"alek" poems
I’ve never felt so tranquil
while so numb.
It’s like leaving while
staying still, a calm
pulse in nothing,
music without a sound,
*** without a body.
It’s an erasure of strides
in snow and slush,
a dissolving act,
the cackle of a
wholesome child.
Pure and imperfect.
Today,
I am drifting downstream,
riding the cherry blossoms.
And I’m not stopping this time,
I’m not checking out,
waking up or falling asleep.
The stars will kiss me and I
will drink their light.
I am no longer afraid.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Dec 31, 2019
Dec 31, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
∞
corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out
∞
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
Old breadcrumbs litter the placemat where
my little one had sat that morning.
That morning I told her she was running too
late to finish the PB&J with fine
pineapple pieces she had made for herself.
She gobbled the thing up in seconds, and with
a mouth still full she walked over and mumbled
bye. I wiped juice leaking out the corner, and
with a snort and a kiss to her forehead I
said see ya’, have fun. And with that she was out
the door, her red backpack one strapped like the
baseball boys did.
All that’s left are these breadcrumbs. I can’t
get myself to clean them up and throw
them away. I see them every day,
every meal, every middle of the
night as I peck on pineapple PB&Js.
As much as I know these crumbs must go, I don’t
regret for a second letting her eat that sandwich
the way she did. It was hell to raise such a rebel,
but she was never going to let anyone stop
her from what she wanted, including me. And she
makes me proud. I’ll clean it up eventually, but
for now, my little one’s breadcrumbs stay.
-
Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 1:25 PM UTC
clasped hands on snow covered hills
trails of blood down fresh cut legs
pain and love behind the big brown eyes
of a smiling freckled face embraced
flushed from crown to nape
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 4:33 PM UTC
It pretends to be one of us, but it’s not quite human.
It masquerades as a person, wearing skin that
mimics our flesh, with joints designed to rotate and
glide like ours. It listens to the changing cadences
and tones of our voices, measures our temperatures
and respiration and blinking rates, and then reacts.
And when it behaves, it does so on accumulated
data, learned and converted into best practices.
But it does not have fantasies. It fills its shoes
with synthetic muscle and steel but never wears
another’s. It does not look at birds and wishes
to fly, nor looks to the moon in hopes of someday
making the lengthy trek to wander the gray crust.
It pretends to be one of us, but it’s not quite human.
Not yet.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 2:07 PM UTC
I need you to call my name.
I want to hear it escape your throat.
You know my name. It is the one
that sounds like the stabbing of
steel shovels into sodden soil.
It is the one you addressed
on all those notes and letters.
Say it. Say it now.
Cry my name.
You will say it, even if
it spills from your teeth
and stains your ******* skin.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 2:32 PM UTC
Seagulls peck away at forgotten remnants.
A knot of women gossip and giggle
as they admire the young man up the shore
performing pullups, sweat rolling down
the lines of his back. Two men walk by
holding hands, sharing a kiss
before the sunset. A woman relaxes with
an erotic-mystery-thriller and a
Jennie of Morris Muscat all for herself.
And an old man lies on the sand, ****
and propped on his elbows, his toes tickling
the rising tide as he stares out into the sea.
He always hated his body. Hated being
underneath his skin, his fat, the hair
on his back, his inadequacies. This old man
plans to die here, in this new land, his senior
getaway. But at least he will spend his
final days at this beach, wetting his feet,
taking in the rising moon’s cool breath.
And he’s around people who understand
his need for freedom, who wouldn’t
make him feel ashamed for being him,
for just being born human.
A young man arrives, staying in the backshore.
He strips to his boxers and hesitates,
looking towards the waves for strength.
He then throws them off and plops down,
holding his knees to his chest, a smirk on his face.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 2:15 PM UTC
We meet on a
a crowded street
and stand still,
like a pair of boulders
caught in a river
surrounded by salmon
as they swim upriver,
flowing by and
paying us no mind.
Off to the side two men
share a meal al fresco,
laughing into wine glasses.
After what seems a lifetime
you touch my face,
and I touch yours.
And I remember
every minutia.
We've been apart
for so long,
and yet it's like
a garden revealed
when the snow melts.
The freckles,
the spots,
the creases
beside your lips.
And I watch with glee
your goosebumps
rise and can tell
by your smile
you can see mine.
"Get a ******* room!"
One of the men hollers
with a chuckle
as the other guffaws
and nearly chokes
on his bread.
We look to them
and laugh,
a laugh shared
by strangers
knowing love
when they see it;
of a shared humanity.
