#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