Another Day Poetry: Bees and Stuff

Bees and Stuff

Spring reminds me of an old swing

The one that’s banned from fabrication

Being heated by the sun it made creaks,

And carefree sounds of parents’ conversations,

And fresh young air awaken from the mists

Exhausted from the speed of roads

Came tearing, laid for a nap in chestnuts,

 As if there is no pain, and troubles forward,

And wind that’s full of life and hope

Mischiefing with my hair

Removing extra heavy capes

Spring-coats it spins in air,

And birds conducting branches

Of trees still sleepy but revived

And playing symphonies of chatters

Plunged nature in a harmony and quiet,

Spring reminds me of the spring before

And the one before last, and every other

One and the same good old glamour

Charms every time like it’s a new one,

Sweet melancholy, oh, nostalgia!

Spring takes away all my sarcastic cynicism

A tranquiliser, a euphoria

And this disgusting, sickening romanticism

SLEEP VIDEO

 An attempt to recreate dreams which at times are just a chain of awkward metamorphoses, boring repetitive thoughts, worries, and timid memories in our heads throughout the day. A waking reverie or vivid dreams that confuse our reality, turning it into either a dream or a nightmare.

Creator Karina Aslanova

'Conscious Thought from Late Evening until Morning' by Mike Pigskin

Music  Love is for the Living

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An observational essay on how to live your life knowing how horrible and hopeless life is

Things that have been written many times and sensed by millions, nevertheless timeless and faulty. Washed with tears of poets and mere mortals, so explicit and brilliant. An incurable ailment, famous, but with each in its own way. An ailment that bites into a wanderer, turning into a shadow of the wanderer, into his only friend. Oh universal loneliness of an immigrant! All your transformations, habituations, all that implies the evolution of the personality, can end with a mutant. And still, always, a stranger. Neither there nor here. Now you won’t go back, beaten by experience with eyes opened up wider than is possible, and there is no strength for forward neither, you only dangle like a balloon from a passed holiday somewhere in ‘now’, regretting and not wishing. Searching and searching for these ghostly ‘yours’, not according to the passport, but according to the thoughts, you are searching for what you have made up yourself, and so here you find something completely not right, but random and whatever there is. And it seemed that everyone was talking about it all the same, but why did no one say it? An old, worn and broken hurdy-gurdy.

From the gills to the ears, you’ve been coming to a human for so long, you have multiplied, stumbled, destroyed selecting the best, and leaving only a couple of unnecessary nipples, you arrived, you reached the peak of your best self, a self that doesn’t need you. Through millions of years, you invented and built a system for people in which people are not needed. We people, unneeded, victims of our own ambitions, we are born to die, and preferably faster, we rush to finish everything, childhood, college, love, sex, marriage, day, dinner, and then retire, and then retire from retirement. Because the system is so complex and unconquerable to reach the minimum circles of needs and comforts, we waste our whole life and usually die without receiving at least an echo of our desires. Life proclaimed beautiful is only a vicious circle, a rodent's wheel, where in false hopes for response you, a hamster, with all your four, like a tractor tumble on in order to reach the criterion of Ozymandias, transform all your essence believing that it's better for you, that in the finals, becoming what they asked, you will receive a magical prize consisting of prosperity, recognition, freedom, comfort, happiness and other flattering words, that in front of every one of those words will be your name. But the way is too long, in comparison with the length of a hamster's life. You are used and unneeded, tricked, and too old to protest and act now differently. Now you no longer hope, but are simply content with the cell that you have. Then the feeling of contentment, along with all the other feelings, disappears somewhere, you defecate lying down for the last time, you writhe a little in the agony of death and PUFF!

Realising all this and still having some life ahead, not dying yet, my question is how to live with this? Rejoice in the trifles, follow the leaders, get distracted, let everything go by itself, abandon all desires, love yourself unconditionally, trust others without demanding proof of their intentions? No. Each of these points is too controversial and relative, especially when theory and practice are such different poles. The overwhelming fear that I have only one life, and that I always have to choose only one thing, and sometimes not the one I want, and that the choice can be wrong and lead to consequences, call me paranoid, but can one live being devoid of such questions? Life is indeed too short to fill up your head with this existential rubbish, yet life is even shorter to keep on making mistakes one on top of another, and to find this fragile balance, to reach this long-desired golden middle seems absolutely unrealisable.

They say having a question is already half of an answer, so let’s consider this observational essay as that fifty percent of the answer and I would be very grateful to the readers if you would share your ideas on how to live your life knowing how horrible and hopeless life is. 

The Book of a Jungle 2 (Jungle Junlge Fire Fire)

When the unearthly evil is defeated and the power of the jungle has triumphed, it seems that nothing can stop the inhabitants of this magical place with being happy, exercising, and rejoicing in life, except for the human nature of Mowgli, which deceives him and causes him to make yet another mistake. And who now knows what the consequences and losses the Jungle will incur while Mowgli is distracted from his duty.

The second exciting installment in this fantastic cinematic puzzle from your humble servants is Mike Pigskin and Karina Aslanova, who have once again outdone themselves. Your '' MUST WATCH '' of the passing and coming year.

The Book of a Jungle (A Jungle Episode)

Maugli has broken the rules of a jungle. But all is not as it seems in this jungle, and Baluga unravels a plot that goes way beyond anything he could ever have ever imagined ...

Will he save us all?

