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

Limb McClooney's 3 Tips to SUCCESS!

Pull yoursen out of the gutter and join Limb and other successful sportsmen and businessmen who used his great 3 TIPS !!!

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

Another Day Poetry: Lullabies for sleeping lovers (from sleepless ones)

Lullabies for sleeping lovers (from sleepless ones)

Oh no my dear, I'm not sleeping

And I don’t think I ever do

I'll just silently hang around here

Will be watching after you

Oh no my dear they won't let me

I've tried a million times

So I better be spending my smokes

Making up my little rhymes

Oh no my dear I'm not blaming

A single sound around this town

I’ve just grown to be so frustrated

With the way the world uses the sun

Oh yes my dear my lover

I will stop to whine up your streams

And I'll conquer all heights of all mountains

And all windmills in your troubled dreams

Another Day Poetry: The girl who's balcony has fell

The girl who's balcony has fell

Oh well oh well

Alright, she said

They will be mad

-You better hide under your bed

You only spoil and destroy

Oh boy oh boy

I try my best

But I’m so stressed

-Confusing thoughts inside your chest?

So hard to find those things sometimes

Oh my Oh my

With the fallen balcony

And in a joyful agony

Damn you, damn me, damn you, damn me

Down on the ground, it's me my dear

But it's alright, no fears no tears

And laying quietly and sane

She watched a passing tiny plane

-It used to bring you peace and hope

It always will, no matter what.

(artwork Laurel Holloman)                         

Another Day Poetry: Far

When, you’re far, you, are, far,

And all familiar things are wrong and bizarre

Uncomfortable, foreign they are

Drink after drink in the closest bar,

When, you’re not there, everywhere

Dressed yet tricked – at the Vanity Fair

Smashing your head in despair

You try to be nice but you can’t stop to compare

When, you’re gone, after the winds

Cleaned up your wounds and guessed all the hints

Sucking on mmmmmmmmm minty mints

Leaving no trace, no foot prints,

When, you’re far, you, are, far,

And there’s no such device to reach your lonely planet

And it falls so fast and hard

Wherever you are, wherever you are

'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.