Neon

 

I

My pages burn in an iron plate
on the wooden table
in our September hotel.
Carpet’s soaked with beer that we spilled
and I couldn’t care less about the mess.

And you spoil me, dear –
Breakfast in bed but we’ve got nothing
to cheer
for.
The smell of smoke is still in my hair
since last night’s dirty deeds,
and I don’t know what’s coming next.

I told you to wake me up
when it was over.
But it was never over
we just grew older.

We had wine when we dined,
we were classy refugees.
Your chest sheltered my cold legs
as I wrapped them around

hoping
we could be.

And I sheltered you from the outside world
because I knew it was hurting you so.
Then we lay on the floor, low
and we went with that old familiar flow.

And in the morning I knew what I had to do,
you were leaving and I couldn’t cope.
My place was here and I opened up a beer
just to throw it at the wall
looking for hope.

So it spilled on the carpet,
you came to me in a blanket.
I asked you to take my breath
and wrap it around my neck,
perhaps I need a sanity check.

And you did it, we were both into deep,
when it was finally over we couldn’t sleep.
I pulled myself out of the sheets
and left the room
and left you the keys.

Neon Mfg
BY NEON MFG

One deceived salesman

I heard the truth was different from what I know

I heard you laughing as did Romeo

But then, again, there is a dirty flow

in which you roll

and roll

and all your sides

enrapture all the vile vibes

but you do not divide

you’re whole

I’m mesmerized

But I won’t try

to get you out

because I tried once

and it suck me down

and more – you sold me out

and down

you sold me down the river

and it was for months that I shivered

and yet

I am in debt

for I preferred your cigarettes

to other more vigorous assets .

 

 

januz-miralles-2
Artwork by Januz Miralles 

 

 

 

 

existential carousel 3

3

Actually, his name was Isaac. His friends used to call him Nick because they thought Isaac was too Jewish. He remembered this one cold morning when he opened his eyes to look at the wooden ceiling. He liked how he ended up to be. He was alone but he was truly alive. He had a dog – Cherry. Cherry was an Aussie who was stained in black and white with brown ears and brown paws. He named her Cherry because the love of his life used to love eating cherries. Probably she still loved eating cherries. There was just no way of knowing that.

Yeah, it always comes to this – who do you love, who do you miss, who do you love and miss. He thought about this in the same morning when he remembered that his name was Isaac. He had a sad face but his soul wasn’t disgraced. He did everything he could to save his soul – from the world, from society, from people, from women. He was loyal but it didn’t seem to matter to other people. He was honest and it also didn’t seem to matter to other people. He couldn’t stand pretending, that’s why he refused the world and headed to the woods. He didn’t have anything to hold on to. He couldn’t pretend anymore, he could pretend to enjoy social occasion, he couldn’t pretend to laugh at the same fucking ‘funny’ story over and over again. The stupid story that everybody had to say, or talk about the weather, or how the old nasty neighbor fucks a young lady, and how the hell did he manage to get her in bed. He refused to audition for that role in the theatre of Life. He had his own lifeline to build.

 

large

existential carousel 2

2

So where were we? Nick. Who lived at the edge of a cliff. Who refused the world and headed to the woods. I don’t know why his name was Nick, neither did he, nor his parents. I am not sure if he had parents. But surely he must have had. For he remembered two dim figures being around him before he became a man. But now he was Nick who lived in the sticks. He built his house brick by brick. Yes, he built it bit by bit.

He was brought up in a lie. But, as we already mentioned, it took him years to realize that lie and take up the truth. The truth – that he was not, after all, so special, that he was just like everybody else. However, no one could ever obliterate the lie he was brought up in. No one could ever destroy that stop on memory lane. It was something to drink over in the cold winter nights.

large

existential carousel

 1

His name was Nick and lived at the edge of a cliff. That’s right, he refused the world and headed to the woods. The moment of realization came for him – the realization that he was just like everybody else, the realization that there was nothing he could do. He was just like everybody else, he had the same impure thoughts, he loved food, he loved sex, he had strange erotic fantasies, he loved to deceive others just to feel superior, he loved to look good in the eyes of people, he loved to be loved, he loved to look like he was something more than other people and he was doing what was necessary to look so, he loved to hide things, to keep them for himself. From time to time he had trouble sleeping but he ignored the problem claiming it would work itself out. Until one day.

Until one day he woke up from a dreadful dream in which he was far away from everything that he loved. Only, it was not a dream anymore. He was, in fact, alone.  In the centre of his body – right where thoughts and feelings meet, he felt terrible pain. And love was not there anymore. Less, it was there but it had a different form – it had transformed into hate. He hated himself and he hated others. He could not move, he was paralyzed. He couldn’t get up. Then he asked himself ‘Do you want to live?’ ‘What kind of a question is that?’ inquired the second voice in his head. ‘A human kind of question,’ answer the third voice in his head. ‘You need to understand yourself first, everything else is negotiable. But you are what you are,’ a fourth voice joined the discussion. ‘SHUT UP!’ He screamed and got up.

