Friday, 29 October 2010

Papercut. Chapter 12.

Past, present, future.

They all mix creating something which is called the mind, bursting with memories, regrets, hopes. Mental breakdown it’s called from lips to lips. I see everything spin in front of my head, the awaiting call I am supposed to get, the awkward situation as I have my head pressed against the metal pole, as it freezes my mind, but the thoughts burn through, gritting my teeth tight. I am breathing a cloud of heavy air stuck in my throat, watching everything in a heavy blur. I had enough sleep, but I felt as if the whole airport scene was back.

Faces, people, laughs and failure hanging above me, greeting me with a slap across the face with sick realization.

I saw his face as Romeo commented that I could take that post. I am a failure. Never tried to live fully. I tried to get him the right way of drawing the human facial parts he did wrong. Thomas made no emotion, as his cheeks only reddened in anger with confusion as my swears and kisses to the top of his head are gone with a light sparkle, letting out a scent of fake déjà vu. I’m sure in his theory I was the one who shook all the information from the kid’s head, praying to find a way to earn more money. He said he would think about it, as he struggled on a politest possible reply. I couldn’t breathe.

I gasped, hungerly opening my mouth, gasping.

Was this death?

Was it the long lasting moment of memories passing by?

Who was I?

My thoughts were mixed.

Blood, scarf, Lola, Kayleen, coffee, canvas, pencil, knife, bone, cut, cast, sunlight, kiss, moon, attempt.

I bend in two, watching people look at me, their mouths forming mute words, cries for helps, reaching out for their mobiles.

Look, look, the teenager is dying.

Without an actual attempt. Too many sins above, bringing his nymph down as it gets drained with a straw as I’d appear from his back, a necklace of bitten nails across his neck.

He just is.

With just one single thought, his memories wiz by, his eyes amazingly blank, empty, as the memories squeeze out of his self. He chokes on his mistakes, choking out his fears.

He covers his mouth as if covering the gasp for air he is doing, like suffocating himself, letting him die. He looks up, notices something that others do not see. His pale lips form out a weak smile, as he blinks trying to save his drying eyes, through his fingers pressed against his face.

He laughs out, as his blond hair falls on his face chaotically, not making it messier due to the occasional ruffling he would do in different situations without realizing.

He mutters several known to him names in a row, like a prayer, muttering them faster and faster, nearly screaming them out, but it’s just in his head.

It’s in his head.

I just watch him.

I want him to die.

I want him to choke, I want to stretch out my arms, I want to stab him, cut him, bite him.

I want to hold him, I want to show him, him trembling in my grasp, what it’s like. I want to scream at him, as he’d cry, sob, curl on the floor, his clothes forming a pool, mirrors around him, he’d see me there, as I’d walk forming hands with the reflections stroking the ideal lost faces. Asking why, yanking him by the chin.

I’d be unsure.

I’d hold him up, the white cracking, as he’d fall, holding his breath, eyes white, looking up at the mouth above. He wouldn’t hold, he’d stand up, gasping for air, only I wouldn’t be there.

He’d look, search and lure me from the dead.

Roman would call for me, afraid that he’d be there when the ceiling would crack and he’d stand between Lola and Kayleen, asking himself nothing.

He’d take me from the well. Snap me back to sense.

I’d say that


I’m here and stare. He’d hug me. I’d wrap my hands around him as the white would collapse someday. He’d look back up, narcissism building inside.

He’d confess and whisper my name, stroking my hair, lie about the clothes he’d wear. I’d nod and I’d have my hands tied once more, as I’d be given a bowl of popcorn, a bar of chocolate and a new book if I get bored as he makes out with some slut.

I don’t notice myself change.

My hand stroking my left, as I know that I am a leftie, but I can’t do it here, as the hand is weak. I remember I’d sit trying to do it, but I’d fail and change back, the melancholy eating me from inside as if I were ham.

I change instantly from one to another, my brain not holding it.

I hate him. He thinks he is the real one.

As if because he’s blonde. It’s the banality. He’s the one there, he’s the one who complains who stamps his name on the passport.

I am.

I am.

Then I blink.

In just one moment the scene fades away. I am in the bus, music playing in my ear with the help of my iPod. I look up and down before focusing my gaze on the window, the light too bright, as the scarf is loose, not bothering to shuffle the songs once more, but instead I stare and stare as if it’d stare back at me. Everything returns to normal. I can’t help but question if the split-personality is my only problem.

I’m like a hardboiled egg they failed to crack, but await a chick to emerge. The life comes after death. The chick will be brown, breaking my insides, as it would crack me with its beak, leaving wrinkles upon my face.

I search through the words in my vocabulary, feeling insanity’s presence, his breath on my neck, my face, my ear, watching every move I make.

But I can’t see his. His fingers close my eyes, as if I die until I break free. Is he the chick? It feels like death. I do not feel anything, everything is black, I do not feel his fingers on my eyes, his hand muffling my voice and breathing. It feels like drowning. A lull, as I close my eyes, the battery dead. Then there’s a sudden gasp of air as I free myself and the feeling of relief as I cough out the water.

I stroke someone’s hair, my vision now black and white.

He stands there, chewing gum.

For that second when he lets me go, when I break free, I feel him.

