A Secret Poem (Instead of Lunch)
You're an obsessive thought
Like the little witch I dreamt of
stuck between two walls
in my childhood bedroom.
I can hear you shrieking
in my mind
too
Like a capricious child
whose hunger for attention
is easily overcome by its cruelty.
You're a terrifying ephemeral possibility
Like the gaping hole
just below my shoulder blade
Where I'd probably choke on morphone
from the desire to have you
fuck me through the numbness
and into agony
(yes, any hole would do).
You're a sweet revenge on myself
Like the time I spend punishing my body
for wanting you
and hoping this will keep my mind
for keeping you
within.
You're everything and nothing I've asked for.
You're a frustrating upside-down question mark that belongs to someone else.
You're the neighbour's cat Honey who comes to me for a little affection sometimes.
You're the bad omen I'd never believe.
You're the reason I'd scribble frustrated again.
You're an excuse for feeling alive.
You're my imagination gone wild.
You're a mirror I hate to look at.
You're me on crack.
You're the last straw.
Meet me Friday, I'll be wearing you.
August 2013
An empty dance floor is like
a blank slate
for the body
and all I'm doing is sitting
barefoot and crosslegged on it
begging for attention
(or sending fuck off vibes -
we haven't figured out which one is it yet).
Spoken verse is the gift to say
anything
with as little explanation as your soul desires.
Desire is on a continuum of
power, empowerment, overpowering.
I'll paddle through another night
without my sleeping pills and you
now that you only come to
pick up your real life shoes.
Fill me up - shouts the dance floor
and I sprawl across and try
to fill the gaps in the parquette
Goodnight my little magic pea,
my long lost sole,
my lovely triple step,
I'll forever always love you.
When I went to a talk by Milan Knazko,
one of the faces of the Slovak Velvet revolution of 1989, I expected
to see an inspired man; a man whose political dreams had come true
and who was remembering the battles of yesterday with pride. More
importantly, I was looking to see a man who still believed in his
cause and whose principles were guiding him in the same way that they
used to when he was speaking in front of the indignant crowds, tired
of a Soviet regime that restricted their freedoms and caged their
spirits. And I did meet a man who remembered the glorious past of
righteous fights for freedom, who was proud of how he stood up to a
government that was doing anything to remain in power, and how he
inspired others to do it.
So when I asked him what would he say
to Bulgarian students that are fighting for the lives that they want
and the democracy that they believe in today, like he did 24 years
ago, his answer caught me by surprise. I expected him to say a few
encouraging words; to congratulate us for being the socially aware
and active young people that he was encouraging all of us in the
lecture hall to be. Or perhaps a word of warning, that sometimes we
will be offered deals that will compromise us. Or a word of advice,
coming from his own experience. Instead I heard him say:
Now is not time for protests and
revolutions.
No, there is no inspirational follow up
to this. The revolutionaries of yesterday are telling us to stay
quiet. And it's not because they think that all is fine with the
current state of affairs – Knazko himself pointed out in one
excellently coined phrase the current state of affairs in many
Eastern European countries, a 'partocracy' whereby the regular
citizen exercises their sovereignty once every four years and are
devastated with the result of every election, seeing as the political
elite rules at the expense and in spite of the voters. How is that
not a time for protests and revolutions?
Mr Knazko, and I would guess many
others, are vainly reserving the right of grand change for themselves
and the times when in their own views it was clear who was 'us' and
'them' and consequently who can claim the virtues of democracy and
legitimacy to their side. In a democratic system, he told me, things
are always going to be complicated, different interests are always
going to be at play. An opposition can never be united in a
democratic system, as there is no pure monumental evil to oppose. And
without a unified opposition, there is no chance for large-scale
change. But this, in Mr Knazko's words was not a critique of
democracy. It was an inevitable asset of it, a complication that does
not make it any less virtuous and does not give us the right to
protest and revolt.
My response to Milan Knazko's words is
simple. We deserve the life we want, the politicians who represent
us, the political system that will make our future what we wish it to
be. Just like you did back then. And while we will always be grateful
to our parents for fighting for the freedoms we sometimes take for
granted today, we will not let their sentimental attachment to a
system that despite its virtues, has its flaws, to stop us from
casting a future for ourselves. I was almost crushed by the critical,
discouraging response to my question. I find it sadistically ironic
that a great symbol of revolutions passed would so blatantly defend a
status quo that he himself sees as flawed. The vicious cycle of
legitimate by count of votes, but practically useless, corrupt, and
power-hungry governments deserves to be protested. In fact, it seems
like the only way to get them out.
If I learned one thing today, it is
that the heroes of yesterday can oh so easily become the tyrants of
tomorrow, reprimanding the youth of today for disturbing their status
quo. And we, the heroes of today, should learn from them, but never
let them tell us what to do with our own future.
Ситно нанизани спомени опасват града, който уж ме напуска;
Прозаично уж следва закуска, а аз правя
Чай от сълзи
И капка забрава –
Тя някак нигока не достига
Затръшвам вратата суетно
И тайно после открехвам, за да пропусна
Лъч от присъствие –
По човешки не искам да бъда забравена, да гледам
Плажните оргии като безмълвен участник
И да броя кръговете на срама си
А искам
Да рисувам болка, каквато на мен ми отива,
Да създавам хаоса, който така ме обърква,
Да изричам думите, които ме свиват от ужас
И да събуждам очите, които ме правят безсънна,
Искам да изграждам пътеки от мъка и лава
Искам да съм кошмар в споделено легло
Искам да посея съмнения и да пожъна безмилостен смях
Искам да падна на пътя и да спъвам минаващите,
Искам да ухая на минало и да напомням за бъдеще,
Искам да живея за другия, а други да няма,
Искам да крия лицето си, да остана без малкия пръст на лявата ръка, да изсмуча всичкия въздух и да свия земята до смешни размери
Искам да прекрача прага, който никога не съм виждала и да легна в едно чуждо легло
За да видя дали черната проповед виси още над него
***
Странно съвпадаш, като дефектно парченце
От евтин пъзел – почти, но не съвсем
Някак накриво лежиш в тясното легло
Казваш ми, че не съм ти удобна, а цял се увиваш със мене при първа възможност.
На книга трябвало да си уравновесен, а стрелката ти се върти бясно и успява да сочи само навътре.
Ще ми се да ти изпия мозъка – без да се плашиш –
Да те оставя черупка, която да мога сама да напълня,
За да съм не само Спасител, но и Създател.
Егото ми смело покрива поляната, в която ти искаше да отъркаш себе си –
Невъзможно е да кажеш, дали парченцата от мен ти влязоха в окото преди или след като ме счупи.
***
Безумието не ни отива на възрастта и затова сме сенилно открити –
Без умисъл, но и без чувство.
Решавам, че ще ти кажа, че съм те сънувала – най-малко два пъти, а те забравям и посред бял ден.
Помъкнали куфари от бебешка кожа се блъскаме, ти забравяш обноските и не предлагаш да носиш моя,
Ти пък вече си съвсем завършен, защото те нарисувах ядосан и те запечатах в черно-белия плик с адрес ул. Никъде.
Публикувано от
Bacchante
18:44
It’s one of those nights
I would cry after sex
But instead I scribble
You know you’ve hit rock bottom
When you only write therapeutically
And you don’t believe in therapy
There is a little green monster inside me
Devouring me
But what’s worse – I think I’ve
thinned out
And you can see him grinning from inside my chest
Where my ribs are his playground
And you might get scared
As I’m pretty sure he has your eyes
To say the least
Not only am I transparent
But I seem to be too weak to wear my clothes
So I come to you naked every night
Unarmed
And I give you nightmares
Of crying damsels in distress
Possibly after having had sex
There’s nothing exquisite about the pain
But we keep on going, cos I don’t know another way.
Десет по десет по десет
бурни въпроса
бушуват в море от сини усмивки
Вървим – ръка за ръка, сами, по трима, в компания
препъваме се, летим и танцуваме
търсим
опипом, с очи себе си, Другият
и се опиваме от младостта на живота
Със крила от стоцветни балони
създаваме бури и вятър в платната
Ще ни срещне ли скоро съдбата,
ще водим ли битки безбройни или
ще се смеем в безкраен захлас,
по една малка пелопонеска война
в разделна доза, на час
ще печелим и губим.
Сега ли да протегна ръка,
сега да се гмурна в тези очи,
сиамската близост да търся.
Има ли край младостта и
не ходим ли крачка пред себе си
и така невинно се спъваме,
Докога ще ме парят искрите
на бездънния кладенец
дето наричаш душа.
Като за пръв път се поглеждаме
- неми – и препускат през нас
развързани мисли:
забрави за въпросите, тихо превърнати
във
десет пъти по десет
късчета любов.
Ten to the tenth to the tenth
ravenous questions
storming in a blue-smile sea
And here we are – walking hand in hand, alone, in threes and gangs
Tripping, flying, and dancing
Searching
blindly, with eyes wide open ourselves and the Other
drinking up our juvenile life
A thousand-winged hot-air balloons
gather up storms and wind in our sails
Do we have a date with our fortune
Are we fighting to death or
Are we loosing ourselves in the timeless of laughers
A tiny tragic Greek war
a day, in smal doses
we’ll be wining and losing
Is time to give you a hand,
to dive in your eyes
and look for my Siamese twin.
How boundless is youth and
aren’t we a teeny step ahead
and naïvely lost.
Is there an end to the
Burning stare of the bottomless pit
that you must be calling your soul.
We look as if we have never seen Us
-so mute – as we have let a bunch of stray thoughts
running wild through our veins:
quit all the question,
they were quietly turned
into
ten to the tenth
pieces of love.
Публикувано от
Bacchante
13:12
ще прережа vena cava
безмилостно
или поне така излиза
и после ще ходя на пръсти край нея,
а ти ще събираш кръвта
и ще ме къпеш във нея
през дългите зимни следобеди
ще гледаш безкрайно назад
към морето, което изпихме със тебе,
защото ти каза, че не можеш да плуваш,
а аз нямах дори коркова тапа
да се хванеш за нея
ще започна да човъркам земята,
която за теб ще бъде пустинна и грозна,
и във пръстта щети нарисувам градина,
ще се залюлея на безкрайна лиана
и сама ще прескоча нашата пропаст,
а ти ще се спуснеш към дъното,
за да се грижиш там вечно за мъртвите
не ща да убивам за тебе
Looks Like Rain - къщичка в къта на Крис
