in the dark
the sound of neighbors
miss Dark drinks oranges and peaches.
her struggle with a hot iron will end when the brim reaches the knee.
twisting naughty curls with her fingers
peaches floating. oranges flowing.
enjoying the solitude
always something's missing.
there is no thoughts in her head to arise today.
This verse is about nothing.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
To be sure you’ve got everything you need.
Little fat ***** decorates her hair with flowers.
Little Miss Dark misses black.
It is way too shiny when she sleeps on the edge of her bed problems.
She covers herself with pillows and pills.
Gloomy days turned to be too light.
They’ve got nothing to be frustrated about.
they produce bunches of imaginary stings and sticks
to beat and hit and nail themselves to the floor.
Miss Dark got used to be too sad to be glad.
Buys cigarettes secretly and writes on covers of books
The parts of life that will never be revealed in any ever written story.
She collects tickets and failures.
Increase in number erases difference.
She is the one
Not trying to find something in common.
Lone. Separate.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
He said “you’re beautiful inside”
What it supposed to mean?
I think I just can’t see those things
that he is tend to see.
Of course I cannot see them.
My eyes are tightly closed,
my eyes are covered with my forehead
that’s tensioned on my nose.
“You’re beautiful inside,
I’m gonna prove.
But you should calmly lie
and please don’t make a move.”
He doesn’t care about my voice,
the language that I spoke,
about my dress,
about my face
and feeling they evoke.
He said “you’re beautiful inside”,
and made three deepest cuts.
Now he can see what’s inside me:
my lungs, my spleen, my guts.
He put his hand beneath my heart,
his fingers slowly shrunk.
With other hand, so calmly,
he dug into my flank.
He does not care that I'm too heavy,
My vessels he likes more.
He said they’re cleaner than they could be.
The inner beauty of the sore.
My mind does not seem spoiled to him,
or crazy, weird or strange.
he said that nothing wrong with me
He wouldn’t let it change.
I told him I am dull.
There’s something he can find
cutting out my nerves.
I’d rather he was blind.
He doesn’t know what I
was doing all night long,
that I was drawing kidneys
with arteries beyond.
The only thing he does
is wash away my blood
from table and his shoes
to give another cut.
I’m paralyzed and sliced,
my skin is livor mortis.
Spread out on the table
small pieces of my cordis.
He does not think I stink.
For him I’m full of stories.
He’s making notes with knifes
He cuts away my worries.
He cuts hearts on my knees
Love letters made by stings.
With quiet me he’s playing
tic tac toe on my hips.
He has got to the heart of me,
studied my every cell.
disassembled and gathered back,
sewed neatly. He did that well.
He said “beautiful inside”
But nothing about the rest.
Thank you autopsist
You have seen in me only the best.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
You know,
if you are in the darkness
long enough
items acquire
unusual form and content.
You know,
if you wake up in the dark,
it doesn’t become lighter
even in a half an hour,
even when the sun is high overhead.
I'm used to your silhouette in the dark.
Only the monitor and feeble light from the next room
illuminates your face.
I'm afraid when the light is up
I'll see how old you are,
how weak are your hands,
how fragile are your bones.
I'm afraid to be afraid to hurt you.
As if a light touch to the cheek
can break the heart.
We hide under the veil of darkness and drama
and you say, everything will be fine,
yet no one can see our faces.
You know,
when fall asleep under the neon lights,
it reminds of a pathologist’ table,
every night I am revealed
while I dream.
In the morning I am sewed neatly.
Just forget to remove the tape out of my eyes.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
15 minutes took me away to the forest,
Tied to a tree and left a glass of milk for me.
Civilization touches these places just to tell people the bad news.
My heavy boots still slip on the ice.
As well as those whose heels I am pursuing this cold morning.
Haste and noise to the right. Gray asphalt does not heat even at a speed of 150 kilometers per hour.
Colors do not encourage, even after they are washed and polished.
