Seek the Upside Eyes, There are Two.

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Seek the Upside Eyes, There are Two. is a striking existentialist and surrealist poetry collection written by an autistic 21-years old Slovak poet depicting the polarity of hope, new beginnings and melancholy, along with strong themes of seeking freedom, feminity, love and painful uncertain healing.
First 10 Pages

Old beach

South sound recalls how blind air relishes on young bones. Observation of screaming eyes cradle on crowns of dead fish, treewool dancers disregard past earthly occurrences that life is braided by uneven hand when you can just set the hair free.

Look, the smoke is rising up from dead shoulders. Sweaty women, seraphine, they were the frozen sea, calling, stolen withless pulling the horns of childhood by rotten teeth. We just wanted to live somehow although it came from the lack of love.

Some pig sold him strychnine. Pigs… are better with salt. The beach is better alive. It’s so very easy to get attached and walk the plank way bricked by pigeon and chicken feathers to the cottage of calm dull kitchens. Feet. Knees. Stomach. Heart. Head. Crown. Wake up. Get up, it’s the unraveled tule of Sunday’s white.

How to kill Goethe

Do not let your brunette locks freeze. I will cover you in a still white coat of acryl paint, I will pay for the olives and walk you home.

The leering distance of my soul is haunting the pleasurehouse – this is exactly what happens when you look your reflection in the eye.

“Have you ever seen this man?”

I have. Who hasn’t? We used to know why am I doing this but I forgot.

I forgot the olive yards. The yards I have forgotten

levitate somewhere in the sudden aggression of summer storm.

“Once more. You just need to walk this road one last time and you will be set free.”

No longer do I recall words or acts:

I just dreamt that salvation for me has come and then I fell through the floor into hell.

He cannot reach me through time. “No, I have not seen this man.”

I am my own person now.

His harrowing back no longer bents above me for shelter like the calculus of drearily tender parts of brain...

See me caress through flames:

I am the hell itself.


We’d done a lot

to flee their mistreatment.

Should I reinvent

the hollow caged bird?

Somersaults in the gym

scraped the skin

and rubber.

Loose pipes play like church’s bells.

The morrowhail of August 1961

Firecrackers in houses, fields, brooks.

It urges us to wear the curtains like an ethereal gown for goddess.

We had a math teacher named Katherine Dee. Everyone was very mean to her.

Fleshy calves of rooves and drowsing pixie Anemone, and the rain.

The iron thaw slaughtering midday-planted tomatoes in yogurt pots like an imaginary friend who doesn’t love you.

You never know when to stop drinking.

Deluded, delusional fever...

Forget; the aridity of my hurdle to sustain might be the spell of this city.

Morrowhail keeps infecting the wounded brawls of trying dawn stained by time

and evening shadows; yours I was, am today and will tomorrow.

Muse of the radio

to E. S.

Heavy are heavens, generous are hours of nothing for the road home is not so long from the integrity of stars. Disordered teacups fathom their beaten saucers in a proud goose lie: your fast train had only two wagons.

Am I thinking about what I am to see? Yet I know exactly, poor ascesis, rope entwoeing you through legs and madhouse pursuit, I am to meet my very own tuberculosis Marína. My very own drunken Adela Ostrolúcka. I see eldrichly little whereas my heart beats slowly always as if closing to death caused by inadequately large knowledge that there is not much difference between dreams and lucidity of days, yet the peacefulness that all thoughts are forgotten when we’ll sleep in dirt or when we’ll just sleep. Everyone with empathy and somewhat of talent can express a true form of sorrow, yet what geniality does it take to profoundly awaken read joy? Must the two, blackness and the sun within, be coexistent, the hope must live through times of sadness, the misery must caress the light body of brightness.

Hippies on heroin, leather academic approval and starvation on royalties, sleeping oily in deserts – still I am writing poems to you. I had to travel to the hometown to visit a doctor, even drunk from the last night I vomited on a carriage entering. The doc said I cannot drink anymore. It might be my true death, true this time, he said. I am replacing it with a lot of coffee and I usually eat twice a day, nonetheless it had been an experience almost orgasmic, almost martyring, to sense my cells dying, dissolving my consciousness, you know, too, Erik.

As eternally sun’s lips awaken, moving as if something that can laugh, that has skin and bones like us, feeling your scent under its nails.


Ruminated roominghouse along sheared skins, shaved with intents of spanks for feeding pupils relenting the snow dust. I notice people sweeping their cottages, allocating their thresholds in irregular dust circles, full of spreading earhthaggard balls and men playing cello, praying for vodka. I notice people, I know I’ll go to heaven when I die.

This boy in the front cannot cage his sight of me, he is mealing them on my revealed tan and my yolks with whites. Funny how he doesn’t know what am I. How I forever plea: “Do not shut the blinds. I want to look at the trees.”

Some new observations

There are warts on my right forearm although I cut them out last winter, and the kites are in the sky although they were merciless this autumn. They would brush the lakes with their body hair in five-hour rations until blue bows of girls fled lost in triangles that dark forests weren’t able to translate.

