For the record

FOR THE RECORD
–––––––––––––––––

What has happened? –
nothing much.
I am slipping out of touch
of my own. I wish I knew
where it leads and what’s with you
meanwhile – there, where you belong.
There, where everything went wrong.
Where I wished I stayed for keeps,
having rush and tiny hips.
Having you somehow by me.
Now what is to be, will be.

2016

*

A plea

To that exact girl
who once broke your heart,
to the other one
who then made you stay –
I wring my own hands,
being torn apart
with your hesitance and delay.
Must have something missed
in this course of life,
probably the forest
for the trees,
must have had to be
girly as a child,
must have grown to be
a true Snow Queen.
What does it take? –
to be yours and
to have you? – cake?
Or is it band?
Or is it voice?
Inner world? Style?
Quoting Proust or Joyce?
Maybe walking miles?
I am kidding though.
“Chew the scenery” –
that’s what I’ve been told –
but the only plea
is to God, not them
or those with advice, –
it is: Lord, or Ma’am,
come on, Jesus Christ,
make him see I love.
Make him see I care.
Make him had enough.
Make him simply dare.

12.12. 2018
10:57

*

We can’t be friends, we can’t be lovers.
They meet their SOs, make their babies, spread the chaos.
I can’t think straight, you can’t talk blandly.

On top of it I don’t hear that much from him lately.

I wish I could just go back to where this all has not yet begun.
To those days when I could be me and have some fun.
I wish he took me by the hand and held me tight.

I wish this was the last one to spend with you night.

I wish them all the best and same to you.
I just can’t take no more, with the fret trickling through.
So clear the way and shake off anything there is.
Seems like I’ve had enough. These clinking glasses loosing fizz.

So long. Adieu. Take care. Lest we forget.
I mean it. Finally I do. Typeset.


15.10. 2018

***

Angie landed in Paris.
I bought a synth.
Life is a wacky labyrinth.
What they taught us in school
set next to what came of it
is always a gap,
feel free to drop it,
whatever you hold there.
And step aside.
In an echo
following every glide
you should find a reason.
Or probably not.
Mine’s the question
he asked me.
The rest I forgot.

2012

*

Orange jam. Tastes bitter.
3 A.M. Bad sleeper.
Pills don’t work. Talk either.
No job. No surprises.
Kinda shroud past window.
3 P.M. Hours linger.
Broken white still-life.
Reasons for no bread knife.

16.11. 2014

*

I drank alcohol to feel safe.
And I wanted my hands go bloodstained.
I stared at the picture of you.
And I read the political news.
I took pills, suffered side effects.
I can scarcely choose what matters.
I watched field racetrack.
I loved.
Thankless made of my own life a draft.
I can scarcely decide what’s right.
See me turning my back and slide.

30.10. 2014

*

Pray

“Don’t appear so scholarly, pray. Humanize your talk, and speak to be understood”.
Moliere

This is a sad decade.
Nothing is served on a plate.
You order a handling and wait.
You order a book and a pizza.
Despite all the handful ways,
frustration and “what it takes”
you still want the same:
a story, a bite and a sup, and a visa.
You get what you ask for, again,
but you’re never sea legs with yourself,
so you choose to get used to a friend,
yes, you do, unaccustomed schizo.
Don’t expect it from me, pray.
All you people are good for is gambling.
May this make you sad for a day:
I want nothing but smart handling.

31.10. 2014

*

you, you thrill that pale and that ill
nor you, neither I we don’t care
pretending to have a shelter and RAV
you risk the data you share

20.05. 2012

*

Quit and restart smoking.
Joking aside, walking
pretty the same streets you used to
years and years ago;
found myself proud yet choking,
tiny and lost at dockings,
tired and eager to see you,
and tending to wish for more.
See me on bus stops? – amongst
all of the rest of the world,
women and men, aging people
and little boys and girls? –
I am the one smiling,
holding on to my own pace,
keeping some light inside me,
beyond these traits of face.
And picking the exact reason
that brought me to where I am,
I state it you’d be there whenever.
So let the phonies be damned.

2015

*

Shark airplanes in the skies
over Kensington parks
wouldn’t maul or swallow anyone,
not even leave any marks
on that colour of blue
which I fail to name or find a counterpart –
in a world of your humans’s fuss –
us, machines and the pets,
meant to be confused, left apart
of the corner shop
or cafe, or a God damn market.

God forgive, God forgives not.
What’s with your vehicle –
park it.

2015

*

Morronic faces and smiles of morrons.
Longdrinks
and shots that follow.
And not a drop of sorrow.
Of wisdom – not a drop...