The snow and the silence to the left.
I twist my head to the left and right, but I do not know where to look.
Therefore lower my eyes down and look at my hands.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
Everyone dies in the end and there is nothing we can do about it.
Yes, we’re holding people’s life in our hands but it is just a pass that Life and Death do playing their game or maybe it is only their job.
We hold it until Death can take it and put into a garbage bag and
in the early morning wearing a robe, yawning come on the porch, waiting for the garbage truck to pick up and take away all that rotting mess called humans.
No, we are not even holding life, but only fleetingly touch it with our pinky.
even if it was in our hands, it would just seep through our fingers like water or sand.
it is way too unstable. Any force of nature cannot make it durable.
any freezing or burning cannot make it stronger.
none of names or monuments are not able to hold the breath in the body.
Nothing can make Death not put that black bag on our head
and not tie it tightly that none of atom of our breath, not even a part of the molecule that comprises the scent of our decaying bodies is not leaked into the fresh air
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
Our love is just biological and physiological.
It is too many of prefixes.
I need less BIO-logy and more LOGICal.
When our bodies are moving together you bite my neck and I say **** I hate this song”
We are not real.
Five minutes later you’ll be texting with someone else
And I’ll be occupying my new private room – kitchen.
we no longer hear each other, we just listen.
No longer see each other, just watch and look through.
All that remains in common between us is only dishes
and then it was me who bought it.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
Love.
Love is not a box of chocolate
that you can eat, digest and pour into the toilet.
it is not a flower that dries or rotten in moldy water in the vase.
it is not a piece of a cardboard with a painted heart,
Which lies in the bottom drawer,
As long as you do not make up your mind to throw it away.
Love is not a one day in which you're in panic sweep from the store shelves all
Which, according to the companies and corporations are best fit the description of deep feelings.
it is not the teddy bears, candles and **** lingerie.
Love is not red or pink.
It does not smell of marshmallows and roses.
My love is rather black as coffee and ashes.
It is probably transparent
As the monitor screen through which I read you and your thoughts.
It smells of books and smoke.
My love makes each day meaningful
but turns life into nothing.
Love is not the ability to see all the flaws and be willing to accept them,
But the capacity through a long time still do not pay attention on them.
My love is a jump into the abyss, holding hands,
not unclasping them, even when a clash with water breaks your legs.
Love is not a merging into one,
but the opportunity to be yourself.
Love is to let your beloved breathe calmly,
Even when you want to bind him and keep him in your basement,
If only he was always there.
Love is the ability to cope with yourself when you're drunk and your hands are reaching out for the phone.
No, love is not a one day
or a lifetime.
This is at least the part of life,
But the most striking and sad.
Therefore, today is an ordinary day,
Such as tomorrow, the same as yesterday.
And I love you today, no more and no less,
the same as tomorrow, as well as yesterday.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
Monosyllabically play smells.
With coffee and cigarettes
hands and sounds.
Mine with oranges. yours with *****
You left them all entangled in my hair.
I breathe in and you again.
Again you look at me with a smile and sorrow.
We depend on the people and circumstances.
enjoy with alcohol abuse and insomnia.
When the last strangers' step out of the room we breathe out in silence.
The words too much for too short time,
that's why we wait untill each one comes back to write.
Until each one of us is covered with the night.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
I am running marathon alone.
I have no one to compete.
No one to bet on me.
I am at the finish line.
I see a red ribbon in the end floating on the wind.
No one greets me with a camera at the ready.
No one has his hand on the neck of a bottle of champagne, ready to explode.
No one watches me from a helicopter.
Only the rare passers threw me bottles of water
I don't have time to catch them.
I got exhausted. I've come a long way.
I am running alone.
No audience, no sympathy.
Soon my chest will meet the red ribbon
and I hear the crack of it.
With the sound of invisible applause I go to the store for wine
and drink from the cup of victory in the empty kitchen
a winner’s sip
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 8:42 AM UTC