Durch by Alan Zhukovski

Can you show me the way to the black moon? Хитрая крыса на вершине раины. Guinness. Impossible. Anything is possible, and the world was made for you and I, no, just for me. Can you be, can’t you? What are you talking about, sitting there on a tree? Do you mean that you are just the bravest rat in the world? Raining freedom. Simply glücklich. Неймовірно. Я бажаю бути. Servant of the crown. The state of myself. I’m falling off the edge of the world into the fruitful pit of my consciousness. Into the pit. Windy storm. Electric lights-no breach. The breach of etiquette. Stormy rainy day destroying the stupid and ridiculous electric-light-ideas. Have you been? Where? No matter. Have you been? The soft and arable moonlight opposing the electricity of human Spannung. Who are you, the lonely creator of eternally whitish light in the lungs of freedom? Been you, hito? Yes. My body’s nothing more than my thought itself. The feet of my height are growing from the greenish neat lungs of my ki. The lonely kitten walking on a broken leafless branch of a crazy poplar. Come on, my spiritual neko, staring at the abyss of greenish knives between the lines of the sunset. The wind is constantly saying you are likely to fall. But you won’t fall. Because you are not gonna fall, and you know that. I can see you through my eyes. It is a breakthrough. Thorough. Durch. Across. Насквозь. Через. Я прорезаю. The bunjingish eyes of the evening. Yes, I’m thinking in many languages. I have a silver tongue to pray to myself. How many subtly decisive, electric, heavy, jumpy words to say. They are blown away by the drops of zahlreiche images. How is it possible to express’ em? Експресом. Я знаю багато слів. They are falling like summer rain, like a waterfall of chestnut leaves. Die Quelle. The sharp end of my pen. Ame. Ama. Silver moonshine yuki. The serzce of the blunt-ish and equally grell-ish sunset. Come on, you lovers of the rain. I can be just anywhere. The freedom at the tips of my fingers. Lips. Lips are moving, but I CAN hear what they say. The desire to have anything. Why not? I see a leaf at the poplar top. Why can’t I touch it? The wind ain’t right. Hier war ich. Immer. Nein, ich ward. An image of Bill Ward is slipping away. It is hiding beneath and between... what? The lips of raining drops, which are drumming. They are hitting the roof. The concert hall of my spirit is gonna raise the roof and blow it away. No limits. Only the sound of drums. It is the only sign of Bill being here. He is. Er ward. Er wird... I’m everywhere, in any time and any place. Tear down the wall of common limitations on the way of the raining freedom-no heavy drops. Cannot I touch the tree? Чому ні? Yes, it is warm, and soft, and very tall. It’s gonna cover me and it’s gonna protect and defend. The tree. What is it? Who is it? Me. The leaves are kissing the drops. It’s a collection of desperate love stories. But the drops are being constantly resurrected. They fly to heaven and fall again to be kissed only once. But the poplar remembers and keeps’em. A boy-cat is sleeping. He is confident. His consciousness is kissing the lips of numerous dreams. He’s a hunter. Inkan. Shijin. Sara. Куди себе діти? Я не хочу його турбувати. Кіт. Keine Spannung. The electricity’s fading away between the leaves of a poplar, between the crazy lines of the broken sunset.

Author bio:

Alan Zhukovski's poetry, art and fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in "MiPOesias", "elimae", "Foundling Review", "Kerouac's Dog", "Snow Monkey", "Liebamour" and around 10 other American/British magazines.