From visionaries Mike Pigskin and Karina Aslanova, comes a jungle story re-imagining for modern sensibilities. Using cutting-edge special effects, beautiful character and scene development, and intricate plot twists, they have truly redefined a genre.

614 Words And No News

Write write write.

Every time. The end of August makes me do it more diligently than ever. Summing up another unproductive summer like it's a new year's resolution. Perhaps it is. After all, old, long-standing habits always outweigh new, fleeting undertakings. It is a new year in school, university. For me it was always a huge event. An arsenal of pens and notebooks, new shoes and backpack. Another chance to study better, fix everything. But maybe it's also the eve of my birthday which I can never enjoy in full because of this immense longing for the departing summer.

There’s something special in this period, as bitter and as sweet as possible and my melancholic personality cannot help but enjoy this time. Today it's so sunny and as cold as it can be at the end of August, and I feel exactly the same as a year ago. Does this testify that I haven’t changed at all and stayed in the same place? My life cannot be called planful, and those rare changes are very painfully palpable. This year there were enough of them and they managed to undermine this unstable concentration of mine. It's so hard for me to hold on to one thought, it doesn’t let me live fully, be active, and act purposefully. Usually this phenomenon constantly worries me, represses and paralyzes me, but nottoday. Seemingly the end of the beautiful season, so little time left to do something, to have time to enjoy it, thoughts in such format should have strangle me completely, should have created absolute chaos and vanity and drive me to a dead end, but it is simply not happening. Yet?

I want to write again all that I wrote a year ago, about the deceptive heat of September, that the transit of this time of year is so tangible that it is like watching the sea, when everything around is an endless movement and you don’t need to worry, you can stand still in one place and just watch, and it will be enough. But these words are not new, and neither am I.

Some shadows lead to others and everything repeats.

I continue to play ‘what the best me would do now seeing the worst me’, which is actually me I believe. The best one would just sit next to me. Maybe she wouldn’t smoke and would have kept all the cigarettes for me to survive a day. The best me feels sorry for me, she knows what it’s like to be me. I annoy her a little but she is generous with mercy and patience, we are sitting together on a sofa and she is waiting when I’m gone. How much better her life would’ve been. We are sitting together and looking out the window at the blue cold sky. We feel good together but we are waiting when one of us will get out of here. And she’s leaving. Hopefully she will return when the weather is better, or will congratulate me with my birthday, but for now, she’s got lots of things to do and her own life to live.

The end of August is something unbearably fantastic. It feels so awake and real, so fresh and reassuring, like the last gulps of a freedom, of a life itself, it is so valuable for it is so irreversibly ephemeral. I miss a lot, and I’ve missed a lot, but at the end of any work there should be a little hope. I can’t think of anything so I’ll end on a good old phrase that my dad often used to repeat to me;

Omnia transeunt, et id etiam transeat. nihil interit

Another Day Poetry: Bunde

My place is there where others were forgotten.

The empty one, abounded, and preferably rotten.

So then I could hear my choking thoughts

And probably my full-time busy evil heart notes.

The faceless place, with amputated tentacles and dreams, 

So I could lean upon those virgin fields, and lean, and lean.

And feel...how I...

Surround my egocentric nature with a grass and soil

And do not worry, that there’s something I could spoil,

Surround myself with people that have lost their heat,

When you asleep you cannot see, you only feel it.

So feel...the heart...

Of all those corners that they’re cleaning every day,

Will be the one that I will take to lay,

My head, and I’ll be spitting out stones,

That has been stuck between my life-time moans.

Meow...meow...followed by coughing.

The coffee, coffins, and delightful confetti,

It's all I ever wanted and it's all for me,

For free, at first presentably enveloped presents,

Ah, what a place, it's filled with dynasties of peasants.

And golden pheasants drinking morning dew,

Out of my mind they're coming through,

Right to the streets in ghostly shades

They creep into the arms of blank and sinful maids.

Then soothing them...that place won't fade.

My place will not disturb me from my thought,

It will forgive, it will support,

The way I want, the way I always will,

Until...until I fall down still,

Enjoying plastic bags and songs, that very special day of mine

Before the day breaks get in time.

Profoundly flatten, with those little flats,

It doesn't take much space to make a nest for rats.

And people watching stars at night,

Oh place, will you be mine?

I will take all and will give more than ever,

I'll speak out loud and you will make the weather,

And I will whisper to your chest confessions about dearth

In other places on the earth.

The Gringo (LIFTL)

Hey there. A brand new music video (LIVE!) is out
Have fun! xox

Another Day Poetry: Girlfriends

It's nice to have a girlfriend

To understand complains and share ideas

To be up to something shamelessly

And get sick by the same hysteria,

It's nice to have a girlfriend

Not of loneliness or boredom

But because we choose one another

Or at least been to the same classroom,

It's nice to have a girlfriend

Without prejudices of who I am

But to catch the same wave together

No victims, no one feels like scum,

It's nice to have a girlfriend

To whom I can call at any time

Who's taking and giving chances

Who is similar, but better than I,

It would be nice to have a girlfriend

To do crazy things like kids

To have stupid ladies nights and get wasted

‘Cause those are girlfriends’ needs,

It would be nice to have a girlfriend

Sisterhood, solidarity and all

And feel open to cry at her house

Feel Okay and sit on the floor,

It would be nice to have a girlfriend

It would be nice but alas

The older you get it gets harder

To bother, to want, and to trust,

It would be nice to have a girlfriend

With whom you can fall and revive

Just to be there for each other

Just to have such a person in life

x