speaking in tongues
scribbling in voices

anna glazova


Translated by Mx

the exhibition / die ausstellung

in 10 years you'll be back to degas
you'll stand near a toulouse-lautrec
and the skin will creep green with chartreuse again
you'll drink raw perrier
thinking over
the ways of retreat
with your naked sculls
to paris
and bordeaux
no you'll never get back in the midst of the ocean
you'll go under off calais
persuading yourself that it's better in here than
back home up that wild river of mine
or with your calamari
the way of retreat
for us naked
with mad seawater


setting a sign
the trenchant the clear
absense of viewing appliances
it loses taste
this board; it is
just a sign
sealing a sign the sigil the stamp the wax
sign script flies off forming
to an accidental jam and a complete
tactility that's why the vision is much better
smells of postal wax
smeared with the meaning of the word
handle with care

your fall

bread and butter
the bottle board
the crooked fish hump
the foliage
it's turning colder
it faints
(four platters)
the black
the bargaining the slashed finger
the piece of cardboard
the journey within
through the fog
what are you doing
writing to the point
what do you remember
the empty purse
the clouds sit down on your shoulders
with their sweaty asses
the cold perspiration

* * *

it inflamed
and never went away
with the third palate
this pain insane
claws at the clavicle
the rib is all punctured
the eye of the syringe needle is stuck
and has left the thread in the bone marrow
the aorta is fractured
the cardiac cracked
the drug
bind my hands up like splints
put my tongue on as a taenia
transfuse my blood
group zero
and you'll see
you'll see
it will close up without a trace

* * *

something has doubled up within
rounded up
wrapped up in blood corpuscles
i'm shooting pool
almost a ball myself
the red
the white
under the light strokes
someone's hand
will sink it
and i will bounce
in the bag
and roll out
into the white long-butt

* * *

ripping into
the pulp
choking into
the pauses
tighter than the
speed of sound
the speed and the speed and the speed
clear over-
the voice and your voice and your voice
breezes into
the point of destination
only a second late


the knees are askew the herbivore grass.
the clothes on the smooth knees
with their knees upturned the cheeks of the smooth shore are
above the gripeful of shore
the light above the bent (the grass) band,
above the aft the lake (by boats)
with the grass to the smooth the green of the vein
the face like a knee an abdomen
reflected in the glass block
is the brick (of the ribcage) breast
the light from the left is blocking
that falls on the left (the glass) retina
(its heart is vitreous and the lake shudders)
upward to the knees the faraway (to the shore)
taken apart are the bonecages (the abdomen) of the plants to the smooth bare bones
the lake rolled the thirteen ashore
(out of light) to roll the bones with the shore
into your feet as the green grass vein i'll inwork (inwork)

* * *

where the hair crawl the hair
when the fingers come down when the fingers
unclench the sun the sun the sun
and fall and fall the blood
when it's named by the voice the voice
you won't hold on no longer longer
when it's hardly torn by the crop the crop
and the bones and the bones and the bones
and the road runs by
the seed tastes bitter
and the bread need the bread
and to drink with the dry lips
and the bones and the bones and the bones the bones
and the bones and you know bit by bit
they unclasp by the crop
the dreams fall the dreams you weep the dreams

* * *

the blue blaze
the nerves are burning
(white is the ashes
of blood;
red is the root
of the lung)
blue blue blazing flame
the yellow waters
the tight ribs
the sky has fallen
(the pain is the head
of blood;
black is the rain
of the lung)
the smoke
the moth
dances of the deranged moth
the yellow lamp
is also unsound
(the moth is the rust
of blood;
the blood is the word
from the lung)
the rain of ashes
the ashes of water
the nerves of flame
the i of you

* * *

up the stairwell
in the dark cellar
at the dank attic
in the basement in the bathroom
on the floor and in the bed
and down the stairwell
along the banister
the air lashes from the apertures
in the floor in the bed
the air is punctured and mute
deaf is the moist banister
blind is the attic opening
on the floor and in the bed
the drill is whining glaringly
o cramping
o o cramping
o the drill is whining.
the stairs are groaning hollow
the drilling falls into the tub
splashing water around
the air is moaning
stepping with a sleeping sole
on the floor and in the bed
o cramping o glaringly oh so glaring
it blinds with its sound
this mute stairwell downfall

