A play for you was produced by Metheor in 2014.



Can we make a play for you. About your constant loss, about how you live in past moments, about how you see yourself frozen in other places, in past paradises and you know that you belong there, but there does not exist anymore. Can we make a play for you. About your knowledge that everything good is past and only bad is coming. From now on only worse. Fewer paradises in the present, more paradises in the past, in the same time beautiful and scary, because they are behind and you are in them, but they are gone and you are not in them.

The places that do not exist anymore, the places where the miracle is present and shines.

Monsters are born from the mouths of the monsters. And in ours the sensitive, super-reactive star-fish tentacles spread, with their own corpora cavernosa, bulging with juice and mucus and pulsating seeds, waiting for an astray finger to rub against them and to shoot up, towards the ceiling of our cave and there to grow little roots in the palate, to grow like soft stalagmites and to hang down in our vocal organs, in order to change them slightly but irreversibly, to introduce in our speech the mumbling of a new little starshaped organ, formed to stop us from speaking flatly, evenly and clearly, to make us, weather we want it or no, part of the family of the underwatersquatting bubbling punks, in whose company you couldn’t sit in a restaurant, because in the most inappropriate of the moments they would spill their mucus on the floor, the waiter will slip and spill the hot soup in the décolletage (or on the bare back) of a sophisticated lady with shimmery dress, and the bowl would be fatally shattered in billions porcelain specks that would float in the air of the stunned restaurant, and some would even drift on the air currents and will glide above streets, rose-mallows, wisterias, pines, willows, shores, limitless shores, shores with no end, then will reach the ocean, will drip like milk drops in its salt and there roots will grow, will grow like carnivorous porcelain flowers, hemmed with salt crystals, attacking sailors out of the blue, jumping with their heavy but fragile bodies out of the foaming waves, cracking the bones of the sailors with striped blouses, chewing their pipes and nothing remains, nothing to remain, always nothing is remaining but the remains, and they are also floating, floating amidst carnivorous porcelain flowers, amidst mermaid’s hairs and sea dragon’s scales, float, float, until they touch the shore rim, the rim withdraws, then stretches, feels with its sandy antipode the remain, licks it, takes it gently, feels it well, puts it on its surface and there you find it. There you, with your small gnarly fingers find the sailor’s ear and you will put it in your bungalow, because there all the wonders of the sea are carried, all the things that make the paradise alive for longer.

Can we make a play for you. About your abrupt transition in acid state, when you are outright unbearable. This acidity effervesces and brims over, leaks down the bed edge, drips with thick drops and corrodes the parquet varnish, gradually digs a hole into the wood, then in the cement, in the concrete, the drips start dripping loudly on the basement floor, annoying the woodworms, fall on the floor and open steaming crater in its crumbly surface, create a real canal in order to reach the underground waters that crack and tilt the houses on the streets nearby, the acid acidizes the soil in the whole neighborhood and in the gardens acid rose-mallows with rusty colour grow, and from their blossoms peak little yellow teeth, ready to bite every incautious finger or nose, acid wisterias creep on walls and hedges, prowl after the habitants and the passers-by to spit them with their komodo-dragon-like poison and to wait the pray to come back in their arms by itself, half dead, thinking that it actually would be useful to become someone’s food, acid snails dart on the clumps of fermented dirt, and all the cats became rusty and in tiny, almost discreet hordes float like ginger hairy sea through streets and roofs, even the chandelier is acid and menacingly wobbles its pending crystals, full with suspicious fluid, pushed by wind with sulfurous odor.

Because there is no other universe but yours and all the paradises, all the miracle islands are crowded in it, but it has the tendency to stretch in one specific direction and this direction is backwards and this creates a feeling of doom, of decay, of the overwhelming knowledge that all paradises are past, they have never happened for real until they go in the past, their present could never be fully lived, they could never be seen while we are inside them, we have to look them with the melancholic, porcelain eyes of the time that is already other, so that they could turn in real paradise, every paradise is in the past and is gone, but exists only there, paradises exist only to pressure us, to make us know that they are no more present, that they exist only in the past, to tell us – there are no more of our kind, because there have never been, except in the past. Melancholy is our true state, because we have only lost things, we have them only like lost, we have never had them like things that have been had, they can never be had, because in the loss is the happiness of our unhappy present, whose eyes are scratched in the back slits, blink with bloody eyelashes under the shoulder blades and love to be in pain, but lightly, because the feeling of happiness in the present may last only a moment, just enough to turn immediately into past, flashes the lightning and then drowns everything in long and dense fog, in contemplation of the family of the paradises.