2013

*

Remember, remember always
how it starts;
remember the drops of rain,
tearing apart
all of the muscles of
some stranger men,
remember now,
remember always,
remember then.
Remember, remember:
I am no more guest.
When they tell you your fortune
the rest you will guess.
Remember, remember,
this all’s just a quest.
Remember, remember:
I am not your guest.

2013

*

Something Joe Dassin.
Something tired, but... same.
Can not taste the smell.
Can not make refrain.
And we oughtta move.
And we go along.
Right hand in left hand.
Rushing feels aloof.
I feel so alone.
I see emptyness.
And I feel for it.
And I fall apart.
Please, forgive me it.

2013

*

When does this come to an end?
In-between your foe and my friend,
apathy checks us in,
as its picnic’s about to begin.
And I never misheard you, did I?
Yet you’re not able to explain.
This time window I look through is dirty
and remains so after the rain.
I inwrap myself into spring sun rays
as the youngsters skateboard by.
And the only thought that is staying
is the painfully pulsing “why?”
You see, runners remind of him,
and the cars coloured gold or stone,
wine bottles on the shelves of the shops –
haunting objects, being hard to control.
So next time just let me mishear.
And greet apathy in advance.
Since I know for a girl like me –
no dice after a likely chance.

30.04. 2014

*

I browsed the notes
of the past two years
in search of you
once keen and common;
There I found all
I thought was gone,
lost on way up
or sank in sorrow
for how things turned.
And if I learned
anything new –
not much, just few
remarks, amiss and race.
As birthday gift I got your face:
totally stoned, from late ’90s.
On canvas.
Never asked for this.

19.08. 2014

*

I’ve got the manners of a lizard,
yet she keeps saying I’m a wizard
She is so happy self-misleading:
she’s sick to watch her step.
I get myself a beer and sip it.
She fails to learn, no way to drip it:
neither a word, nor any trifle,
just nothing could have helped
I get myself a shot and watch walls
Out of her purse a mirror falls,
it does not break but kinda tolls.
She watches it and goes: “Yep...”
And on and on the bar’s full,
and on and on I stay cool.
Unless the walls sway,
then
I need another pull.

2013

*

Money saving, nothing’s wrong.
Staying in, on my own.
Blank. Blank I say.
Loving, dancing, going wild.
Hold on to “Call you by night”.
This. This very way.
Is it me? Is it right?
Love? Sex? An insight?
Probably. Maybe. One day.
Sleeping singly, dreaming on.
Shower, gown, and – so long.
It is play and let play.

01.03. 2014
21:35

*

I have the curves of river
reflected on window glass.
I have a slender feeling
that unlikely yet wouldn’t pass.

17.08. 2012

*

Twitter notch

I am
silver silk, brown eye-shadow, pink shoes.
Blue kitchen. I mean sad. Missing you.
I am
broad bed, tv-tower, your mail.
Check-ins, flights. Staying high all day.
I am
french fries, nightmares, hair-cuts.
No coffee, no tea, no sluts.
I am
“please, go”, “please do”, “please, wait”.
I am
“no way”, “seriously”, “sounds great”.
I am
on-line, next month, last week.
I am
tag, no hide-and-seek.
I am
colour ink nail polish, no watch.
Blue eyes. I mean sad. Twitter notch.

26.07. 2012
2:36

*

Stretched t-shirt, chains, a mournful tune,
wide smiling guy, a book unsewn,
light hands, light hand, a happy ending,
few hearty words, heaven’s wide champaign,
black and white cat and vivid dreams
in which I’m scared and guy’s obscene,
this spring and what’s to spring of it,
vanilla shake, banana split
and all my love – somehow diffused:
you every now and then get used
to any kind of any lie...
In sober fact I would have died
for happy endings on and on.
And if you doubt, then – yes, that corn.

13.03. 2013

*

Vorschlag

Let your prediction come true
and may it bring me luck –
much more than in all other cities together.
And may “Doing the unstuck” be the anthem of it.
If the weather
is way too stuffy where I belong,
let me get on a plane and – so long
to the white nights – let them be cool and dark.
Let there be waffles and smiles for lark,
swept streets and wine, and men ahorse,
trains and cigarettes overdose…
I am pretty ready for it all.
’cause it is a one third grace note goal.

30.07. 2012
5:17

***

Puis-je prendre la valise
et m’en aller?
Y-a-t-il qqch
que me retient?
Avant que ma vie
se devient grise,
que des ouvriers ferment
le seul chemin?
C’est pour qui
je ne bouge pas
et reste silencieuse
aux moments
quand je crie fortement? – Tant pis
pour moi de ne rappeler
ni mot, ni regard,
ni juste “non”, ni “si”.

