Prosaic excerpt of the Sunday: The Train and The Deviant Allegories

The Train and The Deviant Allegories

Tired, sticky bodies. Yes bodies. Not people. This city has eaten all their humanity. They're judgemental. Everything about you is wrong. Especially the way you breathe. Three little piggies sitting in front of me, watching me falling. Whose house will I blow away first piggies? My fingers are long enough to do it with one hand. But I'm just cowardly typing and killing you on this little pixelated page. Ohmygod! Who’s that filthy smelly piggy? Is it you in the middle? I see you’re not even trying to hide the rest of your dinner that has stacked in that silly plump mouth of yours. Silly piggy. Look there is a black goose playing around. He has taken piggy’s place and he’s an arrogant stupid goose. You’re going to be cat food goose, - says one of piggies. But goose doesn't reply, he doesn't speak piggies’ language. Hello piggies! I got a place! Pretending here to be one of you. What does it look like? I bet you'd be happy to be skinned alive only to avoid seeing me sitting. Silly piggies. Even goose has checked me out, piggies. Silly you, goose. I'm going soon, piggies. But piggies do not understand me, they’re only underestimating me. But hey, my autograph is on all your bums. And it’s sundown. And it’s time for me to go.

I slap piggies’ bums and they are squeaking and hurrying towards the barn.

Another Day Poetry: Budapest

Budapest

For a moment forget where I am,

And there is no difference at all.

No adventures and joy with myself,

If I'm bored then it’s only my fault.

One, I'm unfocused,

Two, I'm still writing,

But my feet are too hurt,

They’re too sore to keep fighting.

Are we getting old?

Is it happening now? No?

Then why I'm so tired, why I'm feeling so down?

Why’s my constant ‘upsetness’ overwhelming it all?

No matter where or what’s going on.

These days are too fast,

Too little kebabs,

But time is a train between future and past.

Sightseeing, and wander, and maybe that mall,

With my slow digestion there is no time at all.

My new complains and old habits supplies,

You, my dear, only the one doomed to try,

Even the last day my whining keeps going

What can I say? Well, I could say sorry.

You. Right in front of me,

I. Am crawling to bed,

It’s our holiday baby –

With disappointment you said.

(This time it's personal)

Another day poetry: Someone's poem

Inspired by John Cooper Clarke

Dedicated to John Cooper Clarke

Someone’s poem

Someone’s shitty kids

Someone’s smelly dishes

Someone’s painful knees

Someone’s hopeless wishes

Someone’s bitter greed

Someone’s lack of air

Someone’s lost in Leeds

Someone’s brand new hair

Someone’s speedy wheels

Someone’s childhood trauma

Someone’s speedy pills

Someone’s life-time drama

Someone’s chicken ribs

Someone’s steps on craters

Someone’s false beliefs

Someone’s fake creators

Someone’s hateful speech

Someone’s x-ray glances

Someone’s dad is rich

Someone’s missed his chances

Someone’s dog is dead

Someone’s got a new one

Someone’s dirty bed

Someone’s filled with no one

Someone’s debit cards

Someone’s way of living

Someone’s friend is tard

Someone’s stares at ceiling

Someone’s pride to be

Someone’s patronising

Someone’s wish to be kree

Someone’s just realised it

Someone’s obsessions in mud

Someone’s colossal agreement

Someone’s pretending good

Someone can’t rhyme agreement

Someone’s feelings so high

Someone’s are kept in boxes

Someone’s trying to hide

Someone’s disgusting poxes

Someone’s dressed like a nurse

Someone’s shameful past and culture

Someone’s knowledge that worse is

Someone’s disgraceful future

Someone’s joy to hurt

Someone’s silly jumper

Someone’s in a court

Someone’s lousy temper

Someone’s greatest love

Someone’s fresh and jokey

Someone’s hardest path

Someone’s into junkies

Someone’s pretty wife

Someone’s holding the knife

Someone’s cheeky darling

Someone’s making him starving

Someone’s blindest choice

Someone’s ugly voice

Someone’s dearest noise

Someone’s not into boys

Someone’s habit to bow

Someone’s free to go

Someone’s tired to eat

Someone’s skills at it

Someone’s miserable now

Someone’s happy law

Someone’s dislike to bend

Someone’s conclusion to end

And then turn, disappear

In a black-black wall

And the next day pretend

That you never heard it before…

And

Been here,

And

Liked it,

And

Posted it,

And

Asked for more!

Another Day Poetry: Nowhere City

Nowhere City

I cannot live in this city any more, no.

Nothing is holding, nothing is pulling back at all,

Nothing is wishing me to stay a day,

But I keep looking for what to say.

The poisoned city with no cure,

Where everyone’s too adult, too mature,

The city with a hope for light,

But every citizen is blind.

They’re barging with their illnesses and pains,

And they don’t care if they don’t make a sense.

Heroic city with an ice-cold heart,

That’s falling into pieces with no chance to start,

A savage creature, last one of its type,

It’s giving up, it’s withering without fight.

And hateful empathy is growing very fast,

Or it’s just an offended child from the past?

Demanding an apology from everyone,

Who’s from the city or another town.

The city has corrupted guts and minds,

 And offered nothing in reply,

The city of contrasts, someone said,

But speaking true it means from worst to simply bad.

A word ‘majo’r’ means rich and wealthy,

(They don’t like keeping words too healthy),

But at the same time words mean everything for them,

Pronounce it loud and clearly all they can.

And then ignoring everything that breathes,

Is there still someone who doesn't want to leave?

To run away, escape, be rescued by the Red Cross army,

And let it burn in blue-blue flame, but now, without me.

