#indierock #darkjazz

I’m on pointe in Béjart’s dreams

all in Stanislavsky, a bouquet of roses

for a firefighter’s face, but there is no fire here

here a symbiosis of dreams and reality was in bloom

In dusk‑skinned Gibraltar

you and I were swallowing words,

all tangled in the blanket,

what is whose and where it’s sticking out.

And Barcelona was swaying

and was graciously listening

to a bosom beating into a bosom

without foreplay and without protection.

I’m on pointe in Béjart’s dreams

all in Stanislavsky, a bouquet of roses

for a firefighter’s face, but there is no fire here

here a symbiosis of dreams and reality was in bloom

But it started smelling from the Venices

of the weariness of secretions,

of the salt of unending lectures,

who is the harlot, who the blabbermouth.

And in paling Warsaw

we shivered without a shawl,

didn’t breathe at each other,

went our separate ways –

one to the woods,

one at a gallop.

I’m on pointe in Béjart’s dreams

all in Stanislavsky, a bouquet of roses

for a firefighter’s face, but there is no fire here

here a symbiosis of dreams and reality was in bloom