Vides sont mes yeux,
pareils ont ;t; tiens.
J’ai meme pas besoin
que tu dise “viens”.


30.09. 2014

*

It is swamp-lke: all this pocket filth,
all the looks they give, all the watch they steal.
All the tricks I show
’re much more river-like –
the one runs not here,
which’s not yours, nor mine.
The oceans do breath
and –
with a special sound:
whistling, fizzing, – break.
And the Lake makes drown.

14.12. - 15.12. 2013

*

I would follow you into the night.
Be your shadow, lose my pride.
Be your mirror,
never lose my courage.
Be support
without a heavy luggage.
Widely smile, the way you make me to.
You’ve been dropping in your tracks – so you won’t do
from now on in case you let me come.
Switching off the light I set alarm.

02.10. 2012

*

The spring turned out to be violent.
Violets and roses trapped and cut.
Sipping a beer, as usual, always
making forget –
so I forgot
and I forgave:
the words you say
and those you don’t;
the smiles you share
as dream lays bare;
the glance you give,
the one you won’t.

29.05. 2017

*

Emotions resurge with pain;
precious days get lost in vain –
doc, this is all I can state.
Please, do not ask me again
what I feel – ‘cause I feel plain,
which makes me not love myself, but hate.
For past twenty years I ache,
so there is no scratchy mistake
or stretchies due to which I am now in this chair.
Please, don’t you find me flake or
my case being a piece of cake,
whilst I seem to loose track of equals of being fair.
As we talk and talk
on and on, and on,
same pics keep hanging on
these new, fresh new walls.
You do look at me
as if nothing’s wrong,
whilst I’m pretty sick of
this word ping-pong.
As if been there,
as if seen it all.
Please, doc, don’t you ever
pull or charge me gone.

2015

*

I’d give everything away
to get back to the pricks of Camden,
hear them rattle by and get lost at the dawn.
It’s about time to admit the loss of virtue
of being able to love in return.
I’d find comfort losing my identity,
overwhelmed with chaos of that town.
And I’d soak to stitches in the rain
walking mile up depthward Chalk farm.
On a rare sunny day of August,
tracing back my grievance at its best,
I am finishing a chapter of a novel
said to be the most productive years.
Sounds of bargaining and getting drunk,
fused together,
steal a pointless smile.
Taxi driver, offering cocaine,
helps to get my shit together for awhile.
God, give me another night like this.
Even better if – another year.
Maybe then I’d learn again to feel.
Maybe then I’d learn again to care.

10.08. 2016

***

Another way to disappear completely

Orange juice/some cold milk, coke
or whatsoever light beer.
Washed hair, lit a cigarette and
let myself disappear.

2016

*

I type a smile. I type a tear.
The star key is a snowflake.
The mid-september. I can’t hear
a word you try to tell me.
And there is something in the air.
Cat’s furry paws march wisely.
Of love he’s got he’s unaware.
It is the 9th, precisely.
I write this down and next pass out.
I never thought I would
be ever able to express myself,
being understood.

09.09. - 20.11. 2016

*

Le ciel a ete si gris
comme un lievre,
des on a beaucoup en Espagne.
C’que je veux dire est que je conserve
tout c’que me va et c’que je gagne.
Je paie pas souvent
quand meme tant d’argent.
Et l’or – je le garde toujours.
D’or sont ta voix, tes bras, tes mains,
tes yeux, ta sourise et ta tete lourde.

10.09. 2013

*

A silent huddle. Or is it so far?
I keep the track of who you are.
I keep a memory. A subtle effort
you twisted your neck with.
You played it short.
Is it a rattle? Is it a crime?
To be this familiar. To be in one’s prime.
To share your pleasure. And common sense.
Well, with my both of them: you have the chance.

29.07. 2017
20:30

*

Thoughtful, but aggressive,
yet not a teen.
Don’t tell me now
what’s there in between.
I’m not after anyone.
It’s not a chase.
And these are no lyrics, of course,
just a phrase.
He lifts me high.
What am I to add?
This is the life:
full of regrets,
drugs, anniversaries,
wars, whatsoever,
tourniquets, trust,
talking, togetherness,
toys for the kids,
time, after all.
Treasures and trails,
your name in accord.
My name that I’d change
if I had a chance,
for, probably, love –
now do take a glance,
you see how it turns?
I’m passive, but ardent,
yet out of concern.
But that very night
I was so at ease
as if to set
all of it for keeps.