-
By Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 1:00 AM UTC
She wraps the presents with cheap paper
on the desk against the wall, lit by dim
Christmas lights. All the unwrapped toys
are in the pink plastic basket at her feet,
and she stacks the finished ones at the
foot of the bed.
I’m propped up on the pillows, touching
myself and stroking my chest as I watch
her work, charmed by how her bones
and muscles move beneath her skin. She
turns around with a finished gift and
sets it down. Her eyes meet mine and she
simpers, biting her lower lip, then turns
and picks up another toy.
I leave the bed, careful not to knock
anything off, and walk up behind her.
She keeps working on the present as I
pet her shoulders and brush my fingers
along her back. I press my body against
hers, wrapping my arms around her
waist and planting kisses on her neck.
She stops working and places her hands
on mine, tilting her head back and
letting her hair drape my shoulder. I
move my hand down her stomach and
across her hair, and I rub her. She huffs
and brings my other hand to her *******
beckoning me to caress her. I circle
tighter, faster, harder, and she moans
and reaches her hand back to caress me.
I nibble at her ear, and she lets out a
heavy moan, and I whisper in her ear
“You are a wonderful mother.”
Her breathing slows, and she nudges
my hand from her. “Don’t say that” she
whispers. We stand there, frozen, before
she continues working on the present.
I stay there behind her, realising my
best intentions were a mistake.
“I’ll just go then.” I put my clothes back
on and remove the trash bag from the
bin to take with me to make sure her
husband doesn’t find my condoms.
“Merry Christmas.” I close the bedroom
door and leave her home, careful not
to wake her kids.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Dec 25, 2019
Dec 25, 2019 at 2:19 PM UTC
The cold bodies rustled through the golden leaves of the forest as the young vampires Aleksandr, Lev and his sister Ana along with a handful of rogue vampires were searching for prey and the night was dark as the vampires hunted. They traced the prey’s scent until Ana raised her voice behind him, "Alek!", a lone werewolf lunged upon him as he opened his fangs to strike the werewolf with a fanged scratch to his muzzle, the werewolf then winced before vanishing into the woods as his brother Lev came up next to him and murmured “that was too close to the sun” as Ana agreed, “we were fortunate to have not killed the werewolf” and Aleksandr understood their words, for he knew that if he had slain the werewolf then the vampires and werewolves would enter war.
The gusts of wind had blown back Aleksandr’s long, wavy light ash blond hair as the group had returned to the cabin by the elder trees blanketed with green moss and were known by their branches that twisted, cascaded then descended as life and death itself. While the vampires spoke in the cabin, he walked out and started the path to the stream while his muscled arms lightly swayed to the music of the crickets in song. The stars shone as he reached the familiar waters, Aleksandr then heard the soft wings in flight approaching him as he witnessed his fairy companion Hilaera in flight towards him, he widened his scarlet eyes that sunk into the light of the moon as he smiled gently at her and called, “You have arrived at last, my beloved”.
Hilaera held her vampire close to her as he felt her scent of jasmine, wild berries and herbs, Aleksandr then ran his hand through her soft dark brown hair as her warm, magical light had floated upon them in their unity. As time had come to pass while the light of dawn slowly crept, Aleksandr sensed Hilaera’s flower-perfumed embrace in her kiss before she whispered to him “Often I muse, what do I mean in your heart, Alek"? The vampire glistened in his eyes and murmured, “You alone are love, that is the rose of beauty and thorns”. The two lovers felt the golden light falling upon the earth and Aleksandr was compelled to leave before he whispered to his lover, “Our goodbye is never forever” to which she returned in her magical voice, “Yes, for you are the moon to my petals as I am reborn in your arms” as they parted ways through the forest, for the sun awakens the earth and the moon lies in waiting for the lovers.
Apr 17, 2025
Apr 17, 2025 at 11:06 AM UTC
I pluck their wings,
like the tiny little
things they are, and
watch them squirm
for freedom as they
try so hard to fly.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 5:22 PM UTC
Is that danger in the distance?
Or do my eyes deceive?
****
Like dark clouds
gathering above mountains.
Like how the young see their futures.
(Though it's not like the world hasn't been ending
this entire time.
In billions of years the sun will explode.
In hundreds, our planet will be just dust and stone,
and the bones of industry.
And at my rate
I'll self-destruct by sixty years of age.
But) what is this thing that sticks and stings
and irks
like a mirage?
Not the flavor of fingers dipped in deliciousness.
Not the freshness of a newborn babe.
Not the scent of flowers.
Not feet in a hot bath.
Not fumbling a lovers face,
frolicking through foxglove fields,
flitting a fiery frevo,
finishing first.
