
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