We bonded over
being broken

Watching other missing
puzzle pieces drink
their weekend away

We belonged perfectly,
sitting at the bar

Words became pictures,
the commotion our score

Glasses drained

Tipped

We were out
the door

I stand here;
outside my balcony
amidst darkness
in the company
of loneliness

My soul impertaburbly
trapped between forlornness
and peacefulness


Yin and Yang perhaps,

Forlorn because the soul,
wounded and damaged perniciously by loneliness..

And peace;
because the herb...
well the herb heals
to some extent

My vessel the arena

On a forbidden course
Yang battles Yin
the odds are in his favor
THC to Yin is like aconite to wolves;

And so he weakens with every hit

The melee ends
like it was destined to
tranquil and pure bliss prevail

At that moment;
the wind starts to sing her song

Calling, whistling to his lover
the king of the night
she whistles a beautiful song
that sounds of a gentle breeze
zephyr like pushing aside clouds that
guard his majesty;
grandiosely his image is revealed
in the nightlife

Observe they all gather under the nightsky;
selenophiles
far away from each other
all in different worlds
but it's this energy that coheres them here
together

The wind starts to sing
the song of halcyon,
ogling at the moon
in veneration and exhilaration
selenophiles danced away into the night.

Sleeping after sunrise!
Living in the night!
I know it's not wise!
But you hate to play in light!
Madness in the head!
Songs playing on low!
Jumping on your bed!
When are we gonna grow!
In the cold night, in the warm fight!
We promise to hold on to each other tight!
We won't drift apart or at least we'll try!
We end in a misery Eventually and we cry!

       -Vivek!

open shirts
v-necks
chest hair and lifted *******
clinking of whiskey glasses
***** tonics and happy faces
a weekly dose of binge drinking
“How you liking the weather?”-s
or maybe something deeper
the taste of bitters
no body odors because nobody communicates anymore
****** and score sellers outside ignored
a core of warmth in a cold city
self-pity or lacking any
introverted synchronicity or simply just *******
something to poke a hole in the monotonous
next morning crusted tear ducts and pounding heads
six more days left
to good health and all the best


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow