a merry, merry friday night

a boy walks into a cheap rockandroll night club - students’ hangout. very short hair and a medium-length leather jacket – from a distance he looks like a bold & bulky bouncer. but as he comes closer you see that, apart from his height, he hasn’t got the build or the mug of a tough guy: his shoulders are narrow and his features are boyish. yet, there is an unusual mix of eagerness, confidence and despair in his eyes, which presents his appearance with a hint of lunacy. the evening has just begun, and a hint becomes a suspicion as he pours cheap beer into himself like a dehydrated camel and dispenses his 5th cup over the jumping pack on the podium, immediately joining the havoc. as the dj slows down, he stumbles through the crowd, casually hitting on possibly-underaged and/or definitely-ugly girls with sentences like “i need you to stop me from passing out”. eventually, he finds a dark corner where he can pass out, but he doesn’t. he nods off for a while, before jumping up to the first girl in his vicinity and offering her a smoke, beer, company or whatever - he gets a few startled gazes & lame evasive maneuvers. having no fun and immense difficulties constructing a meaningful sentence, he realizes that the only thing he’s yearning for at that moment is his warm bed. so he somehow manages to pick up his jacket from the wardrobe, catch a bus and get to the object of his desire in just a few flashes through a drunken haze.


music:  "Absolution" - Muse
movie:  "Oldboy" - Chan-wook Park

ancient mishaps

sure to get me wrong
you seemed awkward
     gliding through the crowd
a firm mature beauty of your face
a superior figure
in a misplaced gown

then came the words
the words in english
words of a bookwriter
words of Prevere
words of a drunk
words are not enough

too many words
to tell a story
to capture a moment
an idle spectacle

don’t get me wrong
i love the words of a burning flame
but no words can seize
     the fire
that was never there

don’t get me wrong
     sang The Pretenders
evading the silence
the silence of my heart
     the impotence
of my yearning mind
     seeking a storm
     
     don’t get me wrong
in another time
another place
i would take a chance
and give you my all
     it would be fun

a date
maybe i can
see your eyes somewhere
maybe i can feel your smile
sometimes
and every day
in the oblivion cave
every time
through the tunnels of torture
i take a glance
beyond the sea of common
ugliness
over the scarce beauty
i dare not upset
before a wasteland
i mustn’t disrupt
for it is not you

for i’m a coward
i seek myself
in ponds of life
that come my way
i take their water
and give them a glass
shut my eyes tight
hoping i would drown
but i never do
for it is not you

how foolish of me
to seek you down
how feeble of me
to bash the blinds
and swear the doors
that let you inside
and open your soul
to make you cry
make me weep
for going through
i curse myself
for it is not you


music: “Everything Must Go” – Manic Street Preachers
movie: “True Romance” - Tony Scott

infantile infatuation

there was a girl. actually, there were a few girls. i used to write poems for them. sometimes i’d show them what i write, other times i wouldn’t. some of them liked the notion that there are poems about them. as for the poems - i couldn’t tell if the girls liked or understood them, or if they ever realized it wasn’t them the verses are reflecting upon: “one woman in the world. one woman with a thousand faces”. but, in the beginning, there was Vera. a long time ago.

mirage
what is it that veils
your eternal smile
should i laugh with you
or should i mourn for i will never
     discover what hides
behind the terrifying smile

you spellbind me with your
gaping prying eyes
you gaze at me and you laugh
i have to laugh with you
     and enjoy
     and be blissful
for a moment

then i want the moment to last
i want you to laugh
i want to watch you as you do
     smile at me
          sometimes
over a coffee and a glass of wine
to end the unpleasant silence
as we wait for the movie
to commence

but soon comes the end
you smile at me for the last time
lips that make my heart leap out
you look at me
your wondering eyes
lead me to believe
they had left something
     unspoken

i turn and leave in haste
i know you will not tell
what i’d like to hear
     i flee
for i don’t have the resolve
to earnestly say
i’m dying
for you
for i know
     you wouldn’t smile


music: “Making Movies” – Dire Straits
movie: “Ferris Bueller's Day Off” – John Hughes

the answer & the ultimate question is "why not?"

