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Miss Clofullia Sep 2017
I am a simple man –
I still enjoy the lost art of
washing your hands before and after
using the bathroom,
I find courage in the occasionally tap on the back,
when everything goes dark,
and the back alley looks like a modern piece of art.
I try not to live the same day over and over again, but,
somehow, I end up making the same mistakes,
closing all the doors that are left open
for me.
I’m never early to a party.
I’m never late, either. I just don’t get invited anymore.
When I was little, I was mesmerized
by the choir of voices in my head –
now I’m just irritated by their meaningless noise.
The 4 rooms seem smaller and things are moving like crazy –
it’s like an earthquake inside this heart of mine
that’s behaving from time to time
like a lady with high heels and low standards.

I am a simple man –
I manage to complicate everything
in the simplest way.
Miss Clofullia Sep 2017
It’s one of those nights…

You end up lying in your bed,
making eye contact with the ceiling,
random feelings running through your mind.
You’re thinking that they can easily be part of a great poem –
one that you’ve always wanted to write,
one that will make you proud – probably the only REAL poem that you’ll be able to write in your life.

You start to get cold.
You get up and fetch an extra blanket. And some thicker pajamas.
You get all curled up in your attempt to fall asleep.
You are still cold.
Maybe you’re dying!?!

You take your phone and google sudden death symptoms
Chest Pain.
Nothing about being cold.
Maybe you’re finally becoming an adult and you’re transforming into this cold blood grown-up that doesn’t give a **** about anything
anyone has to say.
Yeah! That must be it!

You turn and turn and turn
and end up on your stomach,
smothering an old pillow under your right arm and
your inability to become someone under the other one.
Sleep refuses to penetrate you,
even though you’ve clearly sent him signals across the table all night long.
You even laughed at all his jokes,
you touched his knee,
you’ve certainly made yourself available to him!
You get blue dreams.
Huge, round, wide awake dreams,
Filled up with testosterone and lust.

It’s 3.34 AM.
At this point, you’re in the bathroom,
Eating up the latest Ikea catalogue.
Tomorrow, you will wake up alone in your head,
like a polaroid picture that gets stuck inside the big camera –
you will wake up without falling asleep.
Tomorrow is today.

You get in the shrink’s office without knocking.
What’s wrong? he says.
You don’t answer.
He looks at the quiet version of you for an entire hour
and comes up with a diagnostic for your problem.
He even writes it down so you wouldn’t forget:
Dream Paralysis - Powerlessness of imagining true life. Impossibility of living fake dreams every day.
Am I right?
You don’t answer.

He isn’t right.
You aren’t alright.

You pay up and go.
Poker would have been fairer for you at this point.
***** it!

You get back home.
You’re tired of trying to fall asleep so you decide to climb.
You’ll try to get on top of your dreams
and sleep won’t try to ******* in any other position!

Tonight’s gonna be one of those nights...
This is gonna be one of those poems.
Miss Clofullia Aug 2017
Here’s to all the people that photobomb my holiday pictures,
unsuspecting exhibitionists in my summer memories.
After a while, I become fonder of them than of the places I’ve visited.
They now seem to know me better than most of my friends and relatives,
we start sharing secrets and unspeakable thoughts,
we become connected by an invisible red line,
that passes through all the virtual mess
and intimate celluloid of our afterlife.

I’m sure that somewhere,
in Russia,
or maybe in the Czech Republic,
there’s some poor *** schmuck that’s working up the nerve
to ask me out for a drink
or for some pasta,
not caring that I’m rushing through his photo,
on my way to a public restroom,
or a bar that serves all you can eat, drink and love.

The photos holding the proof of my existence in a certain moment
are facing the ground,
while their owners rehearse their speech
in front of the mirror,
leaving me and all the other tourists through life
behind the black hole library shelf,
in perfect equilibrium,
not knowing if I’m coming or leaving -
an impersonal group of pixels and dots, on a white piece of character.

Here’s to all the strangers in my heart!
Here’s to all the hearts to whom I’m a stranger!
Miss Clofullia Aug 2017
I always wondered what it would be like if,
one of those "famous internet people"
would start liking me,
hitting each and every one of my posts
with one of their virtual emoji reactions,
sharing my words
and my soul
all over their sordid walls,
making me trendy and clickable,
part of the same pretentious content
that they're always displaying.

Will I feel sick
(like I do every time I read what they're sayin' in their trendsetter social media universe)
or will I feel proud?

Will I think that is a terrible waste of good procrastination or will I smile?

Will I roll my eyes,
after looking at their "common garbage"
or will I take a deep smell of the "beautiful bit flower that they seeded in their garden"?

Will I ever find out?
Will I have the will?
Miss Clofullia Jun 2017
You always said you believed in people,
even though they didn't always had faith in you.

You also said that your brain
does not believe in a primordial God  
but that your heart does.
It was always a matter of proximity,
with the brain being closer to the mouth and
pushing all of its messages..
the right messages.

You said that you weren't convinced by
the making of the cross sign
because it started with the brain
and ended with the heart -
people always remember the last part and never the beginning
you said.

But I knew you had it in you - the words
in the prayers you mumbled on the metro,
hoping that no suicide bomber went in the same direction,
in that moment,
helped you have a pleasant journey.
Yeah, I heard you.
It convinced me to not push the button.

the words came from the heart and,
by the time you got to the end of it,
your brain would have no other choice but to surrender.

Another victory.
Another loss. You pick.

May your non God not bless the non believers.

Miss Clofullia Jun 2017
Last night I dreamt that Google
was celebrating me
through one of its doodles.

It was the simplest of them all,
the most ordinary and vanilla -
common as a rock, low-pitched with a cherry on top.

You clicked on it and it didn't have any answers.
It showed nothing.

No sound was added,
no funky animations,
no gamification.

Corny and simple.

I think they did a pretty good job in celebrating me.
Miss Clofullia Jun 2017
Sometimes I Shazam random songs.
I don't even have to like'em or anything..
I just do it.
Press the big blue button and wait for it to do its job.
I'm always sad when it says it's sorry and returns no result.
"They didn't quite catch that. Try again". Who does?

Sometimes I Shazam random noises on the metro,
Hoping it will pick up the coolest soundtrack of a movie I'm in,
Just before the credits,
When everything goes dark - but not because of a random suicide bomber that hates life and wants revenge or something.
It returns no results and the TV suddenly goes louder in my head and there are 23 victims and we're all posting kittens on Facebook to show that we're not afraid.

Sometimes I Shazam my parents voices
while they're telling me how their day went
and I discover really cool indie artists
that make me listen to their work in a loop.

Once, I Shazamed your heartbeat while you were sleeping.
It returned my name.
Can't remember the album, but it had a nice cover photo.

I never Shazamed my own voice, nor my heartbeat.
I'm too afraid it'll show nothing worth listening to.

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