Can we make a play for you, about how how how how how how how how how how how

Can we make a play about your despair and how you in fact are а gang of disheveled imps, running with their little paws through the fields along the shores, rub their back in the corn stems, entangle nails in the corn hair, drag bottoms on the ground, scratching scabbing wounds inflicted by hysterical joyous pinching, push each other snorting, we snort as infernal piggies, gasping from the galloping around the fiery gehenna, because in the fiery gehenna are planted our porcelain hearts, gleaming with black shimmer in the core of the fiery gehenna, heavier and more fragile than the heaviest and most fragile things in the world, we grunt and spray spit, from our disheveled forelocks sturdy, sharp hairs fly out, singing like strings when lodging in the hardened magma rocks, and in the pores little naked Lucifer’s offspring sits, their tiny tails shudder with nervous pleasure each time when their bellies feel new heat wave from the stormy gehenna, because our porcelain hearts, sparkling as diamond doves, frozen motionless amidst the flames, reflect and quadruplicate the warmth of the lava goo, because our hearts are cold, they are of ice, they cut with blades sharper than the sharpest things in the world, and the disheveled imp gang trots clumsily through the coastal fields, we can run and in the same time contemplate the swallows, hovering screaming above the full with the purple blood of the sunset lake, that lake, which in the winter merges with the sea, because the high sea waves devour the dunes, that form a dike during spring, summer and autumn, and in the winter the lake transforms into half-salty, but a little bit sweet part of the sea and then the sunset blood, the purple blood of the sunset dissolves like ink from the sea to the lake and the ducks shoot at the hunters with big guns, spray pellets in their fat calves, with big cartridges fill their lardy pot-bellies, and small dolphins drag fishermen on their spears through the noisy waves, clapping with their water hands, wild in their happiness, not that momentary happiness that appears only for you to say “I am so happy that I want to die”, that appears only to become past, happiness that can live only in before and feed your melancholy, that grows incessantly, so incessantly and not at all slowly, that it will engulf the world, the whole world and all the universes there, where there is only one universe and it is your universe.

Can we make a play for you, about your entrances and exits, because you are castle, you are fortress with orcs at the towers, you are bowellike dungeons with bacilli and dogs with poisonous drool prowling in the folds, you are fortified wall with loop-hole slits watching the besieging behemoths, you are pile of rocks, fallen from the destroyed towers, amongst them glows the long white hair of the living in the tower princess, now speckled with her transparent blood, you are ditch, full of poisonous mud, above it manticores fly, they roar to warn you that dragons fly towards your sky, and we are riding those dragons, we shall come, we shall come and eat all of your corridors with their torches, we shall chew your curtains and canopies, we shall tear your beds and sofas, we shall brake your pots and we shall trample your flowers, we shall eat you, we shall grind your goblets and knives, we shall shatter your ceilings with our sharp claws, with our fiery breath, because you are our castle, you are our garage, in you we will deposit for safe keeping forever our iron chariots with spikes, so that the rust won’t eat them, so that they won’t melt under the acid saliva of the ginger cat throngs.

Because you are the angel of disappointment, you bring despair and sorrow, that sticks to the hooves of the horse, that sad horse, sinking in your mud, because you are the sorrow itself and the furious disheveled imp gang may cleave your flesh as much as they like, but your sorrow is constant, because you are the angel of disappointment.

