She looked a little sad, those days of last summer, when her heels were coming down into the town, as when an army marches, with drums and trumpets Night was spreading from somewhere the smell of red poppy fields, and she had the name of grace.
She looked a little sad, in that coat, tailored just for her, and no other. Or that sadness was in my eyes, as I watch her stand, waiting for the train that drives ex-loves. She said "i'm leaving" and she said she heard in my head drums and trumpets. Or she didn't say anything.
And I couldn't watch her anymore, and I couldn't even take my eyes off her.
She looked a little sad, in that colorless picture, which we made for the new year, and now the picture and the year are old. Or i'm just old as I watch as she look at me from the image of a motionless face. She said she heard in my head drums and trumpets.
And I couldn't look at her anymore, and I couldn't even take my eyes off her.
She looked a little sad, while she read all my poems, as she tried to seduce me. And she didn't know I was a writer, that the sky is my meadow, and that my hat is too small for two. My house is on my back, and storms blow through my pockets. But letters and verses sometimes are not enough to hide you from the rain.
And I couldn't look at her anymore, but I couldn't even take my eyes off her.
A thousand and one nights you're just fiction, a bad diction, Dostoevsky died in vain, he missed all those letters of her name. And I missed her, in vain too, and I swing in the square, like a lantern in the wind, staring at the promenade, some sad coat passes, and rain's feedback for crying dances. She said "I think I'm a better girl now" and she said she heard in my head drums and trumpets.
P. S. Happy new year to you all, with love from Serbia, artistano1
dazzling_sunlight_@anirockz7 Because of some people here, I learnt how to not force myself to write, progressing in a slow way because writing isn't something I developed from young age. I installed this app for different reason, but people here changed me a lot! Reading more people had me change the way I used to write. Writers here (including you) have own ways of expressing and it's all not just Abt wn reposts or pod. I got a lot impacted in a good way :)
Do you remember those days of endless cries, painful sorrows that you ranted in your poetries? Perhaps it was more of like those bottled emotions that you cared pouring in your cup of poetry slowly making ensure it doesn't break.There were and still are the times where you have got fake hopes in those colored papers shaped as a birds that doesn't fly higher made you feel stumble and shiver against the "will" calling you a lot of times went as Whispers. There were times where you tried to underestimate the bests in you thinking that it's all wastes to be thrown. The thought of not getting back into your normal self for one day intensified and grew every single day wherever and whenever you feel. It's the flow and fate that goes on and on don't you think? It's like a cycle wheel that keeps rotating despite every punctures and burst outs the tires have.You are gifted to be living with struggles and hurdles that in turn teaches lessons for to live stronger than you think. Scratches, imperfections that you have defines how to stretch the hands to aid those. Flaws aren't going to imply the characteristics you go along with your paths. And atleast I know that even though you have been through the strongest winds, gloomy days, sleepless nights, unsatisfied days, you never fail to say the words of self love that is written in the walls of your room. Never failing to smile and laugh in the chaos and numbness, you have been redefining and progressing the your true self, caressing the already existing goods. Perfectly you are adorned with blooms and withers, ups and downs continuing to glow in your own way. ~The way you are is beautiful~ -Niv
My soul floats on the mirror of the sky. Whining moon, a traitor, a voyeur, like a reflection of nothing in my dead eye. The mud forged the plan. My cheap rags are worn out and lips glued to bare thighs. I drink selfishly and greedily, until i drown in sorrow. I toast the bones of a dead fish. That livid and fleshy - It will be me tomorrow.
The pain cut my nerves. More rags of miserable flesh, lying numb in my bed. The darkness of my blood screams, blade buried in veins. Red, I love you, red. Rusted in chains. Paint me with your fire of ruin. Take me tonight for your slave and do with me what you will, behind the curtain of my grave.
The footsteps tremble, uncertain. Kneeling knees ring on my face. I'll see red drops of dew and insects. I'll see a hundred lightning pictures as they travel through space. I'll see myself lying down on a cloud of fog which reds. I'll see Invisibly, Closer and closer and closer - Insects and beds...
She looked a little sad in that dress. In that dying summer. It's like she loves me for the last time. Art died in the paintings in which she fastens her bra. My skeleton is rotten. Collor. Column. Corona. Under infrared rays, the Moon is plump, airy and accurate in its appearance at celestial parties.