No,
none of that.
It's not a thing,
but a feeling.
Fear
Fear
Fear
And it sticks and stings
and irks,
like a mirage.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 4:42 AM UTC
We finish digging our graves, dug
to what we consider three feet, but
we don’t worry about measurements.
These deaths are negligible.
Coated in dirt and sweat and heaving,
we gaze at each other. We both nod,
toss our shovels aside and walk over
to our bodies. He grabs his by the wrist
and drags it across the grass. I hoist
mine into my arms and shuffle over.
They’re both dumped into the graves,
and we fill both the holes. He walks to
his car without hesitation. I pause a
moment to glare at my grave, but I don’t
offer a eulogy or prayer, only standing
there in silence. I catch up to him, throw
my shovel in the trunk, and we drive off.
He drops me at my home, and I go inside
to find my wife watching TV. My wife? I
blink, trying to focus. Yes, she is my wife.
She says “Hey honey”, and I respond with
a low “Hey”, but she doesn’t look over,
does not notice the mess. I ***** up the
stairs, counting the steps, and start a shower.
As the water warms, the mirror reveals
someone familiar. No, not familiar, this is
me. I get under the warm stream, letting it
clean away what is left of me.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 7:02 AM UTC
*****
how would you like it
the bartender
sighs the lord’s name in vain
understood the slurred wittiness
wobble onto stool
****** over
joining the rest of the line
sweet
the sound
system jests that one song
about a breakup
puke on the sofa next to your carpet
it’s yellow
swayed hips
shoulders give way
diluted In and Out closed
turn over
moist
to the Devil’s dance floor
where a pretty ugly Frenchie took your wrist
foot strikes a patch of ice
popped cherry on a yellow wheel stop
get up dizzy
scrape on forearm
the impassionate spring fever
wrapped around neck
constrains body against
*****
hands stroked rock hard back
she asks if she could have a stick
reached into baggies
pulled out a yellow
she takes halo
you took halo
got into the convertible
a silent triumph when you insert your key
twist
---
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
Daniel Morecambe calls to his kidnapper from Venus
Hi, I am Daniel Morecambe, and you think you killed me
But you killed my body, but not my soul
I will always be up here in outer space
While you are rotting in your jail cell
I hope you stay there, cause I love teasing you
You see I am a kid, and your a man
I am a kid, and you are a man
And when I say man, just a age man
You aren't a normal man, but I will be a smart alek kid up here forever
You will never **** my soul dude
I want to sing this song, to all you would be kidnappers down there on earth
I am your victim, death doesn't shut me up
I can't have gags on my mouth anymore
You can't **** me, and mate, I am a kid, and your a man
I'm a kid and your a man, cool kids do what I do yeah
You aren't a cool kid, you are a evil kidnapper
Well, you are now under my power
You see, it's true, I am a kid and your a man
You will never catch me again
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
A mother sits on the edge
of a hospital bed with her
baby daughter lying on her lap.
The air throughout the hospital
is suffocating, stifling with the
stench of filth and death.
The walls amplify and echo the
anguish of women and children,
and jets fly somewhere overhead.
But she tries to sing a lullaby
through her parched throat
beneath her grubby niqāb. The skin
and bones that make her frame
cannot sway the child for comfort.
She cannot feed her; even if her
******* could provide sustenance,
the child’s sickness would puke it
back up. She craves to cry for God
to spare her little one, but her
bloodshot, sunken eyes no longer
produce tears. All she can offer is
her lullaby, the same one she sang
to all her children. All that remains
of them and their father are fragments,
scattered throughout dirt and debris,
blown to bits a week ago by a blast
in her village. When the only one left
became sick, she started the trek to
the nearest hospital. The journey
greeted her with dust and unbearable
heat, with the agony of an empty
stomach, with a child in misery and
excreting white diarrhea. And when
she finally reached the hospital, the
doctors could not provide treatment.
The disease had progressed too far,
and they did not have the means to
save her daughter. So she sits on a
hospice bed, surrounded by other
sickly and starving bodies, singing a
lullaby. Soon the child closes her eyes
and stops breathing, a thick white
drool leaking down her cheek. Her
mother wipes it away.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 6:00 PM UTC
Downtown’s sodium orange
penetrates the snow fog around us,
and the xenon sign outside this club
stains your teeth an electric blue.
There are bloodshot eyes behind puffs
of smoke as you **** on a cigarette.
Our feet ***** the salt and butts
under the slush as snow coats our
coats and your short, curly hair.