No. I am not good at this game. You reply: “Don’t worry. It’s nothing serious, we’ll teach you. Please, at least try. It’s even less serious than coffee or racehorses.” Then you are angry when I suck at it. I am not playing games ever again, with you nor with anyone else!

Rain attacks wildflower innocence and vigorous wolves howl locked in strawberry sewers. Cigarettes never tasted good except for the beauty of preschool children riding bikes from sidewalk to sidewalk and elderly couples eating ice cream in a tranquil slow movement, dusk-swallowed, on riviera, and weed-weaved hair of virgins with a healthy smile of soon redfoliage, return of eternal self.

Cemetery strawberries, November strawberries. what’s the time, dry showing branches, heavy red apples withering on the highest ones? Cholera, dryness of sparrows, they are not seen. I don’t remember that story, I remember a rusty pot tossed in thorns and a flash of teeth, the color of sky, woods below and the touched tone of your cold hand carrying an umbrella whilst it didn’t rain. You’re like a meadow. Grass. Dew. Cow. Sublime wines paying dearly for Jesus’ years, stripped, milked, enticing and exfoliated in various hues of death shook in alone naughtly roams and cries for East: Death, my death, this August sprinkling water is a part of every American household.

Ancient beasts

The curl in the window stands there mellow, perceiving a small-town burlesque of reconciling hunger. The even was of more gaiety than all the medallions of his tender hands as he looks for me only in my mind like a dream car in the sea.

Is it wrong to describe pictures drawn in the encyclopedia of Chimeras? Attempting to rhyme on my rubber legs about the embodiment of someone or something that has existed during the long age for not so long and seeking it everywhere like a treasuredeemed imagination... soul shining in a dead spark and time in a beige tint.

Oh, you, standing upon doors that never open in a black coat wooden grace and ginger ballet. The neighbors are complaining because your thoughts are too loud for them. And hazels flowered that each one of us has million eyes: the muse was asleep in the deepest realization of vomit. I shook its shoulder to show her as you vanished through the keyhole.

Bury me under a question mark where the muses are never loved. We just juice them for art of their body and of their soul.

Who’d read poetry in an industrial city?

to You

This might be the thing that will kill you.

But what hasn’t been? What has, yet, killed me? Everything just happens to wound, moreover when I witness my death I may still speak by the memory of red plants climbing station gates. I had so many loves that I anymore cannot persevere love in its true kind. Who would even love in this industrial city? There are no sonnets. Only skulls.

There have been many wars. In a blanket of mold I survived everything.

And you are alive, your locks mirror rhythm of pulse. You keep tying them up for in a deep sleep everyone lingers. Brief hellos drink surprise of warm barbiturate songs, there is nothing other to be freed than violent murders of thinking.

Innocence has stanched you by accident’s piercing flight, lumbering, seeking why your windows hide before the crime of the deep tarns which had to fashion before my weary eyes.

Should I have reveried of white carnation flower brawls – carnations live very shortly.

A single red rose in a trashcan

Restricted wind

killed the fly

on a lid

of my eye.

The insect flew over my sight

as I opened for the satin light

of my newly born existence.

Your father’s guitar

By square walks of a masked night

a ghost was known of me.

It stepped beneath sunflowers and fields

in a reason of why it seeks,

what it seeks

until someone spoke to it.

I said: “I loved.

I loved where the young spring of war hit my mundane life

and I heard the man on the radio.”

You cannot really stop it when you’re falling off of a cliff.

Cloudy greens of fragile hearts,

after death there seems to be nothing to feel.

Only people to awe

by the music of old wheels

pondering from shallow depths to wishes,

fierce stabbing driven by fate.

It wasn’t a murder but a bitter-ended dream

that once I felt to belong.

Teenage rage

Nightlit derelict buildings spinning like a rose on silver, that is the beauty of sweat and hunger.

Would you say that the true fruit of life resides so close to its border?

Parted joys of that strange segmentation surely uncalled pleasant – could it be the peak of experience, the peak of human perception, in its blueness and obsession, aesthetically thorough? Ephemeral, unknown titles, saint for unperception and remembered only by uncertain memories that it is, haunting me still. Unexistent love which swam away by runninng youth, a dream of young breath that wants to consume everything physical, harowed either way of receiving or not. During and after, for the lost linger.

Awake theatre

Gems beneath slumbering dust on a sewing machine

on the behalf of catatonic mystery.

It was full.

Symbols of youth

and deadly exhaustion,

awake and threatening by its founds towards wounded poems.

Come pay a visit!

We have a hanging stripper,

if you get lost a seagull will carry you home.

The dolls are tonight playing soldiers

and the soldiers are playing meadowbirds,

and I am playing

the jester.