We have started to unknowning each other. But flashes and dreams come by habit. We have joy and fun in that past life. The cobweb grabbed the door which was closed in one direction. After she left, my palms plowed more than when I started my circle. Circles. Plows. Pillows. Under infrared rays, the night is dark, and poetry stalks me on this celestial party.
Just me and the mirror. Show must go on. I'm just an artist in circus. What's wrong with circuses? - At least I can walk on the wire and stumble ... and fall ... and... It'll be part of my show, the kids will laugh. Everyone laughs in the circus. - I'm crying. Circus. Citrus. Cycles. Under infrared rays, this town is empty place, and stray dogs bark to their celestial bones.
The motive is the same for kill and locking the door since you left. Five years later there was a parade of charged gay particles in the city. I paraded among the bookshelves. The letters shone under the lamp, words fell from the sky, sky created us, we created books, books created shelves. And the circle closes there. Round. Scream. Click. Under infrared rays, your face haunting me in the mirror, and our roles dancing on this celestial show.
But I still laugh. It was Sunday. I was at the cemetery. And it wasn't black as I imagined. I was happy to feel sad. I fastens her bra in letters on the paper. I was standing on the moon trying to touch the sky... - Don't let someone... - Don't let anyone. Artist. Atheist. Arthritis. Under infrared rays, the moon is plump, we are just a stain of wine, in this celestial life but i'm yours and you are mine.
One, then the other, then more and more piece by piece, I leave myself in the ghost town. And I'm going down, old, like in the ashes a log And so cold...
Piece of me is still out there, somewhere in a bunch of crumpled smiles. There, where the morning dresses in purple the roofs. There, where are no more amateurs with rented costumes and cheap roles. There, where I stopped dreaming about spoiled doll's. And I'm lying down old, like in the ashes a log And so cold...
One piece of me is still somewhere confused by your growing obligations. Where the world fell asleep before us, and where, at least for an hour, we had our first dream. And one piece stayed there where my songs made sense, and my dead hands wrote black letters on your white body. And now I'm leaving town old, like in the ashes a log And so cold...
Piece by piece, by piece, I leave to your memories. All I have to do is see you tomorrow, and move your mind, the way I know. And all I have to do is bite your lip for some new year while burning balloons fly over us in Paris, or anywhere And all I have to do is dying in the fog old, like in the ashes a log And so cold...
Ten thousand days on earth, in space, in something Ten thousand nights eaten by moths, in a mess, for nothing ?! Ten thousand sleeps in one place which will never stop. And you will come one morning, in a small town, after ten thousand days, and I will be your friend and a complete stranger and it will be love that you feel, those ten thousand seconds, you just won't tell me that. I would like to share the cross with you, which I carry ten thousand faiths and tell you fairy tales on the roof of the world. I would like to fit into a mold and in other's shoes, and walk other's paths. If only you were instead of memories collect dreams. - How will you remember me if you forget me? It will remain your formal white dress, to flutters in the wind, ten thousand centuries. It will remain an abandoned railway, to wait some new train and collect dust from universe another ten thousand rides, and before you fall asleep imagine a wish, and imagine the falling stars above us ten thousand nights ...
I believe you fly, as I fall. I believe you dream, as i try. I believe you shine, as i fade. Like one ray of sunshine in the middle of the shade. I believe you sing, while i'm a song, happy with freedom, to which you belong. I believe you fly, I believe you dream, I believe you shine, I believe you sing, in your pain, i believe you fly like a butterfly whom I saved from the rain ...
Don't let me die, turn me into letters, put me on paper... ... I still believe you fly.
It was raining, Gloria, the morning carried the smell of the sea, and in an unknown language I tried to write shapes of your hair while you asleep. You'll never be mine, but while you asleep you shine.
It was a sad day, Gloria, and your eyes laughed at me. Words came from those depths, and what the meaning of life is if I don't drown in them? You'll never be mine, but while you asleep you shine.
I dreamed of a fog, Gloria, one ordinary morning, in your student room, you held out hands to me shyly, and I think I realized then where the Danube kisses the sky. You'll never be mine, but while you asleep you shine.
