"Peripheries" (2005/2006).

Two days from here, three kilometers closer.

For people from the center, forced to drive through, they are a land of dangerous shadows of their comfortable world. A deformed, repulsive image, a shattered mirror of their dreams, successes, and euphoria. A wild wasteland full of half-humans wandering aimlessly all day. Hunched, dressed in rags, they gaze at the distant towers of the City with longing eyes. This is the image of passersby. The image of control. The image from beyond the perfect boundary.

And we here breathe corpse-like, scentless air under cold stars, absorbing every metallic sound, every echo of mortal coughing, every moan, scream, and horn. Passing ghosts, pitiful shadows suspended in white streaks on the lanes to the right, red ones to the left, and between them the miserable green hung in concrete.

Ghosts shoot into the peripheries horde after horde. They penetrate the lecherous darkness and the subcutaneous hatred flowing somewhere beneath the asphalt. Sometimes you see their faces when they slow down. Cruel empty faces filled with a perverse smile. Festering boils, cancerous growth, vile whoring insect, carrion jolted by current. Current drives their carrion-machines. Current flows in rotting veins, current passes through the shapeless mass of the organic pump. Electroshocks awaken decaying flesh to life. Ghosts do not exist.

And we look at the towers of the City of Ghosts waiting for them to fall, for pride to be punished, for the happiest day of their existence to arrive, though they will despair, crawl, and die. We wait for the ghosts to return beyond the boundary of sleep. That moment will come soon.

...I vomit, cough, die in splendid drinks, motionless eyelids, Truly jazz You think: fascinations Fireworks I want and she came and began to unpredictably curse FROM angels. You choked splendor _ bourbon of scream tchaikovsky cancerous close-ups jazz rain I AM Antennas late carrion, fork of eyelids Every corner of carnivals dancers thin wallets in starfish bottles too little blood not bed not butterflies our you said trembled morning splendor body nights breeze only peripheries not smoke moments days I have shadow fading man-number with a glass of 77 we turned into illuminated worlds. I have tchaikovsky Antennas tremble 4 a.m., too late, incessant Dawn of words Gray fog I sit in a plate, spin it completely I haven’t drunk since yesterday I have countless combinations want also to recognize cinema Day whispers so quiet unnecessary and incessantly you sighed Sensually into intimate excess I haven’t drunk since yesterday I have combinations I have trumpets Something sometimes somewhere I AM cigarette coffee lips corpse fright, ancient paths resounded turned into highways resembling the moon blinking at each other serpentines of days and such days and still others slowly bedding of a sea beast drunken demon half-burned wedged between centuries for centuries I haven’t slept for centuries seas of larvae when they speak of scentless air I still have a bed of tchaikovsky Where roofs end, darkness begins retreating from her cigarette Cool breeze with flame, with snow Dance Sing Bargain for your own ass at the Market of Freaks...

And so the verses of the peripheries flow through the dead January sky proclaiming to all the gray silent dawn. Above the city, beneath the city, and beyond it – gray silent dawn. Somewhere on the tracks a dog whines...