The people are cursed by ‘indifference spell’,

And I cannot feel the way I felt,

Perhaps I’ll long one day for that,

That city and its people in their silly hats,

Perhaps I will forget it all,

The long hard way from hole to hole.

Sir King

When Sir King walks this godless soil - physically no longer a babe, yet retaining his wondrous look upon our glorious Earth - there are serfs that doubt, there are serfs that clap, but regardless of reaction action, all serfs know in their heart of hearts that Sir King is cut from the same gloss paper as Terpsichore, with stupid jellied eyes glued on from the same Pritt Stick as Artemis and all other deities with loose, naked dog's skin.

Sir King won't forget you, will you forget him?

Prosaic Friday: Blinking

Blinking

The sun was leaving his street too fast. The street was longing for the light just like his soul was. Even when direct afternoon light was penetrating into every corner of this place, everything seemed to him invariably miserable and grim. Well, sometimes you just can’t help the way you see things, right?

He left his sleeping place and went out to the street hoping to catch up with the last promise of today’s sun. As always, it promised to return tomorrow. Either scorching or almost invisible, the sun has for already almost 5 billion years been fulfilling its promise to return, and it was nice for him to know.

Speeding up and wading between the tightly-planted houses, like air he was gulping the last gleam of the day. There, ahead, there is still a little bit, he thought to himself, focusing his gaze at the end of what seemed an infinitely sad street. The sky was dipping itself into the arms of darkness yet it was bright. Out there, above, the swallows were circling and crying incessantly. They were flying low, he could hear them. The atmosphere was pressing the ground with all its body. It will rain, he thought. Something superhuman and unfathomably painful was in their cry. Something too animal, something too wild for a landed human. After all, every blackfly on account for every bird and its offspring, survival couldn’t make them not to cry.

Along the way he thought that he could stay in the flat and bid farewell to the sunset from the window, but then, that eight-foot room would swallow him in blackness much faster. A bridge was very close.  The destination he was eager for. He crossed the road and took his phone out to take a picture. The picture was nothing particularly different from the other 90, but it was one more day that was born, lived, and was dying right in front of his eyes. He will not remember this day, they all have long been mixed into one but let it be pixelated and saved elsewhere just in case. That's all. He reached the remains of light and was saved just like the picture in his phone.

The bridge was empty just as he was. No people, no cars, no motion. It was getting dark quickly, hastily. Street lanterns were proudly showing initiative in the urban décor. An ambulance raced past. Nothing will help this day, he thought, call the morgue. For him, the night wasn’t a part of the day; it was a totally different dimension, with its rules, traditions, and way of existence. In these circumstances, he had nothing to do at night, or more precisely, in the night. A cold north wind in mid-July, the smell of alcohol digesting welcomes you past every pub implanted into the row of houses, sickly-sweet perfumes, meaningless electronic cigarettes, and people dressed as mannequins for real? Now anger was filling his soul. People. People make the place, right? They're unconditionally buying cheap flirtation and even the crudest attention, they admire each other's primitive intelligence, and now he hears the shouts of encouragement to a guy who just broke a bottle of beer. These people are narrow, flat, and happy fools, and unbeknownst to him, the envy has eclipsed the anger. Now a single night's darkness was not enough for him and he hobbled back home, to the smallest and darkest room in the world.

Cold wind has weather-beaten his thin skin but he imagined this city on fire with all the colours of the rainbow and it was warming him. Night. Infamous night. Go away and give me back my day, was he crooning on the way back. Empty like entrance of the house, lonely elevator, he entered the flat and quietly made himself a cup of tea, in order not to wake the rest of the monsters in his head. Today there was enough of them.

The door of the room. Closed curtains. Squeezed wooden bed between two thin walls. They are all too unfriendly. He doesn’t care, he closes his eyes and the thought of a new day that brings new hopes lulls his heavy heart. Light will come and all will be brighter. Light will come.

His sleep is instant and deep, he barely sees dreams. They are deceptive though comforting. He is too tired of them.

The morning. He feels it with his eyes closed, but only when he opens them there is no light. Is the night not over? Or have I gone blind? But there is no panic, it does not frighten him, he sees the dark with open eyes and it feels good, it feels like light and it doesn’t matter if there is no more light, because he doesn’t need it anymore.

A little later he woke up again to find a lock of dark hair on his face. The hair that replaced the light and darkness, the hair which makes both equally deep and light. Day 91. 

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'Revolve'

I truly hope that this is my first and last poem in 2015

 that may conjure up depression in your soft, fragile minds.

I don't have to do anything wrong to stay away,

I don't have to be bad anymore to lose my mates,

I don't need to look back into the past,

To know that the future is coming too fast.

No need to be jolly no need for a mourn,

We all die alone just the way we were born,

No time to be generous on feelings for a fool,

For someone like me, who is always see-through.

Trains coming and leaving, trains passing us by,

They are hurrying up leaving cold smell of night,

But we, soulless people, just running in front,

Naively hoping one of them will take us home.

We think that something else will make us something better,

And we will be special and we will matter,

Crossing the fingers for luck of eventuality,

Parting apart due to repulsion of personalities,

We’re making mistakes and we taste to regret it,

But conclusion is one; we spin the time in forgetting.

We are trying to fix it with a feeling of need,

But the opposite forces make us seal up the lid,

Intimidated by the solitariness inside,

We’re seeking for sanity or at least for the sign,

Defending ourselves by pushing others out of eyes,

We are stating we're good and you too have to be nice!

But there's nothing else but old trodden lines,

No need to divide what is your and what's mine.

Don’t look for a chance in the chain of an ice

Do not listen to those who are knocking the chimes,

Don’t tell anyone what we're seeing sometimes,

Especially when we are becoming ‘I'm’.