A fat, overgrown man sits.
His body sinks,
slow,
into the chair.
The chair legs creak,
crack,
under his weight.
Silence slides in,
settles,
presses,
thick as his bulk.
The room is empty.
He fills it.
A heavy, motionless figure.
All weight.
All stillness.
No drift.
Not a man.
A state
is here.
Inertia.
Stuckness.
Build-up.
A butterfly circles his face.
Wide.
Bright.
Brown.
Green.
Blue.
Yellow.
Lightness.
Impulse.
Change.
So fragile.
Still alive.
He stiffens.
He swats at it.
Snaps,
“Get away, butterfly!”
It slips into his space.
Into his
swollen,
red,
soft,
fleshy,
sagging
mouth.
He starts to choke.
As if they are not
compatible.
The mouth is not a body.
It is an exit.
Speech.
Breath.
Expression.
Not destruction.
Disintegration.
From his mouth
gold, glowing petals tear out
torn butterfly wings,
lit from inside,
bursting out,
spilling out,
like fireworks,
out
of the mouth
of a big,
crooked,
puffy,
gaping,
greedy
thing.
I am afraid
he will swallow it
and the butterfly will die.
A living impulse
inside a heavy system
dissolved into the familiar.
He chokes on a cough.
It looks as if he will lose his breath.
His mouth twists,
stretching his face.
I am afraid
it will **** him.
The mirror flips.
The butterfly is no longer weak.
Now light is dangerous.
Golden petals keep
flying out from his
mouth.
I am not part of this.
I do not save the butterfly.
I do not save the man.
01.02.2026
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 10:05 AM UTC
An old-fashioned café, nothing new,
A corner table, curtains half-see-through.
You order coffee, dark and warm,
I take a glass of water, simple form.
A plain clear glass, no ice, no shine,
You talk. Your words dissolve in mine.
They hit the glass, sink, then sway,
Soft little ripples in what you say.
I dive into the glass with my eyes,
Follow the patterns as they rise.
Spinning, turning, losing track,
Like rivers that don’t look back.
How fast the time escapes our talk,
Dripping slowly down the wall.
Water fills me through and through,
You know, you could bathe in me too.
So I would touch you everywhere at once,
With every surface, every pulse,
Kiss you with lips still wet with rain,
Hold you in drops I can’t contain.
Hold your breath, don’t let it go,
Dive into me, dive in slow.
Hold your breath, stay right here,
Dive into me, don’t fear.
I close my eyes and feel the space,
I hear the water sweeps and sails.
Even in your coffee cup I see
Drops instead of what should be.
No reflections, only flood,
Today I’m made of bloodless blood.
It drips from ceilings, soft and slow,
Filling the corners where we never go.
And when I finally slip away,
You don’t call me back to stay.
Hold your breath.
Stay right here.
Dive into me.
Don’t fear.
I spill to streets, through doors, through lanes,
Collecting puddles left from rains.
My sense of self turns blurred and wide,
Too many waters mixed inside.
I try to clear what I see,
But all is muddied endlessly.
The different waters blend and twist,
The world can’t be so simply fixed.
An old-fashioned café.
Your coffee’s cold.
My glass is empty.
Nothing can hold.
But hold your breath.
Stay right here.
Dive into me.
Don’t fear.
23.01.2026
https://fehta.blogspot.com/2026/01/a-glass-of-water.html
Jan 24
Jan 24, 2026 at 12:41 PM UTC
I’ve learned Past Simple
for many long years,
but somehow it sleeps
and never appears.
A Brit begins to speak,
their words fly,
turning to drifting sounds
that pass me by.
“Didja go t’th’ shop?” — they say.
I freeze.
“Sorry… I don’t even understand”.
“Wotcha up t’nigh’?
S’Fri, innit — fancy ‘it’n pub?”
I blink, confused, like:
“Could you repeat that, please?”
“If ya din’ know,
I been graftin’ all wk...
Graftin’, bruv!”
And I stand there thinking:
Sorry, guy…
but what do you mean?
I smile, nod wisely —
classic survival mode.
Pretending I caught
at least one word.
Many years of grammar
gone in a single line:
the hardest English
is spoken…
just fine.
28.11.2025
Dec 3, 2025
Dec 3, 2025 at 9:23 AM UTC
Give me your hand, my friend —
don’t fall, a reward awaits.
Give me your word, my friend,
don’t silence what your soul creates.
This wall of sunset’s glow
hasn’t shone for a long while, I know,
yet still we stand, although
our threadbare faith runs low.
We walk on dead leaves now,
from gardens once in beauty grown,
that fell from every bough…
But please don’t fall, don’t fall… don’t fall alone.
Give me your hand again —
a reward awaits us there,
as soon as we reach the end
of that eternal sunset’s air.
Give me your hand… your hand…
don’t fall, my friend — hold tight.
A reward awaits, and in the sky so clear and grand
a white letter will be written bright
by white clouds drifting slow,
and in the heaven’s trembling gleam
all of our names will float and flow,
and swim, and swim, and swim.
