"mogu" poems
Today is about missing you,
About missing your spicy fresh perfume, that I'd begun to love,
About missing your plump fat nose, that I never managed to pinch,
About missing your intense and sometimes senseless banter, that I'd never get enough of,
About missing your attempts to reduce the amount of coffee I drink, that I unwillingly adhered to,
About missing the quarter piece of a jam toast, that you always saved for me,
About missing the way you calmed me down, when we faced storms together,
About missing how you took note of everything, a new hair clip, that I knew you'd like on me,
About missing your watch, which you never took off, because of what it meant to you,
About missing your stories, and the zest with which you narrated them,
About missing your photography, how you captured my best and worst moments, when I wasn't looking,
About missing our shared love for yogurt drinks, and how we analysed each one we drank,
About missing how you screamt 'Mogu Mogu' when you found your favourite drink, in my favourite café,
About missing your big hands, that were strong and gentle at the same time,
About missing those few drives with you, talking about everything and nothing,
About missing how you surprised me on my birthday, with chocolates and a scarf, that feels warmer than any other,
About missing your silly quirks, like carrying your backpack around everywhere, which only I understood,
Today is about missing you
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 3:53 AM UTC
Igor found himself producing the hot new reality podcast
about the first [known] father-son transgender family;
he only produced the pilot then left the States in disgrace
after homophobic thugs attacked the set & beat down
the cast & crew in a ****** riot captured live on multiple
hi-def cameras from the multiple angles
already set up for the extravagantly
over budgeted podcast [his master footage recorded
on multiple flashdrives
hidden all over his person - the podcast project
went ahead w/out him backed
by lucrative corporate funding, Igor editing
the original material into his next feature;
Eli lowered the tinted window & passed Igor the Cuban,
Igor lighting it on his way around to the passenger side;
YA ne mogu ostat'sya v Rossii, he says; why's that?
asks Eli, lighting his own cigar & driving off;
Boleye poloviny prestupnikov - gey; Eto stanet khorosho
izvestno; Eli waswatching the street, scouting for new talent;
u can't worry about that kind of **** Igor. u showed people
what those ******** are really about - - a bunch of angry ****
w/ shaved heads,
who knew; opening the sun roof,
Eli blew the Cuban's smoke
towards the Saint Petersburg sky;
Igor reclining the leather seat,
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filling his head w/ night
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 4:34 AM UTC
imam
40 godina
18 zuba
i
urasli umnjak
imam
sedu bradu
i
ćelavu glavu
imam
vremena
na pretek
i
udobne cipele
imam
sve prste na rukama
tako da
šetajući mogu da
stiskam šipak
u praznim džepovima
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
Koliko se puta moram uključiti u sustav i razoriti ga da bi dostigao neutralnost?
Jesam li ja sustav koji trebam razoriti?
Postoji li razlika između mene i svega oko mene?
Ako razorim sebe možda ću i svijet razoriti.
A onda se mogu ponovno roditi. Kao drugi sustav koji ima drugi zadatak. Jer moji je zadatak da razorim.
Mržnja, istinska mržnja dolazi iz ljubavi. Kao i potreba za osvetom. Možda mogu... i u ovom svijetu koji je lakše razoriti nego voliti..
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC
spušten sam do izbezumljenja
kolena čvrsto zakucanih za pod
poljuljanog pogleda
žulja me duša
razvagane mi psiha i afrodita
ne mogu
ni na jednu stranu
samo pravo
do iskupljenja
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
Sve počne kada nastupi tišina. Kada prestane svo šuškanje, lupkanje, svi koraci i kikot. Kada ostanem sama u svojoj sobi, u kojoj je jedini izvor svetlosti sveća sa mirisom vanile.
Tada, dok ležim pokrivena omiljenim mekanim ćebetom koje mi je poklonila baka još kada sam bila mala, tok misli me vodi u svetove za koje nisam ni znala da postoje. Ne osećam težinu svog tela, ne vidim više ni svetlost sveće. Veoma je slično snovima, ali ipak ne sanjam.
Odjednom, srce mi jače kuca, disanje mi se ubrzava i iz mira me izbacuju misli, koje sada ne teku, već jure kao da se takmiče koja će pre da dopre do mene. Nekim danima su to misli koje izgledaju kao polje maslačaka u proleće, obasjano suncem, u kom se čuje samo cvrkut ptica i moj smeh. Sa druge strane, moje misli mogu da izgledaju i kao sklop svih prirodnih nepogoda. Tada sklupčana sedim u uglu svog uma, osetim vrelinu požara i čujem grmljavinu, ali ne vidim ni prst pred okom.
Mada, kao što ništa u životu nije crno-belo, nisu ni moje misli. Uvek postoji taj međuprostor, to šarenilo ili ponekad samo praznina. Mnogo puta mi se desilo da uđem u svoj um i da on izgleda kao beskonačno bela soba puna pitanja. Koja pitanja se nalaze na beskonačno belom zidu vašeg uma?
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 7:27 AM UTC