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Miroslava Kočvarová is participating in the 5th International Literary Creation Contest from Žilina, Slovakia. She is 22 years old and a student at Mediamatics and Cultural Heritage on University of Žilina. As a writer, she uses the pen name Elliotté P. Joel. We thank for the participation and wish her success.

Suburb crumbles

Dry elbows and birds in a thick film of dust,
they crumble to skin and third class tea. It’s not the experience of contemporary age but a nude scream of a young soul to the world. You know the birds – you are going to take care of them for a while – do not even know that they are alive and they do not even see since your brother poked their eyes out with his new pencil. The neighbor below you – the young one, not the old – has dry elbows and scraped knees and 
knee socks.
Whilst up the hill hisses with cherry rain
and the meaty sourness scalds the garages
in the shivers of your body and she seizes your sheared head and you are making love for the first time.

The rain stopped. Nobody called you home.

We are smoking for the first time,
the hoarfrost on a carpet beater is cutting our fingers very tenderly along with the crudeness of grandmothers and she
barely greets us, she is an entire year older anyway. The sunflowers have withered postpocialistically long time ago.
 

Being young

To steal in the rain,
holding hands with trees.
It’s the abundant winter of youth
On a silent visitation...
I shall hold you very tight!

Just drifting in a river like a wooden stick,
Who has broken away from its tree
And is exploring the world with no will of it’s own,
Just moved by the everchanging currents of water.

Nights of autumn
were blind and welcoming.
 

Petite Comedy T.

I.
The harrow of limerence and the enchantment of the stabbing night: seven years of famine in a cage of your bones.

II.
Hollow constructions of ravens testify with their winters. I testify with the infliction by winter departures. The Bratislavian winter of life whom you fall to slumber aside without a carress,
chained by the heavy chant of Plague Columns.

III.
He was a spiteful official, pure embodiment of the hall of disfigured muses. To the long weeds he sporadically grew brushed greys of drought.

IV.
There was a hundred-percent attendance of voters. My voice has been forgotten sunk in saponates (a voice forgotten) and the mosquito’s tongue perched on the eye fluid, drinking blood like it is wine and seeking tears in 
account classification.

V.
We used to count the greynesses of suns like the old, the shapes are dead, the new bodies in the sticking tulle – 
now I shall disrupt the editorial of euphemisms: of his virginy and of his abhorring of enhaired touch I knew. I was unsure whether I am certain enough to dress into the gleamless weather. He only looked through the shoulders of sand and went to the kitchen
for the knife.

VI.
The enchantment of stabbing night, the fulfilling of limerence, he grasped the hand of mine tightly. He cut into the depth on my breasts and into the length of my thighs, into the thickness of the bottom – he stabbed and in the wound he twisted his knife.

VII.
He cut the half of my ears. He grated my shoulders like potato skins. I felt my consciousness fading over the fog of reddening rawness and I had a vision that once, a long time ago I had been a goose girl of four years of age at the time I glanced the chained nuns walking up the hill and the scenery I could not understand 
but it’s coldness.