25.07. 2011
12:15

*

I remember he asked
if I needed fire –
but some words, they never slip
off my tongue –
you see, I always need a shower
or, at least, a bubblegum.
And I do remember
speaking ’bout the weather,
but I kept in mind
he once stopped the rain.
And I don’t care much now
’bout the grammar,
’cause I’m pretty sure
I can ease his pain.

30.07. 2011
9:09

*

This language excuses any misleading.
I don’t need any bright light in my room.
I’m all alone, sending you a greeting,
which doesn’t involve seeing you soon.

Any sound is rebounding off my walls.
Nothing helps to pass on to any action.
Standing amidmost a shopping mall,
I dream of my private resurrection.

I wanted to cut my hair shorter today.
Care is no cure, you know.
And I wonder if I’ll ever feel safe,
but at least this language excuses any blow.

25.04. 2011
23:15

*

This year I am like Holden Caulfield,
waiting for the first snow.
Like Jack-the-Ripper or like Lewis Carroll.
I fail to sleep, a poker face foreside
along with the filthiest bundle of nerves ever.
As if a newspaper is being creased
and leaving stains
inside me:
the debates,
the scenes of warfare roll in one,
the last page offering a better resolution of a cam.
I daily watch your face and skip a thought
of how I missed the moment to use an effort
to keep you close.
And if tomorrow comes the war –
to tell the truth, I'm waiting for
an opportunity to lie without a punishment or an apology,
not in a bed or coffin, maybe even missing parts of body.
This year I'm waiting for the first snow
as would someone who'd be totally dense about it.
This is how truly with this all I'm browned off.

21.10. 2016

*

I’m aware
it’s a bad idea
to box up all the stories
in just one text.
Yet tonight
I got rid of fear
and got no one particular to impress.
So I don’t care ’bout making a mess.
So it’s partially
about the quiz
I was fantasizing about
while walking those bustling streets:
I’d be out of the beaten path
and get kind of a prize
e.g. seeing you soon
and/or having an intimate talk...

And it’s partially
about me so far:
now mind my hair – soaked
and my trench – hanging on a rack...

And whatever gives you a heart attack,
for me is a mere joke.

As I’ve said,
I don’t care ’bout making a mess,
but neither a phrase-book, you know.
2:40 AM.
I guess, I’ll do by halves.
“See ya later”, but now I got to go.

2011

*

I wonder

What if I went a bit further and
tell you about the fall?
The one of my own –
straight across the road –
I insist: all my symbols are gone.
I deal with a book in plain English
and with a foreign quiz
of some special cases and suffixes.
I still deal with some fresh releases.
But however I can not let forget
the trace that you left on my arm.
October, already the 29th.
This is the date I disarm.

2012

*

Half asleep on the couch at the kitchen/
grumpy/tough and as always bitching –
I do love you the way you are.
Your ways may be pretentious, bizarre –
you may be whatsoever you want, –
please, just stay my friend and just don’t
let me live in the cold self-awareness.
You may seem even rude or careless,
but you don’t leave for keeps or break up –
each day I have your kinda s’up? –
it’s in every message you send.
So go on, let us just pretend
we’re no more than not that close fellas,
having coffee with some marshmallows
on this sunny yet winter day.
Just remember: we’ll be okay.

2.12. 2017

*

Is there a need of walking over you? –
I do not think I ever shall.
The janitor keeps combing fallen foliage,
and past it you and I shall run.
At least we should.
At least I’m in for sure.
So this is “on your mark”.

23.01. 2019
15:53

*

When there’s fog outside and no clue what to do;
when it’s raining and snowing,
and it is new
           day beginning,
                with not a one ounce
                of power left;
when you turn out to be
                a thug
                come down
                to a theft –
here I am. Come on in.
Knock the door I’m behind.
I know you are not deaf.
Prove me you are not blind.


21.03. 2018 - 14.11. 2018

*

Lips. Fire. Heart.
“You know where”.
Miles apart.
Vacant stare.
“Mirror, mirror,”
where’s the end?
Which way now?
Not to pretend –
is what I want and I get.
But nevertheless regret.

6.12. 2018
18:41

*

Oh, touch me or I’ll faint.
No one’s to catch me this time.
And there is no restrain
now for you to be mine.
Oh, pack up your suitcase,
so long to age of winter.
Oh, touch me or I’ll faint
and end up in the splinters
of what has passed
and what could be –
all woulda-shoulda-coulda.
Oh, be mine and touch me,
even later than sooner.

17.01. 2019
00:43

*

There’s a painting exposed
on the second floor.
It has light and yard,
and medieval bore.
There’s a middle ground
in an outlook
that I saw today
as if being crook:
it’s not due to master,
skills or art, or sleet,
or the look I gave it,
or the one-way street.
Metric forms m a l i n e s
as they say in France
anyhow will win,
not even by chance,
though I’d throw some dice
and pay well the host
just to keep your touch
and pretend mine’s lost.