I hear him, I talk to him, but it happens fast, a mere exchange of wishes and regrets, that when the cough comes I do not care about that dialog we had. I see him, his frown twisted in an unfriendly way, something metallic in his hand sparkling, maybe my imagination, my paranoia or just the fear of death linger in my mouth.

Maybe he is my death?

Stroking my hair as he closes my eyes but never succeeds in killing me.

Maybe that’s what death is. A split personality in us, feeding of our blood, praying for the day to be let out and close our eyes for good, not an innocent breakfast we eat. It keeps us above or does it kill us? Maybe if we’d never feed we’d live on?

I exhale, trying to calm myself by rubbing my palms against my arms, whispering calming things in my mind, showing bright and calm images, laughs, smiles, giggles and as they turn into frowns, sad, tears, cries of help, regrets, refuses. It feels like looking into the eyes of the devil as I remember comments about the song blasting from my iPod. The battery is now full, as I wonder if my iPod was red before. I tear the sticker off, it’s green with a sticker of me and Lola showing our tongues. My hands feel numb, as I wince slowly, feeling the numbness grow.

I need help.

I try to call out.

I look again.

There’s a psycho killer.

I am nearly home.

Inside me.

Just a while.

And that while takes forever.

But even forever ends and I hop off the bus, not bothering to turn the music off, that small forever in my ears, as soon enough some pop song advertised by Lola comes.

I walk on feeling the easing smell and chill in the air. It felt so distant yesterday and the thought that there was something else feels absurd. It gets inside me mixing with my mind in a good, not harming way, more of a friendly, welcoming way. I just greet it by inhaling and giving it a tap on the back, because that’s manly. I feel my soul ease, after a storm, before a storm. Who knows, but then what is it that lies ahead?

I stop there, feeling the light pour away or rather fall in apples, as the other me catches one and takes a bite.

Chapter 13

Wednesday, 27 October 2010


Do we sleep on our sins
As we'll wake up tomorrow
Hoping that it shall be gone
The fright of the night
The burnt of the toast
As we sleep on our own
As we scream in nightmares
Are the covers that dark
That we never take them
With us?
As we travel far
With everything upon
Tied in a throat in a knot
As we sleep on used by other guest's covers.
Do we believe in the colourful powder?
We lie and pray
As the monster chews it
And spits it out
Sometimes it takes our socks,
Laughing at our naivety
As we walk with one green
One red.
He said he wanted to be colour blind,
I raised my brow.
He should get rid of himself
Or let the washing machine choke on him
As I'd let his corpus spin
I'd see death screaming
Take me back
Would I break it
Letting soap float
As death shall yank my chin forward
Would I make out with it?
Just for the hell of it.
As the weeks would be mentioned
Written with pink chalk on the floor
Teddies emerging from under my feet
As I'd be greeted
Where, I'd ask
I'd get a laugh.
I wasn't the one trying to look cool
By getting a defect
I was getting rid
Of the sin written from above
For what reason
Is this sarcasm?


Monday, 25 October 2010

Papercut. Chapter 11.


Stick men.

“So is this what you still draw, kid, stick men?” I grin as I open my mouth, my tongue to one side, not in a suggestive way. I’m not into small kids. Boys or girls. Neither do I eat them for breakfast, wondering why Shrek never did it. Romeo seems fascinated by the fact that he is creped out. But who wouldn’t blame him? I dazed off several times already. Good thing, dyed kid here is nervous. Oh, nerves will drive you insane or to me, in his case.

The red headed kid shakes his head, his cheeks the same tone as his hair. I close my mouth, feeling my smile die as fast as it was born. Oh, well, I would have liked to see him draw me an army of cookie armed stickmen. Then he could draw me a stickman tank so that my stickmen could ride it. I could get him a fancy bar of chocolate. Some long posh bar which most likely his kitchen cupboards are filled with.

So, fail.

“No, no, uncle Rom-”

“F-” Hold your tongue, you idiot. “Kid, kid, I’m no uncle. Just call me Roman.” The end stretched out. I never liked his name, but I need it to avoid confusion and tried to look normal. I smile at him, digging my hands into the pockets of my jeans. I see a loose stitch and poke until I feel the fabric form a small hole sucking my sanity inside for it to fall onto the floor. By the looks of it the kid knows the good ol’ four letter word and his cheeks express his uneasiness, as if he is about to get electrocuted, as if I am sticking my finger into his mouth, the plug.

“Ok, ok, Roman. I’m not that lame. (The kid flushes.) It’s just that I can’t seem to get the ears or hair right, so I drew dad.” No ears? No hair? Go dad! Now chop the rest off so it would bleed, as we’d hang the corpus as a piñata. Only it would be empty inside. I tilt my head up, concentrating on memories taken by my other half. The blurry snapshots with hearts drawn all over, as he walks around in a pompous way, crying about his lack of sanity, only a chunk left to be eaten and now rotten, as I bite his forearm, laughing and quoting things he never read, as I’d arrange them in piles, growing up. Me and the books. Welcome to school. A sane one, where I am the teacher.

Yes, bald, baldy bald.

