Off the Wild Poles of Love Games

by Martin Solotruk

Off the Wild Poles of Love Games

Off the wild poles of love games lives a little wolf,

generator of energy—nature

that brings us to a shop

to choose from the abstract

designs of human coexistence

a sweet Lego-house to suit

us all, each from their own perspective,

from a different correlation of the swirled

thinking matter

wound like a funnel

into a reactive moment,

habitable in time,

from the swirled stairs

through a warm twisted blanket

to a picture drawn

by three hands at a time

in repetition, overpainting

and picture decomposing

of three motions, independent,

yet hopefully coordinative

movements, climaxing in a common

although polyphonic

song of myself of a butterfly, a titan

and a siren.


With nature and for common prosperity

you chose a baking tin.

You brought it together with glue

in a transparent,

somewhat extraterrestrial wrapping —

my son, who’s been guiding me from life

to life, is already stretching it in his fingers

and putting it in the opening of various frames

of a film about cosmic adhesion

of stretchable pictures,

between fingers,

where for long something perceptible

lingers from re-switching

galactic correlations

of the abstract fiber

that we emit

for each other’s sake,

and yet we’re all innocent.


I love both him and you.

But the explanation will

probably always be just an attempt

at coordination:

we keep on playing,

we turn off the lights three times:

he and I, the two of us, he and you.


A voice comes

to one in the dark,

said Beckett once,

and we understand him,

in a frame of mind between two

overlapping windows,

two electric horns

wound into a mass

thinking in quantities,

with double



with two alarm clocks wound up

for different stories.


You uncover the tensions

— Jesus Spiderman,

you rescue by

weaving and glueing

yet you yourself are flying,

you create abysses

out of the huge swinging

of your own rhythm,


but sometimes you manage

to send and synchronise

the safety amplitude

of return to a solid point,

which won’t turn numb,

but will call for new action,

beautifully holistically


the only one that lets you bounce off

in the vacuum,

in weightlessness amidst

the messy particles,

in the busy life between

electromagnetic poles


What kind of inner secretion

should be the bonding matter

of the outsides?

What gust

is bringing

the beautiful blue planet

to float

within reach?

While still in bed

with a single idea you join

the reprosystems of air —

you tune the radio to what otherwise

you cannot release in your head.


In live broadcast

we’re moving together

in an old inertial

automodule with a slipper,

until the peace keepers

come with some still visibly

vibrantly twirled

cool matter

in one cone

of shared ice cream,

which they will offer us

so we may see

how differently cold we are.

© Martin Solotruk, translated by Zuzana Starovecká