‘You are living in paper castles,’ the fourth voice continued. Well…he didn’t even roll the dice in his head, he just closed his eyes for two seconds. Then he left. He packed one suitcase and rented his one flat and headed to the woods. Didn’t care about the odds. In any case, it is an interesting world that we are living in – everybody’s trying to close their eyes and absolve their sins. But it takes more. It takes so much more.

 

 

found-on-iampatrik
found on @IAMPATRIK (imgrum.net) 

 

Mia Culpa

Many things have ended for me, I’m done. Things like fighting for what is right or trying to fight and win over my demons. Things like speaking in the correct tense and trying to find some sense. Many things have ended for me in the cold evenings and had begun again in the even colder mornings. Seasons have changed and I am below the lowest I had ever gotten. It ain’t right. I’ve held my head high and I’ve been down in the dirt, in the mud. My moods have varied so much that I have destroyed relations with people. I’ve written so many words that I can’t remember them all. I’ve read so many words yet the white paper is the most sincere thing that exists. I’ve heard so many words that I’ve stopped listening. I’ve cared so much that I’ve ruined my inner self. I’ve blamed so much that I am to blame. I’ve seen so little of the world yet it feels like too much. I’ve tasted the madness now I want the touch

 

of gold.

 

 

18th of October 2016

 

 

wlodzimierz-kuklinski2
Enter a caption

Artwork by Włodzimierz Kukliński

The Lucky Strike, second draft

 

Vice was fixing his jaw in front of the mirror. This time he could not take the high road. He really wanted to, but he could not. Instead, he punched the guy three times before the guy could fight back, which he surprisingly did. And now, Vice was feeling guilty for punching him at all. He was unluckily gifted with the gift of reflection.

Look, Di, I really didn’t mean to hurt him. But he was so rude to you…’

Drop it. He’s fine, you’re fine, I’m fine. Stop thinking about it already.’ I said, trying to console him. Vice was really one of the nicest guys I had ever known.

Where is Aaron? Did he show up at all?’ Vice asked me.

No.’

Are you still not talking to each other?

I nodded, looking down.

Come on, man. Pull yourself together and…’

The door got open. A guy, excessively worried, shaking and sobbing, showed up behind it. ‘Guys, you have to see this, come. Help!’

We stormed out of the bathroom and went to the living room. There was a girl on one of the couches collapsing, chocking on foam coming out of her mouth. People had gathered around her and a man was holding her head. Everyone was panicking. ‘Call an ambulance. Someone!’ people were screaming from each corner of the room.

Hold her, she’ll roll down, damn it.’ Vice went to the couch to support her, pushing the guy who was doing nothing on the side. There was nothing that could be done except for to wait. Soon the seizure stopped. But she was not gaining consciousness. ‘Damn it.’ Vice said. He started tapping her cheeks just so she could come to consciousness. It did not work. People started spreading around the house again and soon the music was on. Almost as if nothing had happened. This kind of people pissed me off. ‘What did she take?’ Vice asked her friend, who was sitting at the far-away edge of the couch the whole time. ‘I don’t know…a few lines…a guy gave it to her to try. He said he just got them for the first time and it was the bomb…’ the girl started crying.

There and then someone rang the doorbell. The music stopped again. I went to the door and looked through the peep hole. ‘It’s the ambulance and the police.’

Where is the stuff that she took?’ Vice asked her friend. ‘Di, don’t open the door. Everyone keep quiet.’ ‘Right there, on the table.’ Somebody said. He was trying to keep his voice low, while informing all the shitheads to stop doing anything illegal that they were doing. I was going around, taking joints from people and dusting off cocaine from tables.

Vice found the bag on the kitchen bar, not on the table. It was one of those plastic bags that they put vegetables in. The cocaine was making a vegetable out of the relapsed girl now. Uses reversed as it often happens.Vice took the stuff to the kitchen corner which was part of the living room and there was also a washing machine. He put the cocaine in the washing machine, right where washing powder is normally put with the bag. He didn’t want to waste it. You know, the problems of the drug addicts… ‘Ok. We are good.’ He said. I opened the door.