Life is so short, Gloria, to pass on the screen. Here or anywhere in the world in Madrid or Mumbai, in Belgrade or Rome, wherever your finger would stand as the globe rotates. And while the pictures change on canvas, beam projector lights creates shadows on the wall, like craters on the moon, and go into oblivion disease money fake laughter promises plans notes sadness troubles simpletons memories losses peoples infections risks and compassions and fear of death, here or anywhere in the world wherever your finger would stand, Gloria, as the globe rotates.
Slow music Curtain goes down I'm going down Darkness going down Silence going down Just your heartbeats Lust for lost years And you'll be forever mine, but while you asleep you shine...
Is there an answer in those blank papers, or i'm lying down, cold, waiting for a death? Your panic attacks come at dawn, and you are no better if you take off your clothes. And you're not the only one, you just don't understand, you've been a woman for too long. But where am I? A thousand wings on my arms, played the blues for a distant friend, which I don't have. A mocking romanticism I choke the crumpled paper. Open mouth fireplace, as on dead guard, still gaping and wait, like he can't find, and seeks a word, for a terrible curse. And I'm so tired of periods, commas and letters. You take the bait, like any fish. And you're all waiting for one of your Godot, and you tattoo my words, but I need a mirror, for my fantasies, to look the void into the eyes. - A mirror for a hungry stomach and a cold sleep; - Wait for me even when you know I won't come.
Life and death pass each other for days and find a compromise in statistics. You and me, already mad; like a wind and plain. Show me your breasts, and hold your breath tight, that in those few heartbeats I hear I'm not the only creature on this planet, languished under cross. Someone's at the door, maybe just a day. I'll stay here anyway, engrossed in a mindless dream, I will sleep for hours. What does this mask mean which I can't take off? I know I'm under her, in the middle of a party bell which intoxicated the crowded city, when dealers procure them, everything is the same on this ground, and smell and stench. I don't need medicine, to forget sin; I need centuries to forget the applause and laughter. We will never see Paris with the same eyes.
I will play for a long time this role assigned to me, in the defeat that will save me. I'm not Godot, don't wait for me. In the city of sold souls, in the city of passion, you ask a stranger to listen to you, as you cum on my strings, you do not hear the song in the birds; and you lose your wings. And that's all you need, in a dirty room, while your hair stinks of oil, you don't need love you need a vaudeville but you just don't understand. It remained dark in the room. And a couple of pale pictures, dead tonsils, and some things. Nothing knocked on the door with a large suitcase ready to unpack and settled right there, in my room, and to sleep beside me; and to wake me; And to look at me from every angle; I will remain only a messenger of life, new world order; "Hannibal ante portas"
Fragments of happiness days by habits, and who we are now? Chasears of rabbits, pair steps in snow. Don't say you love me Fragments of happiness, words on the wall, that's all.
What will a poet to do with you, with dark in the words on the blank paper, with a torn reality under a hat. Go somewhere entertain your humbled years, at least try, and come back when you realize, where wild boars go to die...
Fragments of happiness, blind to world, colorless and fold. That's how i stay, in cheap treals, lost in milky way. Fragments of happiness, words on the wall, that's all.
Once when i was young, a long time ago, she ask me to write her a song. And I wasn't sure I would make it. Words are my toys, they come to me out of nowhere, but there are some things in us that cannot be translated into words. Maybe i wanted to find a special one for her, but time passed...
"What about my song?" Ten years later she asked me again. As she cuddled, clinging to me, on a meadow from which the whole universe could be seen, when it was a clear night, like that night, when we hung, once when i was young.
And I really didn't know how to make it. Somehow, the words I know, the letters i've got, the signs i've seen, were blurring in my head, wanting to inspire her. Wanting to leave a mark on her, on her body. As I counted the birthmarks on her bare back, there, on the meadow from which the whole universe could be seen, that I could only look at the sky instead of at her. That night, silence istead of tongue, once when i was young.
And time has taken us far...
I'm not sure I could calculate how many starry nights have passed since she begged me to write a song for her, there, a long time ago, while I was counting the birthmarks on her bare back. Even today I can clearly see that picture, of her, of birthmarks, on the meadow, under the whole universe, as if I were there again, only this time I looked at the sky, and saw the arrangement of stars identical to the arrangement of the birthmarks on her body. And my fingers like shooting stars fly over letters, like over her bare back, and, what an irony, here's your song, you little fool...