Can we make a play about how stupid you are, because your universe is not unique and you are a just peel that is going to die, lonely peel among thousands greedy universes, scattering out, always out, their monstrous organs, formed by old wounds, by layered scabs and clots, new organs for reaching, not suckers, but sucker-tentacles, they are watching you with their hard eyelids and suck your white core fluid (your porcelain evaporated milk) and feel your hair and cheekbones, the bare calves of their antennae pulsate like soft spasmodic diamonds, lapsed into unconsciousness rudimentary protrusions swindle, carried by the hard mass motion, seductive mushy feet pop in, crushed under the trunks, playfully moving toes, their tails suddenly curl up with pleasure, clearly, although through all that noise is audible how their vertebrae giggle lapsed in hysterical infantilism, like your seizures sometimes in the evening, or in the morning, when you chuckle until you are exhausted and kick in the air, jump on the bed and look like bitten by rabid squirrel humpbacked dwarf, the concussive thunderbolts of the childhood, that grace you with the luxury of still hitting you, of mercilessly tossing your gnarly body, designed to grow old like a child, the vertebrae in the universe’s spines giggle like that, like hysterical white-haired children, having giggling seizure, that looks like it will never end, that becomes crying, not sad crying, but crying like I can’t laugh anymore and I just have to let some water through the eyes, otherwise I don’t know what else to do and even if it becomes real crying, just as hysterical, this is pleasant crying, crying of the opportunity to cry, natural ending, culmination of the laughing crisis, kicking and screaming, without which those childhood crises are left unfinished and then there is the danger of drooping, because endings are always problem, and the universes have surrounded you, and stare at you with their glassy wounds, through which dried up lymph nets are stretching. In the loneliness of cosmos, you remain a child, and the question is only if you can lapse in infantile seizure when you are alone, or when you are alone you are condemned to melancholic childhood in the past, the universe doesn’t care anyway.

Can we make a play for you, about how you can mourn over your past forever, because the past is your form of present.

Where are all the sunrises of the world, the sunrises of endless opportunities, merged with the sunsets of the reverse side of the world. There gather all things that are not. Dogs, fountains, empty spaces, hairs, fingers, backs, holes, swollennesses, lacks, mussels, chestnuts, trousers, dog collars, places, screens, skins, windows, profiles, us like completely different people, with other shape and other places, their future and our past and it isn’t the same at all, and it isn’t funny at all, nothing of this isn’t funny at all, does that those places don’t exist now mean, does it mean that practically they have never existed, does it? That those sprinkled with rain windows and tempestuous clouds over the mountain, that the thrown on the floor socks and exactly this shoe on the curb, that the naked leg on the chair, that all of this and all of everything else is just a mirage, that it is part of world conspiracy of the memory that is there only to tease is. Does it mean? And the past joy and despair doesn’t exist, because their objects are now only mark on sheet, or on photo paper, or on digital memory. Does our past exist, does it exist, or the joy is impossible because it is always past of that is not only not there, but has also never been there? The sunsets are hidden in the cave of the misshaped pancakes, nail clippings, dog hairs, with all the unneeded unnecessary things and there is nobody to let them out, only dense cozy darkness is left, and in it everything disappears and there is nothing past and nothing whatsoever.

And could the moments before we knew what we know now exist at all?

Can we ... no, we can’t make a play nor for you, neither for whomever else, because the past is impossible.



* * *

In your hair remains are entangled
Remains of what remains
The remaining of everything remaining
That what has been
That is already
Because the other has been.

In your hair seaweed is entangled
Rubber, disintegrating seaweed
In whose crawling worms
Hundreds of eyes yawn
Dozens of mouths look with wriggling tongue
Thousands of noses shiver with bluish nostrils.

In the root of your hair
Is contained the beginning of the cosmos
From your hairs springs the cosmos
Such as it has never been
And will never be
But it exists, rooted in your head
Like endless warm crown
Warm from the crackling energy
And in the same time – icy and frozen
The way it was for eons
Because it has always been there
The cosmos is born in your hair,
Among bluish seaweed,
Swinging with the tide
Of the tenth moon
Of the pseudogalactic sun.

From your hairs a new world won’t grow
Never, never
Just the cosmos will last above your forehead
The only cosmos that does have an end
And beyond the end begin the eyebrows.