at times i decide i lack decisions in my life. so i make some. like, recently, i decided i should have a policy on how to choose between brands of products with a roughly equivalent value-for-money ratio - i should choose the one with the less irritating advertising campaign. stupid, you already choose that way: it’s not up to you to make up your mind, your mind has already been made up. someone made that decision for you.
so i need a decision of my own. and i decide that from this day forth i should reply to all queries about the causes of my actions using the sentence “why not?”. don’t ask me why! don’t ask me anything, for that matter. instead, listen to me jabber on and on about the how and the when. about what? ask me something i know how to answer, don’t ask me why!
i can’t remember if the mice in “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” got The Question out of Arthur Dent’s brain, but if they did it should have been Why.
- why?
- because of “42”… why not?
- really, why?
- why not?
- OOOOUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!
- must i answer?
- yes, you do! and it better not be another question!
- well, because of love & death – courtesy of Woody Allen.
- what do you mean?
- i don’t mean anything - Woody Allen does.
- what about love & death?
- feeling about love & death. the only things people care about, hence the only things worth talking & writing & making movies & songs about. That's the essence of all art - trying to cheat death with love.
- but neither is real. plenty of death in the world and abundance of love in the words, but when love or death come our way we tend to go numb. deaf, dumb & blind: when it’s death, the numbness comes from the desperate desire for it not to be real.
- and when it’s love, it has to be real love - so we make it real by going numb.
- so we make death provisional. we create our reality, knowingly or inadvertently, to correspond to the way we feel. the truth is too hideous to be articulated. we thrust oureslves upon a lie and sail the oceans of words.
- words mean nothing. overload of words stripped them of their meaning. a huge discrepancy between terms & ideas has been created: people argue, and they don’t know what is it they’re arguing about.
- so is what more important than why?
- what is important to get us through the day, why is to push us through life.
- you’re saying that we live because we hope that someday we’ll know Why?
- it’s not a question of knowing, it’s a question of feeling the truth. ultimately, it’s not some intangible Truth that matters: the important thing is to feel. about love & death. otherwise, we’re dead.


music: “Siamese Dream” – Smashing Pumpkins
movie: "Wild At Heart" - David Lynch

the darkness of light & vice versa, human sacrifice & the magic of youth

Let me drink your blood
or, better yet, sleep serenely
tired by the bland liqueur
that we bought by mistake
but drank anyway
with frowns & laughs & word games
shallow questions & deep gazes

You’re excellent at playing spontaneity
even better at pretending to sleep
almost as good as me
playing a long lost lover
considerate & stern
away from you
i dream of drinking your blood

You’re exceptional at sleeping, i have to note
even better at falling asleep
away from me
away from the world and things i don’t know
you’re good at dreaming, i can almost feel
i almost know, because i see
the night in your hair
flowing down your naked shoulders

music: “Cousteau” – Cousteau
movie: “Buffalo Soldiers” – Gregor Jordan

sleeping away

From within my fortress I go out on patrol, alone or with a fellow civilian soldier. Occasionally, an enemy is confronted, preferably with a home field advantage. She (it’s always a she; we don’t regard men as adversaries, although there’s always one lurking in the shadows) is then alternately exposed to beastly intoxication & radiant personalities of the pair of us, soldiers. They present us with a sweet & sour bit of exalting & extorting comedy || tragedy || drama. Plastic & fantastic. Touch & taste. In the end, everybody wins. Especially all who lose. It’s just the way we soldiers are. Praise us. Amuse us.

- Hi there – says I, and smile.
- Hello – she responds. More of a confused grin than a smile.
- So, i’ve seen you around. I know where you live! – a casual “scary movie psycho” impression while I say that – I mean, I know the building: it’s the new gray one with some green & red thingies on it.
- Ah, a stalker. Should I be scared?
- No, I’m not really that kind of a stalker.
- And what kind are you?
- I’m more of a “seen you in between the bus stop and your building a couple of times and hoping to meet you every time I go out” kind.
- And now you’ve met me.
- I don’t know. did I?
- I’m Red.
- Blue.
We shake hands. She has long fingers; she’s thin – perhaps even bony, but her skin appears as resilient as a girl’s skin can be without abolishing that all impotrant feminine frailty it embodies. She’s smiling, and so do I. It’s all good.
- And now we know each other – I end the silence. She starts walking home: I follow as she continues the introduction game.
- I don’t know. do we?
- I sure hope not. I know your name, and I think I know a few more things.
- Oh, and what is it that you “think” you know?
- Heh – i act embarrassed – well, I believe you’re some kind of an art or architecture student: I’ve seen you carrying one of those big A3 tubes with you.
- An observant stalker, are you? What else?
- Not much. You sometimes tap your thighs while you walk. and I know that my roommate instinctively started doing the same when we came across you a few days ago: to get your attention, presumably.
- Yeah, I remember that. He completely baffled me: I got carried away, and he made me become aware of the tapping.
- Well, he had to get your attention somehow because, you see, he fell instantly in love with you.
- Oh did he really?
We’re laughing now. It’s even better than smiling.
- Yes, he did acctually, factually, desperately, fatally fall in love with the idea of you.
- An idea of me?
- You, or his or mine or your own idea of you, it’s all the same, isn’t it? It is love that matters. – an effort toward romantic confusion on my behalf. She smiles, but retorts adequately.
- What matters is that one doesn’t jump to conclusions, ‘cause one might be disappointed when one’s expectations aren’t met. One being you or your roommate or myself, for that matter.
- That’s just what i tell him.
We are already at the doorway of her building. It seems like she’s considering inviting me in, but I know she would eventually decide not to, so I spare her a few undecisive moments.
- But no jumping to conclusions necessary: all you should do is hop over to that pinky-peachy building down at the intersection, and all questions will be answered.
- I might just do that.
- I hope you do that. Do you want my number, to announce yourself – not that it is required or anything… or can I have yours, as to formally invite you?
- Whatever..
..the fuck ever

