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

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: 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!

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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