* * *

Like marshmallow the space around me expands and squishes. The matter stretches, in places almost transparent, in places thickened and looks like it pulsates due to the stretching. The crumpled point of matter, in whose core was me, дisperses, softened by invisible jaws and salivary glands. The beginning of my cosmos, the ball of something, spreads not because of a gas explosion, but of moistening and pulling. Its threads engulf me, connected with all my points, pull themselves out of me in the same time holding me in the centre, like dense mushy net, like chewing gum, like milky mass. Like lovecrazed lizard cry written with flexible notation. Like unbreakable matter looking for directions, before all forms were invented.

Unfolds, coils, stretches, thins out, even torn in some places, in other forms stringy ligaments, lashing like whip through the vacuum, mute space that can’t even be named endless yet. The matter spreads like infection, strains from within, already exhausted, exhausted before the motion has started, but with inexhaustible growing potential, even if torn, even if mushy, forms its mushy antipodes and touches, touches further and further away, forms and conquers, contains and mushifies.

There was the core of coziness. The place equal to an old dog, sleeping in rainy afternoon, cuddled with its tongue out on a cushion on the floor, dreaming about running through high grass, under meatball sky. The core of coziness had enveloped me like skin, even not like wrapping, because our places were not distinguished. Now, with the growing stretching, streams and winds burst, the leaves in my basement scattered, my window curtains ran away. Melted minerals drip from my hair and trickle trough the threads, the centrifugal force leads them towards the periphery, where they start forming stalagmitelike forms, soft and mushy, but with discernible tips. My hair threatens to crack, to flower in purple slits, cut through like fine netting of blood corals.

In the base shadows start to settle, fast and evasive, dart through the murky fluid, looking for the coolness and immobility of the bottom, scared of the spreading of the lucid matter, clearly understanding that the world of uniform silence will perish very soon, scattered in new forms and nuances, that the tranquility and lack of differences era is at its edge, that all boundless waves of nothing compressed in one point, will be irreversibly plastered in somebody’s memory, unattainable and even completely forgotten.

Candies of hard crumbly sugar with peanut core. The lead filling of the new galaxy weighs down, but due to the lack of whatever forces, besides the brand new centrifugal, the weight doesn’t matter and the lead fluid spreading through the dead universe’s veins is light as sugar candy.

The universe forms miniature sky stretched like palate above the newly created cavity, air pocket surrounded by fresh bone matter. The children of that mouth, little vigorous teeth, clack in each other and spin on their roots sliding on the tongue. Boneless forms, spineless, formless forms, growing simultaneously everywhere, but not with the same speed, growing irregularly, because they don’t care how they will look, no eyes, no differences, just soft squashy matters that if accidently touch each other suddenly withdraw inside themselves.

Years ago, billions of years ago, billions of other galaxies perished, all of them perished of sorrow and disgust, of terror and revulsion, of impossibility and intolerance. This one is brand new absolutely sparkling. I live in the new universes. My durability is short, few petite billions of years equivalent to few blinks, just until the corrosive spots on the smooth surface appear, until the infection of life splashes the new world with its sordidness. Then I evaporate and am no longer. I skip the drama and the pathos, all that violence and cruelty, polished with deceptive beauty. Where life is I am not.

Under the fluffy duvet of the quiet street and the afternoon tea we are protected from the ugly, bloody truth of life. There we can imagine totally new dangers and adventures, happy endings and happily sleeping afternoon dogs. Only us, only us.

The solitude of happiness is locked.

Flood, where is the flood, where is the flood that will wash the life and things, will leave emptiness in the nothingness, so that we could return to the core of coziness. In the storm eye another eye smolders, amidst the lightning’s blinding fire, amidst the thunder quakes, in the cracked flesh of the thorn sky, between the cloud rags, shines through the advancing, the prepared for millions of years final show, the grande spectacle of our world, weeping sadly in its own lap, with tears of anger and impatience, waiting to be destroyed, scattered, exhausted beyond its limit, waits all its unhappinesses and the miniature, isolated happinesses to be annihilated with the mightiest bang after the initial one. The final explosion though will have more work, the fire will light itself, the lightnings will set fire on each other, the rain torrents, big as continents, will drag the whole mud and all the stones. The last spectacle will be the most spectacular. Then, in the silence after the second big bang, just one bubble will float, the core of coziness, with its afternoon dogs and cool sheets. The bubble that deserves to live in the vacuum of the monstrously immobile cosmos.