* * *

like a corkscrew it's plunging into the glowing red cork
this bottle of wine and the glass is agleam the jellylike level.
viscid sands on the coastline are setting against the ocean intestines.
softly muscose weeds on the boulders that used to lie naked are roiling the waters.
black and burning inhaling the sparks burning calmly and firm
you pick out a splinter pensively placing it in the palm of the sand.
plunging into the palm like a blue blowing well you will also slather this scalding liquid
that you'll spill from your wine with the jellylike glistening bottle.
by the bitter and harrowing body it will burst out with not so much not so much moon but
roiling with the black naked reverie body spiralling into the vortex.
the lake.
cutting short
this green surface
with the sharp breath
i will skewer
the body
spilling like bottle like funnel the wine writhing not so much moon not a splinter
not the pain not the floor of the ocean glistening with flame you will spill and again
by the white by the black by the green by the jelly this corkscrew setting against the mosses viscidly
splitting like ocean like lake you pour out like the bottle roping the well the wine and the wax
and blood-red

forgive me jesus

by the grater by the scourer by the rasp by the wire wool by the emery grit
holy moly by what else by the nail file
empurpling this larval carpet of pale flesh
with the scobs of the rancid skin burnt again and again
on and on i file the thick talon of the empty station without oh god
rasping (repeating) the surfaces of the obdurate finger
yeah the finger the fucking digital infixed in my ribs and what for??
forgive me jesus.
a prayer like this.
by a weird hand
now I'll turn over the cornea with the gearwheel palm i'll scope the chitin
the crankleg bat will roughly sit on my mouth and
scrunch this talon in the middle of the face to smithereens
jesus to hell jesus: who needs a prayer like this?
by hand
no, anew: by the scrubbly black bristle you'll abrade the fucking
cornea altogehter the iris will unstick even without the varnish remover
the maggots of the flesh will sprawl will devour your my body jesus and take me lord
a prayer like this
forgive me

* * *

from the palm of the hand
the palm stretches out
with the slippery
liquid salt
the palm
from the palm
is the
whole salt
(the whole:
the palm
to the palm
is drawn by
the liquid salt
the sea
washes the
by the liquid
the palm
the snow


like a quicksilver ball it rolls and drops into the blaze and dissolves in the flame woahh!!
balling and rolling steeply down slipping sliding along the leg knocking the naked knee
and oh!
away with the waist-line oo stumbling up above the knee it will flex on the line this is the
up the hip it faulters poignantly over the sweepingly bare skin yoyo ! (upcast, yep)
the cannon-bone
booming and
unveiled to all the hair
the orbicular yoyo slowly into her wriggling chsh into hyoyor womb whirligiggling yieh!
sparkling crackling growing in volume yoyo (eh rolling up to eh her eye)
reek of the pyre
frequently misfiring acridly and
into chsh into hyor chsh
into her
balking and breaking apart with cramps or terry vulvety swinging low groping up up and broader!
higher up in clots and moss it curdles this yoyo and hurts oh in beats against fingers th-this-s eh.

the cells

6 in the morning, as usual.
in the beginning there was a dog scream in the street. the seat.
the place fixation, orienting myself on location
of the empty hand. the empty hand without a hand, empty
this sober 6 in the morning. six. six-six. six-six.
sheathing the sixth about you into the hand, faltering,
orienting myself on location of your voice
six, as usual, in the morning. indeterminately.
a weak attempt at the finale a scream of the dog, a seat, in the morning.
depressing a tree-trunk with my forehead. no place, seats-seats.
the morning by six three hundred seats, three hundred empty seats,
the broken geometry seeks for a hand, a guide, a sixth corner,
but all those three hundred unoccupied places around the hand, the Hund, that empty
hand of yours those three hundred empty seats like revenge give the residue
the empty morning
the fallen tree
six-sided hand red cells

* * *

with a smear of black bedded at the deepest bottom
of the red and blind tissue faintly gleamy with pores
growing over with the thin yet mucous the feeble pale vessel
a pinprick in the dark in the black in the red dark in the white in
the dark in the dark watered down the dark diluted with blood
the stab the jab slightly off to the left from the core here i decide to
install the heart. with a faint smear of red in the weak oxide blue the heart is
thinned in the saltest is red.
the heart is here
and here is the heart
and here, the heart
the heart in the acid salt in the blue fluid half-red
the heart has lain to the bottom
here i decide
to stop it
it has taken the lowest red bottom
only even there it will be reached
it will be licked by the red
the point is red already
with the salt of the heart it will thin out turning blue
rolling into a wad leaving a trace
into the whitish blue oxidized light
the heart is extracted with needles and blind is the gleaming
of the dead unlived tissue

* * *

the acrid air is rustling in the carbonated heart
the arcanum of your veins
the gas thin gas of the skin and the eyes of the skin the pores
the air exchange between
ascending with the alchemy of the stone
thrown into the vas of the vessel
a ground-in cork and compressed gas
an electric flask
the vial of you