16.12. 2013

*

A fray

And after all these conversations,
picked up on feelings which remain
are not of us two stick together,
but stuck, holding a solid chain –
each has it’s side – not being a rope, –
gratitude’s yet to be expressed –
it makes us somehow overload
with what we failed once to confess.
I am a child who is upbeat
at the thought of winning a war.
But when you drop – it’s never by.
So I keep saying less is more.

4.08. 2016

*

Never thought of getting
to a surgeon’s table,
but my friends provide me
with ideas like that.
As it’s getting darker
in the streets of London,
I charge off the blahs
at the Bleeding Heart.
It’s a tavern where
amongst clingking glass
I do hear your voice
and do see your past.

And what’s with your future –
you can have it all;
choose a proper one
and don’t catch what falls.

01-03. 2015

*

Disarray

At “The Fence” nearby Farringdon station
someone’s asking a waiter a tray;
thoughts on my mind fail to keep on pulsing,
heartbeat skips seconds in disarray.

Has it ever been a place of secrets
learnt by heart or put on a shelf?
What am I doing here, having bitter,
the bitterest being myself?

Though now it’s all gone. I’m miles away.
And Miles Davis is through with “So What”.
And the only relevant thing’s
“cuz they love you for all that you’re not”.

03.08. 2016

*

So much fuss in our hometown.
Not a single passer by.
And not a person alike you,
F*cking hell knows why.
I’ve the needle, visiting Finland.
Somewhat road works are maintained close.
And my coffee is still fresh.
And my lack of trust is exposed.
Hats and bycicles, aging women,
Indians and african lads;
It is not that I love you less,
But such fuss I’m not meant to expect.
So now, when do I breath in?
In our hometown there is you.
Being cruel and cold,
and impossible,
rarely saying what makes you blue.
Rarely saying what makes you happy.
Rarely telling about how you sleep.
There’s a good new, however,
or isn’t it? –
on the border there is me.

31.01. 2017
18:10

***

A couch

I bought a couch to see delusion
of you on it in front of me,
sitting there quiet, maybe sighing
and all in all beautifully...
Beautifully time running out
of chance to give us, to keep still
two creatures, rambling now and then,
two faces once as one for real.
Beautifully this room’s day-dream,
inhabiting it for awhile,
makes me recall the tears I shed
growing, being a lonesome child:
I used to fantasize about
anyone simply being ‘round.
Beautifully those tears ran dry,
beneath imaginary bound.
But here I am: watching a couch,
first row, from bed, a wreck in fact,
and miss your eyes much more
than you – my touch you say you can’t regret.

15.09. 2018

***

Find me in the city web.
Find me in that cutie’s cab.
Send me x or smile at least.
I am no damn fatalist.
I am just a lonely girl,
trying on some rings with pearls,
playing with my heritage,
on the edge of modern age.
There you go. Do find me. Do.
I am single, seems you’re too.
Wanna anything unwrapped? –
In my shoes I tap and tap.
Here’s to you and there’s – to him.
Five dot twelve and suchlike whim.

5.12. 2012

***

I cut my foot,
blood dripping,
and I feel like
have stepped into something.
I put the plaster on,
adjust the heel
and listen to the wind.
And to the music
that you sent me one day –
so distant and so vague
it now sounds thin.
And I look forward to
hell knows what.
And to be honest
do regret too many things so far.
But distinct picture of that time
reveals the numbers
with which today
we could be marked.
And I accept it as a sign –
do call me bats: I am.
I’m loose.
I changed a lot.
I drink no wine.
Don’t laugh that much.
A former bruise.
In need of level set that high
to rest from troubles,
not share them,
as one notorious writer said.
Hope you say “same”.

14.12. 2018
4:34

***

Oh, could it be
that you ever,
through those years,
have sent me greetings? –
You see,
I do not check old mail
or get anything by post.
What I get is
the older you get
the more you get picky
and, above all else –
broken and lost.

And, could it be
that you saved both
your countenance and temper? –
that would be great,
‘cause I wouldn’t accept now
any but those.
Contemplative back then
and mortifying drama,
whichever words
you refused or chose.

Through all what’s gone
and forgotten
or outlived,
through all what’s buried
or scuttled
and run its course
I still see you
as the one that matters.
I still see grain of
both doubt and hopes.

So, could it be
that you, with your intuition,
still would not afford
a second sight glance
upon what I propose?
Are you that superstitious
to let it play out
and not to have in it
your own well-cared-for hands?


12.12. 2018
09:00