hladová zeď

The ancient Soviet pipes,
Left the water tasting
Strongly of Iron
from the kitchen sink.

The old TV tower, like a monolith
Alien in the sky over
The Jewish quarter,
And the medieval city.
The cluttered old cemetery.

Night bus like a chariot.
They’ll sell you water
For a few Crowns, but coffee is free.

My home is somewhere far off,
An old house near but not on
The coast. Where it is quiet most days,
And nothing spits waves high above the trees.
There is no hunger wall, no old fortification,
Climbing the hill.

When the shock wore off,
My boot socks had worn through
Leaving blisters on my feet.
I can still taste moldy cheese,
The day after I left.
Like broadcasts set high into the stratosphere,
Linger in the air
Of decades and centuries prior.
Or at least, so says my guidebook
Of the Charles Bridge.

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Brno

When you realize, the new sense-
By the neon light-
Of the sex shop sign,
and the Soviet era tram system
grinds along steel lines.

Strange shock for the foreign frontier,
Where I came to purge the untrue self, or just as well
Rattle him.

Close your eyes, and think of England.
Isn’t that what was said before they were shot
With soviet made ammunition?

The back of the skull.
Former BLOC. Midnight bus
Through the lives of others.
8:15 exactly. Start the bus. Start again
Homeward west.
Start again.IMG_0187