“So, show me kid.” Give me a challenge. I feel eager to see posh kid’s skills. To see if money makes a difference or lack of it. Technically, I steal from Rome. I feel the need to make a duel with Romeo. To aim at him, as I wonder how fear looks, how death laughs in a person’s eyes as the trigger pulls back. The bullet pierces the flesh, cutting through, making a hole in the white.

Maybe I should shoot myself.

As soon as I say it he runs off, leaving himself in my thoughts, as if he were a bruise. I blink, calming myself down. I brush my palm against my left arm, my lips afterwards, easing at the touch. How long has it been?

He runs back, not asking me to follow him into his room, as if I’ll steal his action figures and throw them at him. A grin is widely spread on his child face with those freckles scattered on his pale skin, making him more naive. His emerald eyes look at me with trust, with pride and with curiosity. Then he holds the portrait in front of him, unlike when he came running to me hiding it behind his back.

I tilt my head sideways.

Is pornography the darkest sin?

Shall a portrait be considered as one, as the clone stands naked?

A sweat drop appears on his forehead just under the neatly cut bangs, as I wonder who shall brush them off with a tender feeling or to feel the pulse, the split skull taste the blood and eat the life, praying. The fear printed, as I shall press my fingers into his scalp, my lips next to his ear, as I whisper the meaning of life and gateways to losing it.

Hurry up, you’re leaving.

It looks… comical in a professional way. He made the cheeks rounder, the eyes gazing off into the distance as his lips form some warning, some absurd suggestion and rough punch of denial. Romeo is afraid to speak up, but there is no need.

“Brilliant, kid.” I smile at him and let my hand ruffle the combed side of his head. Get the fuck out of here. I feel my fingers intertwine in his hair as memories fill my head. I want to share them, my first kiss, the first time I bought a magazine, the screen now my own eyes. I could remember when Juliet shouted at me for no exact reason and I pet her head, assuring that I was not a cheating bastard.

Oh, Lola.

Never liked her much. She laughed too loudly, her eyes a piercing colour. I close my eyes, so that I feel a light pain in the eyelids, as I try to get her piercing eye colour out of my head with the voice and accuses. Lola ranted on my space-outs, just a blink and I’d look differently. I’d blow smoke in her face, on purpose, as she hated the smell of cigarettes. Never liked it much myself, but I despite her more. I’m Smith and she’s Morrissey. The way her blonde locks were in braids, ponytails, low, high or her hair just straight down. I wanted to cut them off then hold them until they’d fall onto the floor in a pool and I’d let Roman sink in the misfortune. I disliked her for copying whoever was in her beautiful female list. I hated how she dyed her nails two different colours each time choosing some banal to the bones combination and how she’d blow on it, glancing sideways, asking if Roman was back.

I’d grin at her, as her face would make a disgusted expression as I’d chew on my cig while lighting it. She’d ask me why I changed. She’d ask me why I’d smoke and then drop the cig a while later in shock that I had that between my lips. She’d ask why I was so different. How come a person who loathed her lived with her in the lingering thoughts, slept with Roman in the same head.

It made her question Roman.

If he loved her on Tuesdays.

One second I prefer impressionism the next I think that surrealism should take over, trying to dig holes into the past.

One second I wear my scarf tightly against my neck the next I hang it loose.

One second I remind myself to buy hair dye the next I want to dye it back the way it was.

Close to a chocolate brown.

Close to hazel eyes.

It’s his entire fault.

I had to make-out with her, pretend that I adored her, I had to hold my need for a smoke and not to puke. I had to act all sweet and nice. I had to hold myself when I was in the psychiatrist when the question would be held. When I’d be labeled and tucked in, then woken up, yanked in water as if I were a witch, as nothing else could be done. He lead me out, he drove me insane. I yelled at him. It wasn’t his business.

I stopped being nice to her, taking a pair of scissors.

He couldn’t make me go away.

I was Roman.

I wasn’t some trauma gone deep into the kid’s brain.

I wasn’t a virus which you could delete.

Some dreadful tasting pills weren’t going to make me go away.

I don’t want to be seen as nothing.

“Roman? Are you ok?” I wince as I feel a sudden headache, then pierce my body as I shake lightly. It’s cold.

No, not just yet.

Worry reflects in ginger’s eyes. Worry. Fear that the only person who admired his work would feel bad. What if he’d die?

Care? Does he care? I stare at him, leaning my head so that I can see him better. To him I’m not a freaking child like trauma breaking loose, taking over Roman’s sane brain. I am the nineteen year old bloke who admired his portrait.

I want a kid like that. I want someone who cares.

“Yeah. Didn’t have much sleep. Just came here yesterday.” I realize that my sentences are short, meaningless, without any details, dry as sand stuck in the throat, a near lie. I look at his pleading, drenched in curiosity and hunger for details eyes, as I feel myself give in. I feel like telling my life. Tell him to grasp it and fuck everyone else. “Just got here and I guess the one hour difference is killing.”

I expect and get a small smirk from him. He suggests tea and I accept. After all we have five hours or even more ahead and I have no tasks given asides for giving my life in sudden acts of terrorism so that he, the next generation, son of some rich family and inheritance of a big fortune can survive to buy pancakes. While me, a child from a middle class family, aching to be the next big artist die. Because I won’t take money from green men.

