Frowning in Half-life
You say I’m always frowning,
But in my mind
I’m only running about
amidst everything that I’ve been watching.
I’m running away from it
like a runner on air
before clouds that are coming together.
to convince you
that I’m not frowning
— surely not when making love.
It’s beginning to upset me.
I’m frowning because I can’t
get rid of the feeling
that sometimes we flow so rapidly
that we come to nothing more than a secret
commercial of ourselves.
Visible only in every
fraction of time smaller
than our brain could ever imagine.
That we’re flowing so rapidly
we can feel our half-life.
And all we want is to concentrate
and stay concentrated.
Make love and listen to the washing machine,
to its endless program,
the rhythm of vitality
of the simplest things,
which sometimes comes knocking at our head,
— iconoclasm of frowning
against solar frowns,
protuberances of atomic pairs,
protuberances of nuclear families,
a huge sturdy NO of the robustness
of ordinary reality.
It’s the breath of free ions
that breezes from the frowning.
That’s what’s creating the architecture
of these protuberances,
the protuberances of a dark body
which is so intently getting rid of the dirt of doubts
with the final strain on the lightness
of breath and a petty grumble
uncertain what to do with the free radicals,
with minimal risk of implosion.
I’m peeling off
The frowning of permeable skin.
from the old one into a new.
It’s the frowning I come rising from.
From frowning under which it’s bright.
That’s what transports me
making me ever subtler.
I’m frowning as if in a column of dust,
which (you’re the one knows this best)
we’ll never disperse completely.
I’m not leaving in it, here I just,
sometimes timidly, yet
land in your eyes
or behind your back
I land here
and I stay with you.
Tell me now, am I still frowning?
© Martin Solotruk, translated by Zuzana Starovecká