It was a dank night. After all had cleared up from medical care people, policeman and all the other types of people, Vice and I sat on the couch. We were having drinks, cheap whiskey, smoking high and I was thinking about life. Chest full of smoke, our thoughts were provoked. I was thinking about the animality of human species. All we want to do is to eat, fuck, and have a sleep. Not even necessarily in that order. We consume things, consumer food, consume products, consume technology, consume money, we consume hearts, souls, we want to have it all for ourselves. And when we feel like we can’t, we consume drugs, just to fool ourselves that we can. I wanted to go to space and spit on people from that high, and never come back, ever again. Nobody told me that I’d see days like these – when I’d ask myself if anything at all can be changed. Is there anything that can be done at all and is it worthy to devote your life to that change that may never come at all. The ones who do not want to fit in were sitting just like Vice and I, in some room, in another town, in a big city, or perhaps in the same town as us. And they were also thinking about life, or better said, thinking about how to escape life. How to escape that ‘nine-to-five’ dagger that slices you slowly day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year; That thing that bores you to death and you start taking it out on people, on your loved ones until one day every one leaves because they got tired of your shit. And the only problem was your inner dissatisfaction of the way you live. We were thinking of ways to escape the melodrama of the middle-aged, middle class, mediocre living being. We wanted sublimity. We wanted to fly high. We wanted that raw, unrefined touch of the core of the universe. These were the battles of our youth.

The bottle was running dry, we were finishing off our high, and nobody had spoken in an hour.

I’m gonna head home.’ Vice said.

Have a good night.’ I said.

Thanks. Call Aaron and stop being a bitch.’ He said with his back turned to me, while walking to the door.

Will try.’

Recently, I was feeling like I was lost in people. There were too many people on my road. I was not feeling like myself. I wanted to get to the true essence of my being again. That was why I did not want to see anyone, especially Aaron. But in my world one solves one’s problems alone. If I could not help myself, no one could help me. People mix up their characters when they spend too much time together. And this could be the best thing in the world. It could also be the worst thing in the world. You just take a chance, wait, and see. I had to figure out what was it for me. Too often loneliness was a good companion. It was better to have it at my side than as an enemy.

Luis Quiles2
by Luis Quiles

 

 

right where

In any case, for me being published meant being in excruciating pain and saying it out loud. Тhat is a bravery in my world. It was never about the possible popularity or the attention of my acquaintances, or the questions everyone would start to ask. It was about being able to communicate all the things that had happened, all the things that I am.

                  August 2015

11049546_977586855609030_8071215945795606943_n

The Lucky Strike, first draft

sneak peek 

‘Why are you only talking about mеn?’ the woman suddenly asked me. Victory had a smile on her face and the man looked rather bored as if he had heard it all before.

‘Because only a man can be the greatest inspiration for a woman.’

The woman smiled satisfactory and I felt like I made a right move, being so straightforward.

‘Continue, please.’ She told me calmly.

‘My god, but he was so far away. ‘Oh, darling, what are we to do?’, he spoke after the drink hit his heart and made the doubt come out, word-shaped. It was not love. It was that intellectual attachment, a form of understanding, but it was not love. It was night already and we were sitting in a bar, drinking. It was night already and nobody seemed to have noticed how the day went away.

He was a painter again, I forgot to mention that. As if I was in an inescapable circle. ‘We misbehaved for days and now we need to face the reality in this phase…’ ‘Of our lives’, he knew how to complement me. And sometimes right people meet in the wrong time. Just as often as the right time brings together the wrong type of people. And in those conditions love may be born, just as it may not be. Love is realization, love is born from the dirt, from the uninspiration, from the confusion. Love is holding on through the changes. People are always subject to change and to want that person through the changes is a proof of love. You could not know it before it happens, there is just no way. Before everything else, people are separate pieces of life, different entities. And we change in the course of our travelling through life. Holding onto and wanting to be with the person, perhaps having a reason is what defines one bit of the feeling called love. There are many more, if you are lucky enough to develop it with the person with you.

We both had our other emotions to cure. So we knew, it was not love that was born. It felt so, so good, but it was not love. It was all passion. All and only passion. And I knew that maybe one day, at the end of all the passion, at the place where our bodies lied, I may find something more than what I knew then. And he may also find his darling on the place where the separation dug, deep and slowly. But for now I did not know how I got his kisses on my neck again.

So there I was again, desperately trying to fuck everything out of myself. But it was not working, it was never working, and it will never work. Neither for me nor for anyone else. A body into a body, a mere penetration, an animal into its comfort zone, it never works.

I hope nobody would ever have to see what I saw in that evening. His face, the look. The destructive emotion. The agony of a soul. That was when I told him that I really did not want to be with him. The moon went mad, I swear. Rudely honest. Mad Moon. Half Life. Sleepless hours. Only lights. His look was attack directly on my soul. And he told me I was over so many things, and I said I didn’t care what I am over and who is lying under me anymore. It all had nothing to do with pride, at least not with my type of pride. But, god, his face in that evening. That pretty perfection under the spell of pure desperation…

found on weheartit
found on weheartit