A Prayer for
the Arrival
of Pope
to the Prague
Infant Jesus
My grandpa, no they did not break him down. The communists! He was having a laugh covered in the sheets where it said:
ARBEIT MACHT FREI
This poem was written for the All-poets Night that took place on 28th August 2009 in Ospělov, some days before the first cannabis confiscation on my research farm, the 18th August 2009.
On the Bastille Day 14th July 2009.
Dear Pope.
Pray with us
A Prayer of Saint Infant Jesus of Prague.
A Gift towards your Arrival to Golem’s City.
To the City of Jesuses, the Infants’.
To Prague, the Hundred-towered.
Mother Mary. 2009.
The Prayer of Life.
Pope, the Vaticanian
Holy Father. Of the Sheep of Ratzinger’s.
And Jesus.
Humble and savage like Bob Marley and Janis Joplin.
Joyful by master Lao’-c and Sidhárta.
We dance to U2 and pray:
For us. For Gypsies. Arabs. Refugees in Marseille.
For rent and for purchase. For Ganga. For Zuzana. For Turku.
For Fidel Castro. The Prisoners of Conscience. For the humble and for the savage.
To brothers and sisters – oh yes we want to look them in the eye.
We welcome Dalailama and we open the home prison to the queen of Barma.
Our Hearts.
Jaroslava Moserova. Agnes, the Bohemian. Mother Theresa.
Baked Jan Palach. The Blackie boy. Little Gipsie girl burning.
Little Gipsie sleeping without a lion, a guitar, a jar, on the desert of Moravia.
We are Europeans. The Old Empire from Tasov.
Yes.
The Czechs.
We kick each other to our ankles.
Wounded Souls.
Unbelievers.
To each other. To oneself.
Praying to money and power.
Praying to mistrust.
Praying to god of lie.
Praying to advert on emptiness.
Holy Father!
Please pray facing the Infant Jesus, for president Václav.
To resign to Senat and truth.
To enter faith.
Please pray for all the men in Politics.
Let them be decent and honest
And agreeable to our hearts
Like Women.
Let them live in dignity and beauty of the Spirit.
Like knights.
Like knights.
Let them freely
Live surrounded by the wealth of friends.
The Spirit of the Close
Jesus
Why not
Quite that.
And We are praying. The twothousantandninetimes spitted-on joyful Infant Jesuses, that’s what they said.
And They went to the Mountain of Blaník go wake up the St. Wenceslaus knights on the September of 28th. 2009.
The Knights of Blaník! We are here!
The Infant Jesuses.
Vaclav! Wenceslaus!
You can utter the Order!
They Will arise!
From the Mountain!
... On Říp, with Eva and Vašek.
“The pompoms strike bam-bam ♫”.
Mejla’s Velvet Bohemia Underground.
By Blaník Mountain. In Nad Viktorkou pub.
September the 28th. 2009.
We live in Prague.
That is there.
Where will appear.
Spirit.
Alone.
Ivan Martin Jirous.
Prague’s spitted-on Infant Jesus.
With Little Blackie in the dusts of the Old Empire.
Martin Luther.
King.
He plays.
With Little Blackie in the dusts of the Old Empire.
Martin Luther.
King.
He plays.
For the last Time.
Peace in every Village. Peace.
To Dárfúr. Ospělov. Guantanámo.
Just like toilet paper.
The Peace it gives. Unfolds.
By the open Heart
Displayed
Human. | Son | Daughters of HuMan.
To Dárfúr. Ospělov. Guantanámo.
Just like toilet paper.
The Peace it gives. Unfolds.
By the open Heart
Displayed
Human. | Son | Daughters of HuMan.
Let us pray
Every one their own prayer
Of Silence and of Strenght.
The Knights of Blaník!
It’s hard! the Hour of the Land!
We are praying for Us.
For Palestinians.
For Jews.
We are praying for the Indigenous.
From the helicopter we shoot
The rabbits of Peru. TV WORLD.
We are awake.
We are vital.
We see the dark karma of Pakistan.
We see the whole Peru of blood.
We see Texas.
Siberia.
Wanow We See
The Doors.
The Wall.
The WTC.
Please play!
Above the Grave.
ETC!
Václav!
Václav!
We are here.
The Infant Jesuses!
With naked bums.
Sweet-smelling chamomile.
With bier.
With chamomile.
They set out of the Blaník Mountain.
And they had walked and they were shouting and they went on up to Advent
They set out of the Blaník Mountain.
And they had walked and they were shouting and they went on up to Advent
With push-scooter Ist, the Gueen
Visit the Emperor
Who wears no clothes.
To Gardens of Getsemane – sleep like logs.
OUR GODS
ARE BETTER
THEN YOUR
GODS
‘CAUSE
THEY HAVE
BIGGER THOUGHTS
TITS
