'I'll just take a little more bread, to honor the dead' (Grim Fandango Cosplay)

Our little adventure

Prosaic excerpt of the Sunday: Absolutely Meaningless Observations Of An Adult Child With Certain Unresolved Issues

Another season is nearly over. The nice one (if to not consider those few insufferable weeks of roasting sun when you wish for a magical, massive slingshot to pop that merciless bulb in the sky). It feels like summer is trying harder and harder to bring the warmth but it gets less and less efficient. And no one is ever ready for the change. Yet people had a piss in the sea, kids got tanned, and mums got acclimatisation herpes. Summer is truly always full of surprises. After this hot carousel of colours and spoiled thoughts, time is suddenly cooling down sweaty bodies a bit too much and a bit too fast.

 Sigh.

 No one is ever ready for the change, even though everybody is aware of the end. Everybody sighs. Why then do people love autumn? Probably observing this time of year as the ageing of summer, people are for an instant experiencing a certain comfort about their own ticking clocks, contentedly-sad they compare it to something inferior, romanticising about the weather, escaping the dreadful transiency of their own lives and dodging this time, making it easy. The instinct of moral self-preservation. The last warmth, last bright little days, Indian summer: the precious leftovers of summer. Lethargy comes and everything is coming to the decline, and nothing is as sad as autumn. People enjoy sadness, sacrificing summer for a good harvest, a bittersweet farewell. Freshly made memories and supplies of vitamin D. Like squirrels, people are still stocking up and preserving one way or another. Posting and boasting their unforgettable holidays, continuously trying to resemble the most charming and fun people in the world: look at my summer, like me, love me, make me a celebrity #... But summer doesn't give a shit; nature does its habitual cycle gradually fading away with a little help from its ‘friends’. No one’s ready for that either.

Nostalgia, it is already here, and that favourite bed linen no longer feels as nice and cooling in the morning as it used to only a couple of days ago. Memories do not warm, they distract (which is at least something).

The Sacred August, the most desirable of all. Ripe and tender. And summer nights’ special smell is at its peak along with meteor showers that make our dreams sparkle. August is like a bridge that everyone must pass, but getting to the middle we get a chance to stop for a moment and watch those sparkling dreams. A chance to get ready. Then every morning is getting colder. The barely noticeable odour of the sea is rolling back to its coasts, hiding deeper into the mother seas’ bottom pockets. Every year, again and again, we never learn, we are never ready.

(Absentmindedly we wonder how long one person can keep itself in a plural number, calling itself ‘we’, ignoring the narrow subjectivity of its own vision of life and attributing it to all the others.)

The wind now is the king, already trying on the seasonal crown and sending us like leaves wherever it deigns to. And this distinguished anticipation about new school year even if one finished it ages ago, even if one hated it, it just always comes.  Coffee is getting cold faster. August is nearly over.

And every morning I’m catching it all with my c&c on the balcony. Hungry for life I'm gulping as much as I can ,except Sundays, when everyone’s in and I dare not pass the living room (and disturb the TV’s praising ceremony) that leads to my outside nestling spot. And I said nothing of the key, I had good summers too. 

Another day poetry: How To Make Poetry

How to make poetry

You’re taking a glance

From unreachable distance

Not too ripe nor too raw

Deep inhale and then blow

Wash it, nurse it, and let it dry

If gone too soft, just give it a time

If too hardened and numb

Dew it with rum

Let the feeling come

Naturally, no force, no harm

Chop words and marks in various shapes

You don’t want your P made of formless tapes

Now warm your ambitions in a frying pan

And steam it all together until it’s tanned

Add a few table spoons

Of your heartfelt gloom

Salty tears for taste

And pepper embrace,

Work with your wrists

If such do exist

Light yet confident moves

And your favourite juice

Just a bit of course

To make it more yours

Let it rest in the wind

Find a good word with–ind

Now, be careful and strong

With the following row

DO NOT give it to try

To your relatives’ minds

They won't get your dear work

And the way you placed forks

Share with strangers your treats

They'll slow every beat

But before, don't forget

(To avoid regrets)

To try it yourself

Get a grip, free the nerve

Hate it, throw in the bin

Cry all over the scene

Spit on, kick and shout

And then bring it back out

Feel sorry and shame

For acting that way

Now be kind and eat

And do love it a bit

Another day poetry: The exerpt

Stuffed with meaninglessness and a childish sense of injustice,
I'm filling up my room with candles, hoping for unexpected cremation,
While my shadows are listening walls talk, I can hear adjectives attached to my name,
They are trivial, they won’t save them,
And I'm fading,
And I'm shedding

Another Day Poetry: Road

Road

Road and neon

It goes on and on

His warmth and his tone

And his stare into dawn

Fixed seats and treats

Few peanuts and sweets

Endless fields and pits

Tickling eyelids

Both blankets are mine

I share sometimes

Expectation's line

I'm fine, I'm thine

Tea and trees

And foreign breeze

Me touching his knees

Oh his knees, his knees

This thrill in my chest

Like the speed of pests

And this bus like a nest

Carrying us to the west

Towards the sun

Night makes us one

World makes us none

And we run, we run

To heal and regain

To the sea from the rain

All tears are the same

They don't have names

This is our abode

Full of rocks and odd

So pure and broad

Our road, our road

Also, allow me thank Bloc Party for their fantastic new album "Hymns" and for the inspiration and palpation of my emotions and memories. Especially this song that I've already listened to 80 times. xox

Another Day Poetry: Beaty Fresh (special)

Well hello geezers! A new poetry slice but before a tiny prologue.

Recently I've stumbled upon the cutest musical morsel by my old comrade from uni, Demian Feriy, and this is what has inspired and fertilized my mind to create this poetry. Don't be shy and check out his other tracks on SoundCloud , enjoy the spring and eat a lot of oranges. Here we go:

Beaty Fresh

springy springs

and blooming strings

and all the things

I want to say,

stuck in a tray

since yesterday

right on my way

oh holy clowns,

my morning gown

and golden crown

I'm falling down

while feeding crows,

and crowds and crowds

upon my shroud

beating out bows

for spring to come,

a little drum,

cheers with a rum

and coke and buns

all on the board,

and clowns, and mort,

and zombie horde,

I can afford

myself a feast,

without priests

but our beasts

shall come from East

to live the spring,

and I will sing

and you will swing

around the ring

ding ding ding ding

Another day poetry: February

February

Excited! Excited! 

 My feelings today

Associations 

 the wind brought on the way

Sweet memorIes 

 of an adventure ahead 

As if, I will never, 

 get bored or sad,

This sun and this sky, 

 that are the same everywhere

Today feels so promising, 

 so inspired to share;

Their warmth and their freedom

 has merged in one dance

As if, we all, 

 got a better chance,

The cold now is bearable, 

 the air is thinned

Just look at revelling, 

rocking trees in the wind,

As if you are here,

 or I'm there,

 or we're both

About to leave, 

 away, 

 and off

Excited! Excited! 

And I cannot defy

The last month of winter

 is about to die.