Monday love song

I woke up on Monday

‘n wrote you a love song

But I’ve just remembered-

I heard you whisper goodbye;

into the heart of last night

– my pen stopped bleeding

my notes flew away

taken up with the current

not sinking to the ground

You said goodbye to your lover

your lips and words etched

on mine –  that love song –

I can’t read aloud anymore

270°

Useless map in my hands, gripped and folded neatly

It’s not where I’m supposed to be, not even nearly…

Where I’m going roads aren’t leadin’, but still needed.

There will be elementary darkness, when greeted –

Solid shadows from the balanced side of hell

lighting up torches of flesh, judging by the smell…

Nothing will flash its presence, to where I belong-

like crumpled up paper – my body won’t respond,

killing synaptic inferno, chemical burn dying

no more sparks to be gathered to a lightning

no more sweet moans, or arching back, no grace

nothing left to be released, diffused into open space…

Capture the blazing oblivion in irresistible pain!

Blinding gaze of ignorance … so stupid and vain.

the name of the morning star

I’m in love with the morning star

This is not only about me, my stories, or my search.

It’s about the sky and the stars, and everything behind that deep blue void. Behind that distance, the stone cold space, deprived of… meaning?

No.

That’s not right.

It isn’t the lack of meaning.

It is me, always ending up with the question after some sense. I keep missing it. Not the space. The sky above my head lacks a subjective viewer. Which is not a deficiency.

Well, how should I explain? I’ll try to make it simple…

I’m in love with the morning star. This would be my first line, if I were to sum up my life in three sentences.

All began with a poem I once heard, very long time ago. I can’t recite it to you. Different reasons. Firstly I was very young- too young to remember correctly, second – it’s in a foreign language I cannot translate properly.

The poem was about a prince, always looking up into the starlit sky. It was always a bright star, which attracted his attention. A bright star with light, sparkling like silver or precious gems, a fire, which he thought it, was different from all the others. That light touched his heart, and he dreamed, that that star was a beautiful woman with silver hair and a face white, shining like frozen snow in moonlight. Her glowing eyes made his pulse rush. And even before he could utter a word, he woke up.

For him, this was a sign. He knew that feeling inside his chest, the heat in his cheeks. It was called love. But of all things on earth, he fell in love with a star. He was happy, he knew love. But then he knew sorrow too. Day and night, he thought about those burning eyes, the white hair, the sparkling skin of her. The entire day he didn’t leave his new room in the highest tower of the palace, dozing like a cat, barely eating or drinking, spending the nights at the window, admiring the sky.

Oh, how he was jealous of all birds and insects with their ability to fly. He wrote poems, draw what he remembered of her, painted her face – trying to capture that unique fire.

Again he dreamed of her. His star. She had a sad look on her face. This time he spoke to her, recited a few verses from his poem. She smiled at him and nodded. “I love you,” he said, hoping for an answer. Her eyes brightened. He woke up.

———————-

– part 2: Love and sacrifice are only meant for mortals

pink dog

Her fingers played  with some pink post-it notes on her desk. She kept sticking their tales to one another. A blue pencil rolled away, nearly falling from the edge of the desk. She caught it right away.

The sigh she let hover around in her chest escaped. So bored.  Still… She felt exhausted. The ashtray was empty. She looked at it. Not a smoker, remember? …No. She did not remember. She was a supposed nonsmoker. Now she wondered if her guess was right. The truth was – she could not remember. At all.

That is the definition of amnesia, she told herself. So tired and annoyed by it all. The watch on the wall showed that the doctor was late. Already five minutes. She hated it when people were late. Something recoiled in her stomach. Enough waiting.

With the pencil she was playing, she started scribbling. Doodles of dogs… She surprised herself. They were pretty good. “Pink dog.” She said it out loud. Good looking dog.

“Do you finally remember something?” A familiar voice asked. Startled she looked up, and smiled, as she recognized Dr. Harold. She shook softly her head and formed a NO with her lips. For some reason she  did not want to hear her own voice. It seemed strange to her. Not only that – she did not dare to disturb the aura of her doodles on the pink post-its. Any sound could have snapped her out of that state; the state of whatever-there-was forming a  lump of gravity in her throat, chest and head…

She felt  like a forgotten clay lump in nearly human shape. Like a thing someone left on a potters wheel… And the clay waited to be finished, to become whatever it was meant to be. Sadly she had no idea who she was, or what she planned for herself. She smiled her little crooked smile at Dr. Harold.

“Tell me about it.” He pointed at the dog she made. “What’s its name?”

“Dog.” She repeated.

“Dog?! Why? That’s not a name.” He managed a throaty laugh, and let himself sink into the couch across her desk. “It’s a stupid name. Your name isn’t woman, or human, is it?”

“Not stupid at all.” She threw an angry glance at him.

Knocking.

Mike, the nurse, stuck her head in. “Pssst, doc. Seizure. Room 218.” She slammed the door. Dr. Harold put his coat on, and smiled at his patient behind her desk.

“Mary, could you draw me some more? They are pretty good. You’ve got talent. I’ll be back in couple of minutes.” He rushed out, closing the door more delicately.

Mary sighed and looked at the doodles. They were good, she had to admit. Somewhere in her useless head, there was talent hidden. Behind all that clutter. Somewhere. She just had to find something she could hold onto.

 

just for the records…

I guess I´m a lousy recorder.

I record what I want, capricious all the time. Letting half of it unsaid, half vaguely outlined, patches of anything (maybe nothing) in an obscure angle or hard light…

Even truth can be distorted by the viewer, if  he/ she is twisted enough.

Nothing wrong with that, but… There should be more to it, than just functioning perception, don’t you think?  There should be understanding, emphasis to the greater picture. – If there is any at all… 

I should be more interested in what´s beneath, than what’s not functioning. The luxury of existing. All waisted on maintaining efforts to look like everyone else does, functioning  on a daily schedule.

Yes, ma’am.  No, sir. Yes, sir. No, ma´am. Thank you. You´re welcome. Bless you. Have a nice day!

Don’t you feel disgusted too? 

I´d like to say that sincerely. Pathetic-little-me forcing myself into politeness. Scared of what anyone will think of me, judge me…

This is preemptive obedience.  

What a hateful thing…

See, I don´t get it! But this is nothing new.  Most of the time I’m just wondering why I did what I did.

´Cept the functioning part. I understand that pretty well. 

Is love love?

I wonder… What kind of love is this? Giving. Going. Grieving. Unable to touch the glassy surface of truth – only the dust of yesterdays. Always yesterdays. Never tomorrows – that is something to grieve about.

A black box. Itching in my fingers to cut it open. The sounds it makes when shaken, like the rattling of a snakes tail. Bare little bones clinking together. A small dead animal buried in my head.

What kind of love is this? What kind of us? Mysteries are ought to be solved- aren’t they? But this enigma is poised. And I am the one, who cuts herself?  – Accidentally. Let me believe it, at least. For a while.

A mystery is destined to be solved… Or sold. Either way. Never letting go. Never satisfied. Never. Trusting.

What kind of love is this?

I wonder…