< Almost Paradise

Roman Opałka (Polish, 1931-2011), The Execution

(Oh Elise) it doesn’t matter what you do
i know i’ll never really get inside of you
to make your eyes catch fire
the way they should
the way the blue could pull me in
if they only would

at least i’d lose this sense of sensing something else
that hides away
from me and you
there’re worlds to part
with aching looks and breaking hearts
and all the prayers your hands can make
oh i just take as much as you can throw
and then throw it all away
oh i throw it all away
like throwing faces at the sky
like throwing arms round
i stood and stared
wide-eyed in front of you
and the face i saw looked back
the way i wanted to
but i just can’t hold my tears away
the way you do


Pablo Picasso


any man who’s seen

the faithful — and,

by what I mean a lownecked

fabric trickled down your chest —


knows the square footage

of your presence

up until they reach your brittled shoulders,

where inasmuch as your

smile can send them 

a gazed for something

tangible, mindlessly

disobeying the motion

of their hands

as they touch,


and what she thinks of as

a gesture surely is mistaken

as something in

the breaths

you cautiously 



Mario Pucic