I taste the tea, wondering if this would be my last tea before some guy bursts into the living room. No, that’s not really a terrorist act. A nuclear bomb? I haven’t watched 24 for quite a while, so my knowledge of terrorists was close to minimal now. How would I have been thrown on the ground then? My bones broken? My body so numb from pain that the last breath is done heavily, unnoticed no fancy life going through my head. But what would happen? Would I die listening to “Heroes”? Yeah, she’d be the queen. Would the memories be mixed? Would I be gone? Who would have the last moment? Whose name would I whisper Lola’s or…

Would it just be my death, as he’d be the liver eating zombie? Because he’s not smart enough. But then neither I’m I.

“Do you paint, Roman?” Romeo smiles widely at me with his teeth as pearly white as his mothers. I want to tell him to stop calling me Roman. I nod taking a gulp from my tea ignoring the fact that now I have a burned tongue. I hope that it won’t bother, but soon I feel like my tongue is on fire and is the one under the attack. I take it out.

I see Lola blowing on it, her eyes closed.

I flinch.

“My dad needs a teacher for this art club he is in charge of.” Is it the only thing he is in charge of? A bloody club? Right, that earns billions. Of course. But then after a quick moment of hesitation Romeo adds. “Well, aside from the business he is doing.”

Right, right, business. That is a surprise I thought book clubs make you filthy rich. He just corrupted me. Oh, Jesus, is the world so evil like that? Kill me now, I do not want to live among this disgrace. I gasp, but yawn to hide my sarcasm at my own thoughts. Thankfuly, Romeo is naïve and takes the whole gasp and yawn as a full weird, yet long yawn. In other words a long gasp of air due to the organism’s lack of oxygen or lack of sleep, no confirmed real reason and dark truth behind the sudden action.



“Would you like to teach there? I mean, if you can explain and well, teach.” He smiles, his eyes sparkling with pride savoring the moment when he’ll exclaim that he found somebody for the job. His first earned pound. Corruption. I stare at him with a trademark Roman being dumb expression. It is his body and face. I hold my cup in the air halfway to my mouth, burning the fingers as I hold it. My mind is strangely blank before I see bursts of colours, fireworks.

I feel a hand upon my eyes, stroking my lips, a kiss upon my cheek with a smirk. I’m a mossy green, not hazel.

“Yes.” And a sudden surge of showing my ability to teach takes over me. I repeat the yes several times, praying that he won’t realize that I am not exactly that sane. I feel like cupping his cheeks and kissing him until death. I feel my head split as I see him with his dark hair, drinking tea, petting Romeo, standing up, muttering a “see ya, Rome.”

I should thank him.

