yuriy tarnawsky
To my horizontal position, to the bed made from my additional body and soft bones, to my tongue that grows out of my mouth like a monstrous tree, to my heart left behind on the bedside table which makes the noise of a broken electric clock, to my soul huge from an illness and numb like a building, to my mouth which has windows, and doors, and walls, to food which floats through people’s minds, concepts, surnames, and names of places.
To a morning forcibly created by my mind, to half an hour when my blood speaks like a radio, to the fear of my body and soul, to a half circle made from brightly lit walls and people, to a moaning for which they pay me a salary, to the room of fear on the corner of the circle filled with a bigger than normal surname, to a filling lunch which consists of my own tongue and soul, to the warm park of thoughts during the afternoon hours when sadness drives along on the other side of the hill, to an empty pit instead of the sky, to a constant ride downhill from the peak of my heart, to invisible lips and eyes which exist only in time, to the surface of Spain seen for an instant from the cemetery attached to my mouth, to rooms furnished with despair, to my eyes which stare at themselves for hours, multiplied like two large numbers by each other, to growths on the surface of my body which have the shape of wooden tables, chairs, and beds, to the word “to” and to this sheet of paper on which I kneel and, using my arms as oars, on which I try to cross this dry ocean.
from the volume without spain
