graphnumbersConfused in code numbers
I stand before the enigmatic
“Iron-bound oak door with the plaster of Medusa head”
and after a few failed combinations
the hard shell cold latch kernel reaches the boiling point,
finally cracks
popping the door quantum vacuum of risky ventures.
Ready to leave this cagy scene fast,
running after scattered seeds of clues
while kicks in the copy of staccato memory with a bruise
of a hypnotic stranger personality path,
“Move me swiftly through the rising tension,
stretch tight streets into a maze of winning math
warrior skills, don’t lose me in doubts of inner dissension” .

Gazing, determined as on the new mission task
through the fractured magic city square
Glazed with the cathedral noon bells
bursting in pigeons fly
This chase leads me finally to the dark dead end street question
–Have I ever been here before?–
The flash simile of this city stinks on a trap;
I know, I am again on a long, long run
sensing mole’s stalking, sneaky eye
behind the cherub’s statue on the other side of the boulevard.

The identity riddle speaks
like a trained polyglot with no mother tongue,
the memory path is a wondrous puzzle to me and my former double,
and despite all punctured ends of who am I
there is a sense of freedom,
the face without the anonymous cover-up;
all I need, I have:
Few passports and the name as a thread
that takes me back to the plot of an unfinished story,
which fixed script
has been just changed and it seems like a hunt.
I sense, I smell, I know the treason.


Too many white blanks
and a hunger to chew all pieces in one swallow
before the lid explodes:
Why I still remember rocket cluster bombs
pouring screams on Blue City in the high noon?
Somewhere between blanks
I see the wounded arabesque figure,
Something like the ballet dancers’ shoes filled with blood?
I was in the safe house before the rockets’ blast,
just about to get lunch…
Someone close to me died on the steps trying to escape this horror blow,
but I do not remember who was the fellow any more ……
Have I killed the guy?
Why I vividly see some remote city ruins on the Danube river
and still smell
the stink of corpses floating away down the river stream?
Who are the faces I am seeing?
The line of children and elderly refuges
leaving their dwellings with a handful of plastic bags?
Why I feel burning colors of the Mediterranean city under the fire and siege–
The sirens, the chaos, and the hurling of million killer rockets–
Where does the flashback matrix come from?
And the worst of all, somewhere behind scattered boiling marvels popping on a surface of the sea
I am stunned by the flame scene–six boys struck on the shore
and shredded by the rocket shrapnel bursts while holding in hands only their fathers’ shot-guns—
Defending the only city they know from the crushing army coup d’état.
Where are all of these images coming from?


The biggest danger is in my ruptured split
known to the plasma mirror cell that targets every single move of mine.
Unknown ploy behind every corner seems to be known to me,
known flashes of pistol shots from the past vanishes as never happened:
It is like a child staring at the outer black space
who wants to climb the ladder to a safe house
but there is a missing link from the compass
and I cannot reach the memory rainbow that cuts the sky of knowledge in two halves,
where in a spark of the moment one side drowns before the vast time eye
and ironically drips the lost continuum sand in the hour-glass.
Is this empty gap between the two minds
caused by someone smashing my had against the wall too many times?


You remember once being a fragment of some episodic thriller movie
Perhaps, the major actor in one play act,
But you don’t know any longer the plot, the script, or a movie name.
Still, the instincts work well modulated through
Saturated synthetic air signals and frequency pulses shooting through my body,
And they lead me directly to this new plot I am yet to be eliminated image on the screen,
the new tragic anti-hero,
The hunk of flesh left for vulture’s feast in the backwater prairie place.


Stand to the task and let go of the empty past image trap–
The instinct module leads me to her arms:
the bundle of blushing innocence unknown to me,
pure Marie—so precious in sincerity that I have never known at all.
I am back in my one day hero movie-star mood,
Winning is losing the whole game for better times to come
And although I stand before the circling square again
I’ve learned how to love and be a simple man–
This is the alchemy bliss of true minds.

Deleuze, “Mirrors”

Deluze, "Mirrors"






A sense of time is in its nature filmic and poetic. Time is an image of an inner freedom viewd through prism of mirrors. Time is the way how we interpret and create realities around us. (Rayka, final thoughts on why I wrote this poem.)

Inspirations, works of Gilleze Deleuze, especially his interpreation of film and time:






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