music: "Turn On The Bright Lights" - Interpol
movie: "Last Tango In Paris" - Bernardo Bertolucci

summertime

flow flow
through pointless stories
cheap thrills & numb rides
let go let go
your vacant worries
idle senses & summer cries

no satisfaction
no cure for pain
a physical reaction
to your ailing brain

anticipate your passion
surprise your habits
escape the fashion
of soulful rabbits

so what so what
whatever the fuck ever
whenever my love never
never quit when it’s hot

never know where it’s at
except for now & forever
despite your vigorous endeavor
some people you can’t forget

yet again

do or die
perform or conform
confusion is imminent
people are strangers
and so are you

nature takes its course
reproduce or deduce
give or take or just let go
life is a bitch
but what the fuck

music: "Green Mind" - Dinosaur Jr
movie: "Andy Warhol's Trash" - Paul Morrissey

turquoise

I met her in a train headed for the seaside. By an odd missbooking, we shared a booth in the sleeping wagon. One could say she was beautiful, but her beauty struck me as a bit crude. She looked like once a well-shaped country girl losing too much weight: she wore jeans that had probably fitted her a few years back, but now appeared too loose and I could see there was little flesh on her tough bones. Hers was a face that had felt both the happiness and the pain. The smile-lines cut through her cheeks flanking her thin lips. I wish I could have seen her laugh, though, for all I saw were her sad, wet eyes. Eyes that captivated me as soon as I came through the door. She was sitting on the bottom bed looking through the window: her light brown hair appeared golden under the sun. We just stared at each other for an eternity. “Nice day” – I finally ended the silence. “Could be better” – she replied.

“It’s only dusk: there is still time for it to improve”

“I doubt it”

In a train headed for the seaside, one seldom finds a person this fraught. She appeared so desolate and I felt like there was nothing I could say or do to ease her anguish. And I wanted to do something. I had to. I needed to drown in her pool of sorrow. In a trance-like state, I sat beside her and slowly put my hands on her shoulders; we gazed at each other; I rubbed her arms; she gaped at me; I fondled her long neck. We closed our eyes. I stroke her thin hair, I caressed her translucent skin. We embraced; she needed to be embraced. An embrace lasted for hours, and then we made love.

The day was long over and nothing had improved. We made love all night: no lust involved. No passion, either. Just love, stripped of all the colloquial mess; or a peculiar infatuation, perhaps. I had to love her, I had to care for her. She loved me for caring. At dawn I was hugging her fragile body; it seemed like happiness. At dawn she told me she had cancer. She didn’t need to.