Your lips lap the tip for mere seconds
at a time, never leaving your lungs
full for long. I watch your chest rise
and fall with each burning breath
and imagine that coat curling away
and falling like ash. But I don’t smoke
and loathe the smell that lingers
betwixt my fingers.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 3:07 PM UTC
You drink milk
when all that’s served
is water and wine.
You ****** the throbbing
pulse of the night
with your contriving lips.
You dip into the
honey and you
bedizen your seat.
You leave a trail of blood
to lead you back to
where you are from.
You wink and
the world relents.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 2:39 PM UTC
The sun is napping behind a cloud,
though loud plane engines call her awake.
Pollen is prancing around the patch,
and tiny critters follow their lead.
A big dog lies on the patio,
his smelly body absorbing heat.
You rest here with a pen in your hand,
tossing small diamonds into the sand.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 4:01 PM UTC
We write prose in
the dead-cold Winter air,
where the old works we
cared for are frozen.
We buried their poets
in the dirt, along with
their bones, beneath
sleet headstones
of inscriptions meant
for the passerby.
Soon Spring’s rain shall
wash the prayers away, and
her warmth will deliver us
from poetry to life.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
I keep hearing the question,
“would you speak to a friend like that?”
No, I would not.
But
friend? What friend? Were we supposed
to be friends? I would never befriend
someone like this. Who suffocates me.
Who’s so toxic I’ve caught ***** in my
throat, eroding my will to breathe. Who
wields a heavy fist and punishes with
violence. Who lights silences with flames.
No, you are not my friend.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Dec 27, 2019
Dec 27, 2019 at 2:21 PM UTC
He proclaims this room as if it’s his throne
Igniting his body with his cologne
He presses the top like a wheel to a stone
Then leaves me behind all cold and alone
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 5:44 PM UTC
When we are breathing,
we share in our breath.
People are self-seeking,
and unless we play with
pragmatics, we can’t help it.
Yet we are helpless in
how bounteous we are.
When we are breathing,
we share in our breath,
and when we die,
we share in our death.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 2:13 PM UTC
I lay the stem and foot of the wineglass
next to the two Jennies of Morus Muskat
on the windowsill above the sink. One
is empty, the other has a glass left.
I sweep sprinkles of glass onto the blotched
paper towels in the trash, then put the
bin and the dustpan and hand brush away
beneath the sink. I glance out the window,
leaning open-armed against the counter,
and watch the tall grass dance to the breeze.
The setting sun brushes the blades and the
backyard and the dirt path, the porch resting in
a shadow. I leave the sink and grab a glass
from a cabinet and return. I pour the
rest of the Muskat, getting every drop.
I place the bottle on the sill and freeze.
She is standing on the porch in her
Santorini blue dress, the back stained in
crimson from the small crater in the back
of her head. The mush within her skull has
rot, fragments of flesh caught in her dark hair.
I clench my eyes, hoping she disappears,
but when I reopen she is still there.
I take a deep breath, letting the knots
escape my bones. I gulp down the glass and
walk out onto the porch. She doesn’t breathe
or sway, a statue peering into the
blades. Her lips are closed, her green eyes
unblinking and settled, mascara rivers
melted into her cheeks. Her expression feels
like the calm of the broken and numbed, of
those who have surrendered the fight. I say
hello, again. She looks at me, her eyes
unwavering. She glides over and skims
her cold fingertips across my throat and
down my arm as she leaves the porch, down the
dirt path to the edge of the grass. She turns
around and looks to me, and I follow
the path to her. As I stroll through the mist,
blue in the twilight, my heart pounds, though my
mind is clear and set only on her. I
reach her, and my breath has become shallow
as she stares into my eyes. She kisses me,
and it feels the same as it once had, but
I taste metal and am overwhelmed by
the smell of nitrocellulose. She turns
and steps into the field. I get a glimpse
at the hole, and see the decomposition
and the maggots that have burrowed, writhing
in the putrid flesh. She turns around, her
eyes closed, and she reaches her hand towards me.
I reach my hand out, but stop halfway. She
senses my falter and puts her hand down.
She opens her eyes, looking at me in
disappointment that I would not let her
lead me. She disappears, leaving behind
an emptiness only she could fill. I
remain paralyzed, my senses dulling,
my heart slowing. As always, I turn
around and follow the dirt path through the
clear morning air and rays of sunrise.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 8:55 PM UTC
Heard from within the static
An erratic fracture falling flat
Calling all the innocent out
Calling all the innocent out
Found whimpering in dimpled corners
Unearthing a second coming
Calling all the innocent out
Calling all the innocent out
Calling all the innocent out
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 5:44 PM UTC