Chapter 12

Wednesday, 20 October 2010

Checkered Sky

Simple as a mere feather or smoke coming out of the mouth in a dangerous matter as the body resembles a fucking corpus as if it might collapse and under the pressure the world might collapse. Why? Because I'll die and it shall, people die for reasons never finding if it trully was worthy just seeing a faint glimpse of the checkered sky above me. Would it trully be different if I'd trully stand on top of a building throwing candy floss downwards giving all my love with blown kisses as I'd produce no sound going through the gray crowd of chemicals covered in brown as if we'd drain in oil clasping our hands together because there is absolutely nothing else to cling to really, other than people who resemble what we see in the mirror with the music we sing to plastered on our dull faces as we'd guess who we got.
The plain click of fingers and tongue, overgrown fringe in the face and fingers producing the same notes each time as if it were nothing particular as if nothing could emerge from the same keys all at once.
It can be a chaotic icy mix would would recieve dull stares and endless confusion. As passion?
The phrase coming out of now a warm mouth, dried clothes, a coat which costs a fortune doesn't change anything anyway really. I get a long stare and I cannot look at myself in the mirror that I take it down.
The television shows my reflection if it is turned off. I turn it on I flick it through a fucking round of ads and pop with plain slogans printed on them which reflect nothing as the girls make out with girls because it's the next big thing, I flick twice and see no gay men, leaving Tom Cruise with the old big things.
I turn it off.
I see myself the bags, the overgrown face, two brothers smeared upon my face and the reason screaming upon my face.
What I'm I expecting?
I play with the air, biting it leaving bruises, leaving
and echo as I hit the television a shard in my converse.
I brush it off,I wave it off, go to the balcony, throw it away, cry horryfyingly as my kid neibhoor with its owner stare at me, brushing the kids golden locks, grasping the parent's fingers treading it with his own as he bites them off winter staring at autumn.
Death after pleasure of watching others die, the sins fade as tongue touches the cheek in a disgustive matter.
I close my eyes with my fingers, spread my fingers, see the boy, the parents are eaten.
He stands, his locks golden in a blue suit with a red tie, leaning over his balcony looking at me in the eye, watching me for a moment the future passing with red clouds in his eyes, he closes death, waves at me and walks off leaving a trail of red dust which I hop to and follow him to velvet civers covering everything around as I expect boddies if all sorts laying but all are eating, teeth caught in his golden hair as he passes rooms and stops, fixing his falling jaw, dropping his suitcase, holding his head, laughing intensivey, looking up rage dying in laughter as his eyes remain like glass, fingers freezing, body in heat, teeth opened as trunks, gold holding from them resembling chewed crosses after a long battle used as swords against pearls caught in the throats as death lingers upon the walls, bony hands carraseing the wallpapers and rugs with square holes which would make geometry jealous that she'd gag.
I ask him if I can leave, he says no, bringing out a pocket piano and strumming it with his fingers his face motionless up to the point that it could slice a paper in two.
It does.
I gag, I throw up, I'm the previous generation, I did nothing asides getting eaten and producing a tune which was done and get my arm kissed in shame as my hair would get cut off in disgrace.
In shame.
In pleasure.
In a luring lullaby bringing myself to a forest full of knives and green, while all dreamt of factories, oil strumming in blood, destroying those who shall eat us with nothing to produce, dying in pleasure, sex and faint glimpses of love which were created to be thrown in the face, dances denied and toes chewed on.
I look into the violet eyes as my fingers are gone and the shoulder
is bitten.
I love the generation, because my hand is gone, the fringe shook off and I am layed into a coffin by the beloved the lullaby sung by birds reacting of oil and fame and gold as they fall upon my face and get buried with me because The body upon me needs to eat with the locks to grow and intertwine the nothing which shall be in his mouth full of lies he once told
now gone
he clasps my hand and smiles
pours tea upon my face and tells me he loves me
i love him too
it upon
in our
are hands
on our
in throats
I'd wake up facing him as if he were a mirror.
The morning actually feels like the aftermath.
There's this quote that when you cut yourself you feel bad about in the evening, but not in the morning.
That didn't apply to sleeping awake with thought reaching the morning.
It takes more than a minute to cope. It's not like falling in love with a washing machine or a french fry you know you'll be the one to eat unless it either falls and crushes you or you choke on it in a moment of passion.
Do people die in the middle of a kiss forever to linger and forever to remain as the tasted of the once greated tongue as it slowly dissolves hinting that you are mine and you shall have it there?
The show that we shared death, one betraying one never pulling the trigger but feeling the steel.
I excused myself from the room, leaning over the balcony staring at females below me their long golden locks, dyed nails, short cropped hair or middle length. No one really wanted to look at the girl from above unless she'd be screaming between his legs. It's the below position, I'd usually recieved which horryfyingly satisfied me up to a point where I hesitated in my role in the great circle of life.
What did I do waiting for bliss as the woman would pay to give birth after nine months of corruption building inside her leaking to life with blood and loss?
We'd never take it upon us the birth of another mouth to feed.
If we'd want to we'd all become and giving.
We'd be caught in an eternal kiss upon the body of a woman.
I walked back as he'd flick the channels back and forth, ranting on his girlfriend, red burnt leaves in his hair. The same person sat on the table, eating on an apple, pages fixed with nails on the table, as he chewed, slowly eyes reading lower and lower until he escaped and looked straight at me.
August, I kept telling me and he through the never touched by any marks apple, aiming at my bed hair, but I dodged it easily, that it left a bruise upon my index finger.
August looked down, the red tie loose, hanging along with head, as the eyes were closed reminding what failure and desire were like holding hand in hand.
A month appart, september our child, someone it between.
Like two sexes we were two, a third lingering with its pride and hidden sexuality.
I was afraid to look september in the eyes as his feet would kick off his docks, her body laying on the table, his lips hers and the hair cut short with an endless laughter aimed at the neibhoors above in a suggestive manner as the threads of the tank top are loose.
August would kiss it, slowly dying the bones forming until, dying, one eye closed, the over covered by the hand, he'd press a gun of fingers to my head, slowly travel to my mouth as I'd swallow him
as a note of passion and devotion, I'd tell november as she'd tap her long fongers back and forth, my jaw dragging august, september and november, last years out and she'd blow them into december's face, laughing, covering her eyes in utter disgust as december shall come licking her forehead and forearm until she'd shriek and the rest of us would be born in heaven with a bunch of monkeys chewing bananas as their rating starts to grow in the afterlife, as old ladies discuss the ever ever after as the sun would die and the toes will turn blue as I'd lay mouthing august's red tie because I'd be afraid to confess as he'd trail fingers into my mouth.
Romeo and Juliet.
September laughs.
She laughs, tears trailing as I open the safe the notes stuck in and out of my mind.
They remind me post-its the cheap already used yellow ones, as september lits his ciggarette done and he is burning his fingers, like boys on the lawn she says biting off a nail and feeding it to august, hoping that he'll die.
November smirks in the corner, her hat falling off revealing her bare tress on her head and white pupils.
There is no global warming she giggles, showing her blue hands with icky red nails.
I kiss her.
It resembles something mutual, as she pushes me away taking august's cig and swallowing it her white pupils on mine.
She kisses me.
There is no music apart from septembers' chats and loud making out with her twin brother,
it's like a school dance with no confetti and no roof above as it was sold for a couple of mars bars and a rocket to shove into the fridge so that I'd be on a diet in order to stop being below, all for a month's desire
before I move on, tearing the calendar, bending it, shoving a burning faq in my mouth, grinning, displeased
i'm in love, amour, love, I stop it, I kiss her.
I tell her I hate her with passion, she takes the silver ring off my finger piercing her nose with it, displeased
I tell her I'm displeased as well.
We'd get married and be stuck in green baby goo.
Stuck in four walls, I take out the post-its crying that the order is mixed with mayoneese which is on august's lips I lick off.
He stares me, smiling turning me into our tenth kiss, shaking everybody off, tearing the room and layers, dragging me above, to look at the newly bought with a thought roof. The stars as they fall onto his eyelashes as I shake them off, as if he's in a nightmare.
He is.
August says he is not, that he ate his brother on purpose, the year of the cat, no month as he never was born and he ate the fruit, savoring it, the taste of death upon his lips
upon my own
as he drags me over him, hands holding, desperation seen
love held
bagels shoved between lips
creamed cheese above
smeared with love between fingers
as he tries to confess
kissing away the nightmare as I get a dry toe in my mouth.
You're stale as bread and wasn't that the love we once feed on. That thought lingers on as I thread his golden hair smiling, telling jokes into his ear, our legs tangled, covers upon the floor as I discover a famine side of me, as my hair grows and shortens with each style, as he watches me play upon the piano, the kids screaming, the lady denying her attention, her span reaching zero.
Everything seems like a flash, delicate as a dance move when everything is forgotten reminding somewhat of a deja vu in the kiss, the touching as we both laugh.
We laugh a lot, as we close our mouths as we age on and on seeing old lovers and long forgotten keys which no longer remind of something we had but something we shall get as love is poured in in endless doses between his golden laughter, even as his hair turns red brown, as my own whitens.
We waltz.
We never knew the moves, but we do it anyway, to some energetic music, because love is waltz an endless spin of two characters which their lips pressed and hair on the floor, skulls ripped together, until death do we part
with tongues in our mouths
not our own
but the ones we trully earn
the ones marked by love.
forever and ever
until the worlds rot and we are left pointing and watching
and laughing
until we can't hold and take over
drowning in the love we once created and fed on like birds, little by little until there was none left
and we bought more
in the supermarket covered in red velvet scarves we both wore
until spring came and we took them off
now the fingers upon.
We'd stand there shooting rockets out of our mouths into each others, eating ice cream on the terrace upon his brother's bones, crunching them as we'd laugh heartily, tearing tears from each other's eyes, smiling up to the point that our smiles will turn into marshmallow.
Our laugh into watermelons the seeds resembling our love small easy to bite and bruise but nothing reminding of a shatter.
Our love mutual, our love shared on a silver platter as we lick everything off, our fingertips touching, eyes never raised, ceased to never feel reality, dancing in a dream with joy division the soundtrack artist with Curtis smiling on the cover, dead.
The glimpse of love once ceased to shatter, as the teenage years went on but the mark of one at the beginning.
They say that some life a full life by several years.
What about the never born baby?
Was the dna so full that there was trully nothing to complete?
The love already shattered, full and given?
With the concept not understood as the smoke shatters with the chew on the birds and the bees as August lies there once more laughing, his hand no longer covering the frown he was once given from a kiss full of blood and passion.
What if everything ended or started with suicide all forming from the thin lip ending with blood or immersing as if a golden phoenix? All so deepressed and feeling the loss of love up to the point that vomitting is needed?
I get pulled closer.
Then the spin starts with both laughing until one stops holding, vommiting on the other.

