Art, Dark moods, politics, stories, Uncategorized

Undirected mind

I need a relieve from my undirected mind. Let him be the way he is. Let him flow. No censure, no fear. I see, the classroom filled with us, the teacher, the wooden bench and black blackboard. Look straight ahead, don’t blink. Now I want to cry, I am scared, even though I am the best…no, it’s my sister…the teacher has black hair, she is old and stiff and she hates those kids, and my sister is not the best…my mom comes to school to scrub the floor, that’s what the parents are asked to do, to help, the school, the great socialist school, the class is in the corridor, the school is big, the school is huge, there is a baby boom, no place , no place, they are building a bigger school, just next, behind the park, it’s almost ready, we will all move there next year. I am still too young, but I already know, you will be miserable if you are not that smart, but I’m the best, the best, the best one around.

Why my mind went there, I really don’t know, the school in the park and her, what was this teacher’s name, I don’t know, just heard that she was a witch. I see the ground, brown path and silence, we are going to our block of flats. My father is silent, my mother is quiet and my head is somewhere in the clouds.

And I do feel worthless, now, all the time, worthless and sad and not lucky. It’s hard to be me, to scared to be me, out of fear to offend the authority. I am such a mouse, I would like to hide, behind the bookshelf, the corner or under the bed, or just practice acrobatics on the verge of the bridge over the dirty river of Białucha.

Art, economics, Poem, poetry, Satire, Uncategorized

One Prosaic Afternoon

My mother is so middle class and I’m her quirky baby
she holds a calculator on her laps calculating diengi
I tell her that I’m bored and sad
but she is getting angry
and tells me eat your soup cause soup is good
but am not feeling hungry
I ask her what’s the point of life
she says no one knows
and asks me about homework of geometry
she takes me to the kitchen table
to calculate the cone size, but I obviously hate this
I ask her about universe and stars
and then we start to argue
she calls me feeble-minded and I call her prosaic
but suddenly I see the cone comes from the page
and swirls in the air just in front of her

I do love geometry now
but now she thinks I’m crazy