19.11.2025
Dec 3, 2025
Dec 3, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
If you know her — and I’m sure you do —
then you probably know a thing or two:
how an eagle can **** a goat,
how to fight a swan and keep afloat,
how to take the red coat from the wardrobe’s war —
she tells me the same each time, once more.
If you know him — and I’m sure you do —
he fought malaria, cancer too,
survived two crashes, bones and skin,
but couldn’t quite survive within.
He took his gun and said, “Well, son,
that’s interesting — how it works?” And he’s gone.
For her, a man’s a Kinder Surprise:
first, the thrill — then rolling eyes.
“Oh, that one? I’ve had before.”
And she swaps him for one more.
If you know her — and I’m sure you do —
then you probably see it all too.
(And if not — just wait, you’ll get the clue.)
08.11.2025
https://fehta.blogspot.com/2025/11/if-you-know-her.html
Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 9:22 AM UTC
A room. A ceiling. Walls. A lamp.
A meaningless, dim light — so damp —
shudders softly in the corner,
as if it lay there, growing colder.
Beneath the gray old sweater’s fold
the shirt’s pale ghost lies, faint and cold.
The mesh curtains tremble, sway,
in drifting air — then fade away.
A frosty, heavy, nameless presence
touches — cold, with bone-like essence.
Fear and panic — raw and bare.
Paralysis. I’m bound by air.
A vast shadow, crawling, grows,
along the wall — and upward flows.
It rises, presses, nears the ceiling —
Breath falters. Numbness keeps on stealing.
Who are you? What are you, still?
The pull grows stronger — bends my will.
The ceiling shatters, cracks apart —
a gray, mute presence floods my heart.
We are equals. He knows me well.
Who I am. Who he is — no need to tell.
He looks, and memories arise —
of time and place — of long goodbyes.
We part like friends who’ve met before.
And longing fills me, to the core —
like summer dusk in northern air,
in Petersburg, when light hangs there.
The room. The lamp. The walls. The ceiling.
The dim light curls — its glow retreating.
The window creaks. The sound is gone.
No one is here. I stand — alone.
01.11.2025
Nov 3, 2025
Nov 3, 2025 at 8:56 AM UTC
I thought she liked him,
but it was the other way round.
He changed — or was changed —
into something never found.
No one really knows that song,
the thrum beneath the dark —
but once you’ve heard it,
you’ll know the mark.
Some say he’s gone,
some say he runs,
chasing dawn
through dying suns.
But if you drive too far, too late,
and feel the engine start —
don’t fear the road,
it’s just his spark.
Monster heart,
rolling loud,
Burning fast,
lost in the crowd.
Iron dreams,
gasoline skies,
Freedom screams
through broken ties.
Neon ghosts
in rearview glass —
every road
eats what he was.
Monster heart,
doesn’t fall apart —
fire was always
his truest art.
Ashes fall,
midnight rain,
every scar
still knows his name.
Chrome and bone,
engine cry,
he was born
built to die.
Through the smoke,
the mirror stares —
It’s him again,
but no one cares.
Monster heart,
beat and burn,
Every end
waits his return.
02.11.2025
Nov 3, 2025
Nov 3, 2025 at 8:55 AM UTC
The tops of trees are crowned with fire:
yellow, red — their brief desire.
Leaves falling, falling, one by one,
the year grows old, the warmth is done.
A sadness pulls them, soft, profound,
down, down — to meet the ground.
They don’t expect miracles anymore —
everything’s happened all before.
The wind sweeps them through fields and sand,
to borders cold, to no-man’s land.
It whispers low, with voice of bone,
“You fall — but never fall alone.”
The earth receives them, dark, wind-blown,
all that returns — will feel like home.
In sacred sleep, they dream again —
forever, ever — leaf and rain.
09.10.2025
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 9:52 AM UTC
Summer is burning,
Autumn is closing,
Winter is coming,
Spring is dozing.
And I am never waiting
for the fifth season —
the one unending,
for some reason.
Too much noise
through the wires of the world —
sirens, prayers,
and smoke unfurled.
Bombs bloom high
in the broken sky,
and death crawls slow
where children hide.
February’s breath
has lasted three years,
still cold in the lungs,
still tasting of fears.
Shadows waltz
in a red-lit glare,
and horror counts
each whispered prayer.
I turn off the screen,
but it hums in my head —
thousands still alive,
thousands dead.
Come —
to my voice,
where ashes bloom instead of flowers,
where the wind turns woolen
and silence towers,
and all tears of the world
gather into one hold.
And the fifth season —
keeps staining —
for no reason.
10.10.2025
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 9:50 AM UTC
Do you know this time —
between middle August and autumn?
It’s a dainty line,
before wool replaces cotton.
Nights come earlier, day by day;
I sip my tea — you play.
Your melody pulls me back:
I am five, leaves fall, ice crystals crack.
The sky, as always, fiercer than before.
You play “Devojačko kolo”, more and more.
A lake sleeps deep inside the blaze —
Leaves burn and fall, while forest sways.
In this cold season of glowing fire —
We are Kolodancing, we are Entire.
11.10.2025
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 9:50 AM UTC