Tunnel

I started thinking that ‘love’ is evil

vengeful

it’s hate

it’s murderous

so I’ll forget this whole business

and go

to meet

Karakoram mountains instead

or something like that

for a while

before I get back to dreadful London

to deal with all this deathly business

of

flowers

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Just a normal Monday, as usual

While my hubby is building his AI Machine

in his green headquarters

downstairs

and the war is raging from left and right and the underground

I’m not really sure what to do with myself

It’s shiny-raining

and the lightness of nothingness

bothers me slightly

I am descending into a dark adventure

in my mind

conquering the evil turtle

in the cinema

while the horse is drowning

in the mud

the life is over, Ahriman

This is a war, honey – what a shame.

It was a dream about us being those special sandpit friends

in a nice love-unity

and joy

of building something

together

without hitting each other with a spade on the head

and scheming to destroy your underground tunnels

when everything seemed to go great

conspiring with the district gang

how to win over me

I had a dream of us being different then them

But those things are impossible

how could I forget that you are the only child

all this mistrust

and

ego trips

I retreat

to the very end of the park

to talk with the sunshine instead

and play with pebbles and dirt

but then

the anger at your murderous betrayal

hits me

so

I

watch you and your gang

delaying my revenge

don’t you think I forgot

about hate

not yet

On the platform to insanity

on another planet
there is only you and me
drunk of love
floating

in insanity

in the tube
there are no people besides us
only our kiss

national rail victoria

here it’s only you and me
we don’t have any plans
or shame

even the cctv cameras
don’t bring us to panic

our kisses are pure and free
on the platform
towards highbury

Informant

A gargantuan hole in my head
the truth is:
dark is my hair
the truth is:
human I am
the truth is:
I live on earth
the truth is:
no much else
the else is a hallucination
a daydream
a lie
king-size, bulky, mountainous messcommunication
a truth without the spell check

Suicidal thoughts in Barnes&Noble /Immigrant Stories/

Immigrant Stories

Suicidal thoughts in Barnes&Noble.

When you are an immigrant, you are a cultural – nobody. That’s how I feel at least. I try to squeeze myself, cut myself, change myself, convince myself, but the only thing left is the emptiness and boredom of lifeless existence between the shelfs of Barnes & Noble, looking for an inspiration, for something to move me, to connect to my empty self. The days, the past, the now, and the future blend into a long, tasteless, boring vomit, divorced from any meaning. I don’t remember why I came here and what propelled me to take this unreasonable, stupid step. Maybe it was anger, I don’t know. My mind doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

Suicidal thoughts between Barnes & Noble shelfs. Suicidal thoughts in the Barnes & Noble elevator, suicidal thoughts on the Barnes & Noble first, second and the third floor.

Abnormal

I wake up thinking about infinity

I go to sleep thinking about infinity

this isn’t normal

normal is

to think about

the dinner

the shoes

and to pay your taxes

‘The Wife of the Pig-Butcher ‘

She is a man’s best friend

taken out of the master’s rib

chirping bird

of catholic church

oh, that’s fine, as long as she doesn’t call me

can’t stand her village voice

it’s really low but she tries to make it high and sweet what sounds like cacophony

when He comes

the meateater

the wisest pig-butcher in the village

and she bows

good, he provided her with the opportunity to have a ‘woman’ in the house

like a cow gives milk and chicken gives eggs

so is a woman to wash and clean

Oh, why didn’t we join the KGB? – A Pitiful Song

To hell with art
to hell with everything
it doesn’t change anything
the kgb always wins
the kgb runs the theatre mill
the kgb has the tv
the publishing house and newspapers
it’s all the kgb
while the artist is rotting
I piss on the art I want to do nothing
it didn’t bring back
any of the land
stolen by the kgb
and I am an underdog
living in the concrete box they have built for me
laughed at
by kgb from the tv screen
while my family is called loonies pitiful losers
by bribe masters kgb
Oh, my pitiful loser family!
still volunteers for the insane cause
philosophically
with shrinking retirement
while the kgb
retired with grace
and still shows itself on tv
and everybody is clapping
(as if they forgot about everything)
while watching their daughters dance
on tv
Oh, why didn’t we join the kgb.

Oh, why didn’t we join the KGB? – a pitiful song.

To hell with art
to hell with everything
it doesn’t change anything
the kgb always wins
the kgb runs the theatre mill
the kgb has the tv
the publishing house and newspapers
it’s all the kgb
while the artist is rotting
I piss on the art I want to do nothing
it didn’t bring back
any of the stolen land
by the kgb
and I am an underdog
living in the concrete box they have built for me
laughed at
by kgb from the tv screen
while my family is called loonies pitiful losers
by bribe masters kgb
Oh, my pitiful loser family
still volunteers for the insane cause
philosophically
with shrinking retirement
while the kgb
retired with grace
and still shows itself on tv
and everybody is clapping
(as if they forgot about everything)
while watching their daughters dance
on tv
Oh, why didn’t we join the kgb.