Tuesday, 19 October 2010

Papercut. Chapter 10.

Many people walk past me in the corridors as my first visit draws to an end. I have several classes with Mel and Frank. They both have the same classes causing an opposite reaction to Melvin’s exclaim of victory. I try to recalling the names, the faces in the circle and I can’t. I had seen them once in my life so far for those lousy twenty minutes as my gaze traveled from one stranger to another. All the faces, names and amounts censored or the spoiler now gone, as the page is burnt and the split-personality laughing.

I am exposing myself to strangers. It felt as if I am taking candy from that tall man in a hat in those kid stories which scream out ‘do not talk to strangers’. Strangers have the best candy. And yet here I am showing my past nude edition, giving out fragments which do not matter to them, but I fail to hold them as my own now. Something I treasure, what I am. It wasn’t like I described my relation to Lola, what colour was my underwear, my politic views, to whom I gave my vote and other if I ever did, I usually ordered a pizza and watched the post-election debates for the hell of it. But if felt like that. I was listening to biographies but not my own and what I had exposed.

Word to word is printed in my brain, transmitting a low echo every minute of the words which escaped from my mouth like illegal emigrants. That’s the problem when you spill your soul out. One of you always remembers either the listener or the teller. The teller gossips, the listener gets pissed. So before I ever spill my soul out, I chew on that thought. Do I want to? Mostly when I think about it I do. Truly, regrets happen.

But then is there a life with no regrets? There is. But instead of dying calm, you die in agony, the music gone, the eyes taken and sunken in kohl of a beloved, who you never gave yourself to. There are moments when you feel calm, mostly when the mind is clouded by love and you realize that no matter what you cause that is simply not the reason to stop you from having a bright future and looking brighter at it than ever. But what if it blinds you? That’s what everything is about, the awaiting, the hope, the belief. The feeling of that running inside you killing all the pain which was gathered up so long. That’s why it’s worth, feeling all that, feeling everything under your feet, feeling that taste.