* * *

the ring of the wineglass splinters the sun into multiple shards and the sun is shot down.
the sea fissures whispering testing the wasser in steps without tasting in vain yet the wine
disappears from the reminiscences longsomely longitidally lifting the table?
spinning quiver legs of the desnuda stool
of the stool that emerges from the circumrotated viscidity of the pelvis and the splat
hauled on its back floats down by the singed ailing drain.
like a uselessly chromocrippled splotch the split crawls across and occults
in the glaringly colored slit in the belle of the stool.
intercepting the split with the straw you i tear the stinghairs of wine with our lips
from a single wineglass leg of the denuded stool
on the wrack of the cast-down sun
from the grace of feminine delicate stool legs that are rigidly resonant
the little joists' ringing nude flesh there erects and the house by the sea

like a fish

i'm coming ashore
through the water bewitched
i come on shore
on the beach from the water
at the wide shore front
i step out of my skin chewed up outpouring the shores of the shore
and i flood
the leathern shore
i come out of it
like a cruel chalicehead
a humanflower
a desperabloom
gutted out
from under the skin in the pit of the stomach
with the cochleare
the goady

the photosynthesis

reacting to dust with the frequent skin
(misty pollen has hazed the ligula in the porcellaineous flower-cup)
filling the fruit of the pupil with dust to the brim
(flower ligula)
responding to the dream of the pale china skin
of the bodyflower
a string of porcelain has tied itself up the knot of the angle the pupil
(globule of the fruit)
the porcelain cupthroat by the fruit-stalk nucleus
(it tickles the dust of farina that got through the mouth)
the humanskin the pale pupil and the red fruitbed
(floriferous haze)
is blooming with the green saltdust oozing with palewater
(into the hollow of mouth viscid)
the photosynthesis

* * *

rising like a cloud above the singe of the grey house
the truncated hookup loses its last nail
its last sense
suzanne is twisted with her cannon-bone out
falling into the gerontopool
the thirteenth rib poked out
everted the empty womb of lucretia
and dragged by the tide to the windows
a decayed unripe fruit
(from diaries and useless the artificial respiration
a quarter of the omphalos gill
an oar of the golden section
the mocksection
to row
it has cracked and the leak
arising sunny side up over the cellar dump damp
new unrealizable substantive unsubstantiated
it didn't come down come together
leviathans with knives cut the beauties in a civilized way
someone hastily strangles himself by the window
the tide brings the cannon-bone with a bullet-hole straight to the feet
salome is diving from the phobotower somersaulting morosely with freezed-out arms

the femiecosentiment

in snatches from the cover to the chapter of epilogue
the pain moves to tears a sentimental novel
you rub a drop thoroughly into the skin of the pubes.
the sumptuous hips of eyre chatterley
are swinging in yellow muslin in the chilly air.
the countess is running creating erotics of breeze on the run
and she cries and she weeps and, trainlike, behind her
from under her skirts there the viscid yellow tears drag.
the countess is running creating the streams and the ponds
eyre runs to break up the armour of English brontomarshes
the exclusively damp shadow of her flowing skirt
and her tangled up legs is covering with its exquisite hand
the bonnet weakly and elegantly lifted from her small head
and the countess falls down on her run and she runs like a yellow puddle ecologic
spitting out dandruffs and like peat from under her skirts
some uncovered male heads are surfacing.

new religion

the midnight astral sky is full of skull
the eyelid is rising like the third moon and the eye lights
through the organic of the daylight nightmare
the grass
the moon
the horn
something's falling like an earring of the crescent stabbling stabbing
the black field of the pupil lowers like a circle moon into the furrow
the crescent pierces the crucified friction of the earth and the brain
and the stigma nipple opens up.
the milk
malt of the moon
the milky greenish cast on the water
the plants are filled with monotheism and cranium and trauma
and tearing apart like
black milk and coal
the protocrucifix with bashed skull is rising on the moon

the temperature

the broad-leaved cover the mungo over the head
was munched by a woollen animal from your mouth
the whisper
the whisper
the whisper
the whisper
from the mouth there
the blanken
the heat has struck it seems like three at night or seven of the day
the seven of the day
seven of the day
the time
thirty eight
it's seven the time to sow for the time to sew with a needle in hand
to plant a pont like an orchard over the river the gardenbrain
puncturing the orchardearth with the needle warily
with the needle
through the hand
the whisper
by the hand
by the hand
by the hand
by the needle
with the blanket please cover me over me
to turn the orb
into the punctured turf to drop
the seed by hand
by the hand
by the needle
thirty seven of the day
the orb crab
you're my orb crab tree