From the bubble in which the image of the memory for the coziness core remains, a new world won’t sprout. Because the reproduction circle is hacked once and for all. Now everything is single and unique. Single in a way before impossible in this so repetitive universe, where everything was different, but alike. Without horizon of relativity the cozy bubble bears the only possibility for its understanding in itself, it has engulfed the whole, the only potential for coziness of the endless cosmos. If the cosmos is endless, could it be long? Or fat? In the fat cosmos the debris of our world does not float, except one, except one.

Chocolate starts, coloured stars, stars with cinnamon and sea salt scent, stars sprinkled with glitter, stars with pig tails. Stars slide on sidewalks, shoe stuck on the edge between the curb and the pavement, light evening breeze, stars trimmed with seaweed debris, stars like moons, stars like bottom, stars swelling with oxygen, stars giving birth to eggs, stars hard as diamonds and sparkling like fish scales, hair lock falls down the bare back, anticipation that isn’t yet presentiment, development of events in unexpected and impossible direction, beyond the banal and beyond anything available, stars pulsating with the orange light of garbage truck, stars leaving stale sweetish scent of rottenness, stars speckled with seagulls, stars at the end of the world and in the centre of the universe.

In the image of the skin second image is frozen, they layer like prints, like tattoos on dead skin, the image of image glows with its inky reflections, blinds with its matte radiance. On the image of the image of the skin wrinkles swoop, the paper crumples and bends, spreads and leaks, flaps its butterfly wings, flutters on the window sill, falls like autumn butterfly on the pavement of the floor, sprouts in the soil of the carpet, blossoms under the table shadow. Skin skin skin touches everything, the whole world, touches it with its fine sharpened bristled tentacles, overexcited and thirsty for a world, bouncy playful lustful touch touch touch with their cavities and bulges with their ears and elbows, insides and outsides. Colloid veins protrude from the slits, in their turn protrude curious limbs from the skin edges, make their way towards the outside surfaces, and in the darkness one little eye waits, waits, looks, waits.

Life is incorrigible.


* * *

And in the end of that drama
So big
So big
So pregnant with events
So depraved from endings
Let us move to another dimension
In the land of endless intentions
There, where everything is forthcoming
Where potentials are inexhaustible
Possibilities mature and grow plump
Desires swell and curve
Possibilities tentacles grow and creep
This is the beginnings fortress
In the trenches the middles lie
And guard the beginnings from an endings attack
And from their head getting eaten.
They fly, swoop near the ears
Dangers for the fragile embryos
Shoot them with fruitless intentions
Dead end streets
Preliminarily doomed
Utterly hopeless
Absolutely mutinous
Nasty staring evil
Preliminary endings
Excessive cravings.

Because, as we all well know
Desire condemns the excess to death
What is big falls out
Of the space edge
Up! It spills and is no longer
Falls falls falls
It bumps its waves at the bottom
And quietly settles
For years.

The land of embryonic beginnings
Is encircled, as we have already said
With trenches
And the trenches – by cordons
Cordons woeful rabbits
They stare with their yellow gaze
Frozen with malice
And do not move
Do not flinch
Do not blink
They only wait for a clever sequence
To try secretly
Slip by them
And lightly set
Their evil look on it
And the poor sequence
Freezes in terror
And remains like that
Under the mighty shadows
Of those rabbits-wolfhounds
Hairy soldiers of providence
Cumulous punishments
Clawy guards
Of beginning.

And inside, in the core,
Amidst the quietude of the nothing
Amidst the silence of inaction
Where only the desires growing could be heard
Fruitless garden
With wonderful flowers
Inside, in the heart of beginning
Little beautiful corps lies
Transparent and hard substance
Miniature dead body –
The frozen truth
Of the beginning.



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