Then the next address is now hanging above me like a burning sign, screaming out my next destination. It was better than nothing. I could have still been chewing on the tip of my pencil, feeling it crack in two and spit out the remains of it out of my mouth. Newspapers and ads were scattered around me on the kitchen table as Kayleen drank her tea, her eyes going through some ads from while to while. I told her that her help wasn’t needed.

After a while she got bored from all the searching and she got distracted by herself or by sudden phone calls from her friends. Then her laughter would pierce my concentration as the words would seem to run around the pages, scattering as I’d search for that one advertise that would earn me money.

Then in between laughing breaks, Kayleen put a newspaper above my magazine as she replied about some new celebrity break-up. And now the same ad, only now cut-out with the address highlighted with a marker was now held firmly in my hand hinting the same address as the posh block of flats in front of me.

Now I regret the fact that I have my old pair of Converse, not the new ones, after all I thought that my job would require me to get messy and I’d walk out with feathers sticking out of my head. The block of flats seems to scream out for a fancy suit and matching footwear which I doubt could be my docs or any colour Converse, unless they’d cost a fortune and have some pop artist’s lipstick trace.

So basically I have to use the number of their flat twice, once while I press the numbers in the intercom and as I walk inside seeing everything white and… marble I guess. I walk on onto the elevator, taking my hands out of my pockets, feeling uneasy and out of the scene. I say the floor number and I even get it pressed for me with the fact that I do not have the lack of fingers unless I chop them off now, which is highly unlikely, gotta draw for a living, more like misery, drawing it creating that bright thing inside with stares from above. I could still press it with my nose and I do not have the lack of a nose but I can chop it off with a job. I expect some elevator music like in those video games where characters dance to it. Yes, yes, we all watched Cloud dance in deep confusion and pure jealousy.

I nod with a good bye and walk outside, feeling myself gulp and actually feel nervous. What should I actually feel? Should I shout at him? Should I let him watch TV until his rich parents return home, back to their posh apartment? I could picture the wife taking off her necklace worth several grand as she would regret going there instead of watching some late night talk show about bastard men. The husband would be in a bad mood over the fact that no rumor about his raise was brought to life along with several grand. Maybe they’d have an argument, wake the kid up and break up. The wife now with her own talk show, the one about bastard men, the break-up money used to kick out the previous ex-wife.

“Oh, evening, Roman.” Pearly white teeth. Smiling hazel eyes. Dark blonde hair tied in a neat bun with several steaks falling across the face. I guess that is the wife. I greet her back and get an invitation inside. She watches me and I take it as my cue to get out of my Converse. I feel insecure, as if I was told to enter without any weapons. She eyes the pink slippers, which by the looks of it were prepared for myself? Pink? I blink and with my reaction her hand slides with a dramatic oh (is my name girly or something?) to a deep blue pair and I put them on with a thanks. I try to be as polite as possible because the payment is worth it.

I’m depressed that this is only a one time job, but then maybe they’ll call me again saying ‘Oh, oh, Roman, you are such a brilliant and fantastic babysitter with no experience before, but believe me, son, you’re the best. Can you come every day? We kicked out our nanny, which I had back in the 70s.' Dream, dream on, Roman.

“So, Thomas! Thomas!” The lady shouts as her voice breaks with a dark note. I catch her eye and for a moment her face changes, like a sudden crack in the mirror. I see no longer the warm hazel eyes, the Godlike appearance. I see several wrinkles on her forehead and in the corner of her eyes. Her lips form a broken and mad frown. I gulp, as with a quick brush to get rid of the steak now from eyes her face changes back. She 
smiles back at me, only now with a shadow across her eyes. “Romeo, sweetie!”

A red haired boy runs up to us and hides behind his mother. His hair is half combed as the others seems to be out of the bed after a hangover which I doubt he had unless Disney is collaborating with Jack. Maybe he ruffled it after school, only half of it, to get half shouted on. Then a toothy grin replaces the confusion on his face. He seems to be half my height and dressed in designer clothes from head to toe. He tilts his head examining the unloved replacement as I grip onto my scarf, nearly whispering thoughts of home and expecting to be back with Kayleen drinking hot chocolate in the kitchen, talking or reading, her light eyes locked in poetry. His green eyes stop on my hair. Most likely he tries to figure out what my natural hair colour is. Even I don’t remember. I’m kidding, of course I do. Thankfully I don’t mouth that aloud which would cause them to question my sanity. Which can actually be under questioning. The sanity of my other self of course, not my 

The one which just hit my arm.

“Hey, I’m Roman. Nice to meet you, Romeo.” I smile and stretch out my hand. He looks, suspicion printed on his angelic face with a demon’s kiss but shakes it anyway replying the same courtesy. Isn’t that ironic? With the fact that both of the origins of our names are connected to Rome? I think. And above all I get nicknamed Rome today. Damned coincidence. But isn’t that a nice coincidence to start a conversation? Is it? Or rather the second chapter of eleven volumes.

I watch and listen to the wife talk about her son’s hobbies, as I try to recall her name. Camilla, wasn’t it? I watch her lips move as she talks about endless rules how to feed her son, where is the food, who gives the food, what food he shouldn’t eat. I wonder if she likes me back, if Thomas is worth it. I count the age, her hair blonde like Lola’s.