Carpet beater

I was to beat dusty carpets with a carpet beater until I unrolled one of them. There was a simple funnel with a large ball inside. It reminded me of lungs, the ball would glow and change colors every time I breathed in hence I assumed it was a living creature, I took a closer look: Attic shoes shine like supernovas, by the fireplace we sit. Everyone does something else. I write as secret misdeeds lie with spread legs behind the consciousness. You look at me with your eyes and I feel like a child bored by May cottages getting Catcher in the Rye for birthday. It’s like some canvas of hope to be allowed to sink into your soul without a trace.

Too much. Too little. The houses without eyes breathe and bathe in a tank of beer like wild honey dripping down the ears of everything that will never happen. The bathroom had a view downhill. One could easily fall to death. Yet to feel and to deem is not the same: landscapism is a series of chemical reactions that either make a living disaster or the best thing ever. I threw the carpet away, oh, tender, secluded hell.


The bells toll on the bottom of the pool and mockingbirds ring in the ears.

Day and night, pines are in a play on mystery and the living seems so easy

even with the last May when there was nothing left but to watch a bee so thriving to fertilize

florets near campsite affections.

You were paralyzed. They gave you a mitten blanket, letting you rest in sleep

for twelve or more hours.

The staggered howling now is distanced in the attic’s sky above a sunburnt treehouse:

tranquility, nothingness.

There has to be found something to express

steel gentle sprinkles of heavy laundry.

Must I sleep

on the sun’s surface

in a linen carriage

wheeling through idle loss,

while the lost missing

is the feeling of blueness from loves – one like another.

I seek like everyone else does and everything that has happened to me was heaven.

As if I wasn’t there. The ambulance didn’t even look at me.

Revolt of Pisces

to Samo “Sunshine” K.

Cancerous trees above the sky


with the oblivion of earth below

and its cities

as angels climb the sugar pots

and nude men swim in liquid thunder.

Always have I felt to be controlled by someone or something.

Parents, system, school

and anyone cruder than sky lake kingdom,

and men that have still seemed brutal, calculating,

as if most of them carried wasps in a paper bag,

trouching with a dislocated knee,

as if I was since birth circled upon in order for me not to become

what I did.

They show us what we want to see and we like what they present

but fear is only the kitsch of old animosity.


2 am at the square.

Bring the Spanish guitar too,

at least for a while.

Memoirs on the party


I bestowed you a notebook just a little larger, yet identical to mine.

The one I own

still has blood on it from the sombers of

how your cigar smell and pearly whitened teeth aged into a somewhery remnant,

not even as thick as a single human hair,

on a foil of my gray stewed brain.

I suppose people are way more likable and smarter when drunk

but for some reason, adults assume connections are made

when both of us play violin or both of us have a cat,

that ashen lady who wanders off too far.

But I insist all that is true in this world must be a divine deal no one truly understands

nor it needs to be understood,

only experienced, felt through.

Thereby I felt,

unfortunately something less.

I came to surrender to spoilt frivolities old like moldy boots

and as all the philosophers in the living room

arrived uncanny and drunk

by the possessive weedy desire of dreams,

we both agreed on what to do:

“I have to note this treachery of yours down.

That will get me nice royalties.”


I. Defined control

Humans apprehend the sorrow of loss by death thereby why do they fail if it comes to the loss of their own will?

Dense blue waters might have been the vale of transcendation that bothers the hollow deputized crowd. Weaved tunics of sand, weaved by pines, capture less prevalent sights. Good morning limbo, loneliness of these waters shall be the peak, just not now. Teenage lunging birds suffering of social or sexual hunger of which graveyard is unknown. Perhaps a sonorous island or the collective consciousness of part-time housewives.

Aloof, addicted to eternity’s murder. It’s a love greater than unwritten laws: your home has another place. I stand, my name is James Dean. I come of lingered noon. Scraped shitted-on bricks have a tender danger to them. That’s what we got for birthday as the cruelest joke of your friend. It could have been a worse celebration if it’d had fringes or a tick in the eye. At least out of those bricks a house can be built while we chant Yogi’s song: “You, me and Orwen at the bottom of the lake.” We burst out of nylon age, thrown somewhere for none to produce hope on our own. People shouldn’t even want to lose their human ego entirely. One who learns to fly no longer wants to walk, at least not like in previous times, in mud and fumes of polished limbless sculptures, eyeing women judging within borders of contributed suburb views on a coil sunflower. Mud, yes, we are scolded to trudge in turd just for living in swamps. Who flies is a monkey, they screech. There should be a want to liberate our belongings, however then it would flee to orange clouds unreturning to the parental nest.

II. Float

Prepare the escape. And prepare it well. Powder atrocities moved by herbaries, buy a lot of fruit, grow out your pubic hair, study aviatics: loneliness has left us here. Use your heart to burn your clothed body until it gets outside making you fly on passion, the force of tender gardens… swans hold their necks proud, a flowing tea urges pulse, airplanes, engines. Must swans be keen on qualmed turn from watery gates.


Stewart Carry Sat, 13/05/2023 - 07:53

I can't pretend to understand much of this but the use of language, the imagery, the often shocking juxtaposition of words make the writing quite unique.