The train came to a station for a brief rest. We came out to a concrete platform along with the other passengers. I thought I had caught a glimpse of her smile as the bright morning sun made her squint. She sat on a bench and waited for me to buy some juice. As I was returning with two bottles in my hands, I heard a cell phone play Beethoven’s “For Elise”. She might have smiled when she saw me coming. And then, a loud bang behind me; I drop the bottles. I turn to see a dead woman still clutching her cell phone and a young man with a pistol and an unbeliavable odium on his face. I throw myself over my girl as the man begins to randomly shoot at the screaming bystanders. I look at her: she was scared but she was alright. Raising my head up to the window of a parked car I see the killer approaching. I push the girl under the car just as he is coming around it, jump and put my hands up, then yell: “Stop!”. And he does: he glares at me behind the gun. I say something. A moment after his mouth stretched into a vague smile, another loud bang and his skull burst. His body came down with a thump revealing a cop behind it. The cop was petrified; he was staring at the corpse, smoke still coming out of his gun. I kneel to look for my girl, but she isn’t under the car anymore. I dash around it, but there is no sign of her anywhere. I notice a faint turquoise trail stretching between the car and the station’s ambulance: as I look more attentively, I notice a small puddle of turquoise liquid beneath the car. The trail was of the same liquid and it seemed as if made by a pair of odd, small hands. I rush to the ambulance where I bump into a stout nurse. I ask her about the girl and she leads me to an exam room: “I must warn you that she is in a very poor condition. In fact, she had reduced to a vial of turquoise-colored fluid. She’s in the box.” The nurse is smiling and she’s tapping a small cardboard box stained in turquoise. “Don’t do that!”- I cry.

music: "Until The End Of The World" - O.S.T.
movie: "Eyes Wide Shut" - Stanley Kubrick

to start..
with a verse, perhaps..
or a statement of purpose

here you are
the lord of your digital manor
whipping your humble servants
the body of common bytes
to do thy bidding
making them dance & breed
& pile up to the billboard sky

so you can outdream death
so you can feel

idle faith
Please!
a large convertible
desert
hills far up the horizon
sunset
and an angel by my side.
what would you tell me
when Nick Cave sings
thank you girl
i’ll love you till the end of the world
in your eyes as green as dreams
show me divine
lips as sweet as dreams
break a voice
through the silence of a wasteland
riding down the straight endless road
i know i hear you
despite the heat

ask away
i say
ask away and i will tell
i will tell
and recite
narrate
enlight and explain
exclaim and shout
so you may listen
and you may hear
then you may feel
and maybe i will feel
and we may
disappear
into a ruby sunset
far up the horizon

quest
i lack closure
always
and it goes on
and on
things
stealing my life
never end
dragging my sore limbs
through the knee-deep mud
of human sentience
pretending to be
an alchemist
transcending
air to water
coal to sand
slime to salt
pain to bliss
void to land
up until i realize
mine is the mind
of a horny teenager

to conclude..
yet another shit-for-brains...
one whose mother tongue is not English..
one who lives in the neverever land..
no one
who loves the following story

the story of Uskebasi   by Sigifrith of harro.sin.khk.be

During his reign King Salomon, the greatest king of Israel, blessed by God with the wisdom of the ages which no mortal would ever match, became obsessed with knowledge during the peak of his power. He gathered around a moltitude of sages and great men, questioning them on all the knowledge they had, on arcane arts, lost scripts, everything he could think of (no internet back then). His most obsessive question was the oldest one of them all: what is the meaning of life?
He questioned hundreds of wise men, until he finally met Uskebasi, a pilgrin sage from the far east (now it's believed that he was indian). Legend has it that Uskebasi was related to some pagan divinity, and used to ride a white rabbit the size of an oxe, with red eyes and who moved quietly like a shadow. Uskebasi retired in solitude and remained in silence for 10 years, during which he meditated on the meaning of life. At the end of the 10 years he had the answer, but the truth was so horrible that he decided never to tell anyone, for just the hearing of such truths could drive a man to insanity. He instead wrote all his findings in a tome, and hid the tome so that no-one would ever find it. He then disappeared from circulation and was never heard from again. He never spoke another word, but rode throughout the world in a state of immortality the gods granted him for his wisdom, with his white rabbit, and was from that day on known as the Lord of Silence.
Many years after, legend has it, some christian monks retrieved the tome, and they read it. On the leather-bound cover of the tome there was written "I am Uskebasi. I am he who is silent. I have the answers to all your riddles. Question me, and be satisfied. And then you shall disappear in madness" (or something like that). The monks who read it went crazy. The leaders of their order then decided that in order to protect the world from these terrible truths coated the tome with a porous venom, which could kill a man in a few minutes, but brought no pain, just madness. So the legend says that from that day on everyone who even touched the book would die an insane death, usually killing themselves from the madness, but also from the shock received by receiving the answers written in the book written by Uskebasi.
The lord of Silence. That's the story of Uskebasi. Hope you liked it!


music: "OK Computer" - Radiohead
movie: "Fight Club" - David Fincher