"mielnikow" 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
Do you remember the night I came
down, and you were sitting on the
windowsill? One leg up and the
other left hanging, in one of your
white oversized shirts and your
hot-pink pajama pants. Outside
the snow fell like feathers, blue
in the moonlight and black in the
shadows, with a tinge of orange
from that annoying nearby streetlight.
You looked at me, saw me in my
blue boxer briefs and teal t-shirt,
and you didn’t say a word, and
neither did I. Neither of us had
to. I sat down beside you, a mirror
image, and we stared with deafening
expressions. The snow piled on
like feathers strewn across the
room of two lovers too happy to
control themselves. I looked into
the darkness, and you glanced at
the orange sun tainting the solemn
blue hue. And then you turned away,
walked away. I stayed, watching
the snow fall in the dark.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 9:33 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
Tonight's the night
We fight or die
And you can bet
It will be violent
But the aggression
That we have to bring
Is the only chance we have
To make a change.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 5:32 PM UTC
Dear daughter of mine
Let’s spend time down by
the lake, and watch the frogs
hop from place to place, and
giggle at the geese as they
make their noisy honks and
eeks. And know that I will
always love you.
Small daughter of mine
Let’s crawl through our fort, and
afterwards eat popcorn. But only
if you have finished your homework.
I know you hate it. But how else
are you going to learn?
Little daughter of mine
Don’t fear my wrath from that C in
math. We’ll figure this out, and
you did your best. I won’t deal
onto you what was dealt onto me.
And please bear with me as I try
to explain why you have begun to
bleed.
Lovely daughter of mine
Coming home drunk and muddy
from prom. Sure, I’m not happy,
but I know the song and dance.
I still love you, but go wash
your ******* pants.
Superb daughter of mine
I’m letting you go so you
can claim a new place as
your own. But don’t be afraid.
They are all strangers before
they are friends. And please
behave and leave heavy drinking
to be my forte.
Wonderful daughter of mine
You’re all on your own now, yet when
you visit home you tell me of how he
touched you wrong. I hold you tight
and we both cry. Someone touched me
that way too, and I promise together
we’ll make it through. And I still love you.
Terrific daughter of mine
Your career is on the rise.
And that great guy you have
met seems rather nice. I hope
that fate keeps her eyes on
you and gives you good fortune
in all you go through.
Amazing daughter of mine
Thanks for sharing your pain.
I‘ve been just the same, and I
know suicide more than most and
more than you’ll ever realize.
Don’t take your own life. I will
stay on the phone with you
through the night. I love you.
Beautiful daughter of mine
You said yes, didn’t you?
Hold my hands and let us
have this dance. Twirl around
the room as we ought to do.
I know you know I love you.
And I know that *******
blonde-haired ******* loves
you too.
Stupendous daughter of mine
Now you are all grown. We’ve
sown the seeds for you to be
happy and to keep your peace
of mind. Keep doing what you
do well. I am so proud of you,
and I know your mother would
have been proud too.
Daughter of mine
I’m no longer around. My reckless
self-disregard caught up with me
and brought me to the ground, and
you’ve laid me to rest. But you
don’t have to cry. Just keep the
sweet memories of me as your sweet
daddy deep in your brain. And please
keep an open heart. I love you, I
love you, I love you. Tell all your
children the same.
Dear daughter of mine
We spent time down by the lake, and
watched the frogs hop from place
to place, and giggled at the geese
as they made their noisy honks and
eeks. And all I hope is that you
knew that I would always love you.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 9:34 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
My palms in my pockets jingle
the keys to my cave as I make
my way to wherever I’m going.
My legs propel me, and my feet
dodge cast-off gum and dog dung.
And on my head rests a fishbowl.
An extra load on my skull,
but I don’t mind. I rather
like this bowl. It gives me
a barrier, and though thin,
the glass has yet to crack.
I hear my voice resound,
bouncing around the tiny
space, and I smell my breath,
minty fresh and foggy, and
through the fog the world and
its creatures are phantoms.
When I’m addressed, it’s like
floating in frigid freshwater
as they call for me from
the sheet of ice above.
They suspect I’ve lost
my soul in the fishbowl,
yet as year after year
goes by, I feel just fine.
I am an astronaut taking
a space walk, drifting around
and watching the universe
unfold under a sheet of glass.
And when I close my eyes,
I am in a womb, or a coffin,
and I often can’t tell the
difference, nor find much
of a reason to tell.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 2:43 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
I walked alone that night,
Uphill through the snow.
And when I arrived at the place
Not a single face did I recognize.
I got a beer and sat around,
Looking down so it wouldn't seem
Like I was staring.
The ice in my frozen nerves
Became blacker than the roads
Outside that I drove here on.
And this is why I wish I
Was truly dangerous. No one
Would ignore me, yet nobody
Would venture too close. I'd
Be an animal in a zoo.
But instead I'm a scared,
Lost puppy stuck in a
Land of lions and snakes.
But I poker-faced it so when you
Finally arrived, the little
Loud part of me crying for a
Place and body and mind
I could love instead of
Loathe withered away. Or
So I thought. I ought
To know better by now.
All it took was another
Chance not taken, and
I lost all the chips again.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 5:34 PM UTC
Little spiders crawl on me as I try to
sleep. But I pay them no mind. They’ve
wandered around here for years,
claiming their deserved space, though
I’m sure they’ve been around long
before I moved in. I used to freak out
as their tiny legs made the trek across
one shoulder to the next and down my
arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. It
was like a muzzle ****** to the back
of my head, or the first time soft,
caring fingers made their way across
my undressed skin. But now I could not
care less. These little ******* are
now my friendly acquaintances, and
they crawl around all they want.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 2:16 PM UTC
"If it has nothing to do with me
Then why should I even be here?"
That sounded far more narcissistic
Coming out of my mouth. But
I meant exactly what I said, and
I knew exactly what I meant.
I knew exactly what I meant.
-
By Aleksander Mielnikow
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 2:29 PM UTC
She’s trying to fly with
crippled wings and join
her dreams together with
guitar strings and when
she sings she sings her
songs of how she tries
to get along with the long
harsh road she’s been
wandering on as she tries
to fly with crippled wings
and join her dreams together
with guitar strings
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 4:54 PM 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
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
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 6:09 PM 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
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