“Does your son draw?” I ask faking a casual tone, not realizing what escapes my lips. Do people from such a high society even hold a pencil as much as they hold credit cards or rather break them for a dare, before exposing their naked soul? I shut up and watch her face change. The smile is now gone again, as Romeo watches his mother’s face change as she struggles for a while. Thomas, the husband pays no attention. He glances as he greets me. The red head senior stops and tries to hide the fact of interest in my question.

“Of course he does! Look at all these paintings he enjoys it! Fascinated! Dazzled! Bewildered!” Throwing around loud words with the hands held up until the lady realization comes and she sighs, wishing she were a wealthy man. I quickly glance at the walls. The pictures seem to be several years old unless he still draws stick figures.

Romeo gulps causing his parents to glare at his sudden swallow and he gets a pat on the head by both. Soon enough, they both place a kiss on his forehead, ignoring his exploding from embarrassment cheeks. Two cheeks resembling two atomic bombs. Thankfully for me and Romeo’s leaking out of his ears embarrassment as the patting is over with kisses, they soon headed off.

I double check the lock, realizing that I may look suspicious and once again like a terrorist. Maybe I should get a sign, a badge, a t-shirt saying that I am not a terrorist.

Who would believe you?



That’s a nice change. I grin wide at the red haired boy in front of me. Romeo, Ro-me-o, right? I glance at the stick figures caught up in the white of the paper in the expensive gold frames hanging on the wall look disgusting, as if crafted by a tasteless whore model. They seem to be happy, the corners of their lips pulled up by some imaginary force, like life itself. Holding no meaning behind but held tight. I grin wider and walk up to the nearest frame as the kid watches me.

I want to send them free. I can. I can tear them from their prison with scissors. I can let them run free. I raise my hand and feel the glass between us pierce my fingers with its low temperature. The icy feel burns me and it feel good at the same time. It would feel better broken into shards, digging into my own skin. As I’d draw my name in blood.

I give out a light laugh, as I watch those small men crawl all over the place. I see them thank me, bow down to me. Pray to me. Call me their God for I saved them. Something I cannot do for myself.


He’s the one holding the umbrella to shield from the sun.

Chapter 11 

Wednesday, 13 October 2010


I fake the sounds which should come out of my fingers, stroking people’s faces and it works, as nothing comes out of the keys which I press numbly.
Maybe they insides of the glossy black are broken.
I hear as they clap to my silence, as I close my eyes, my lips in a thin line of concentration, as the hair brushes against my eyelids, blood staining my nails on the dried keys.
I play about the autumn leaves which fall without a sound, taking the remainings of life, the blue crocodiles under my bed which used to sing instead of an alarm, the stars which fell and made holes into the balcony.
They understand it all with their washed faces, as they clap in tune to my silence as they expect either a lady or a man to stand there near the door, the smile colouring the silence with gold and glitter and laughs as the kisses shall be placed upon my neck.
But there’s no one there, as I reach the last keys, there never was.
The desire once was, until I looked into the reflection of the glossy black and I realized for whom I do play, who knows about the eaten under the bed crackers, who gets the nails bitten by the keys as silence strums throughout the air, which has the autumn coloured eyes once reflected in my own.

Checkered Sky

Tuesday, 12 October 2010

Papercut. Chapter 9.

Rome? Rome?

A nickname?

A given nickname.

A mere nickname for a laugh coming out of his lips. I stand there like a dummy. I barely had any nicknames. I glance at him surely he had no bad intention even some sort of warm greeting, like a smile before coming friends. It was a friendly gesture which I can return only how? I mean, yeah, I had friends with who I traded video games with, discussed classmates, mostly girls and gossipped about the guys and who dated who. Actually on those talks they’d roll their eyes knowing that I had Lola and had no intention of switching to somebody else.

To cheat.

No matter how they mocked me for not doing anything pimpy, not understanding what the word loyalty meant, I just went on to the next date we had. I guess it really was something we both shared, something which I shattered.

Now it was like a nice, new start.

With Melvin. Only nothing physical and nothing as intimate.

“You’re the first Melvin I know, Mel.” I say with a smile shortening his name. Crap, crap. Mel is like a short version of Melanie. Damn. I bite my lip awaiting Melvin’s reaction, as Frankie mutteres something under his breath, amazed that our inner school girls are controlling us, as they are stroking their boyfriend's hair.

Mel gives out a laugh and grins back, throwing his other arm around me smiling at his new nickname. Aproove? It was nothing special, I suppose I could call him Melv or his full name but I decided to try it and shorten his name just like he did mine. It was like returning that smile with a wave.

And I got a small wave back.

And just like that we walked into the circle to introduce ourselves to the others.

Maybe we look like complete idiots with Melvin’s arms around us, holding us close, together, as he hung on us looking proud as we are some sort of trophy. I am the shortest of them all compared to Frankie’s tall silhouette and Melvin’s half a head above me. But that didn’t seem to mind the new-built out of lego trophy and neither does it bother me for a change. I smile as we find ourselves an empty space to rest. Mel in the middle, the boss, and me and Frank on the sides. I see several interested glances, as people try to guess what connection we have. High school friends? Lovers? Childhood buddies?

People gossip out of built-in connections.

A strawberry blonde girl startes, her piercing eyes fixed on her dyed black nails slowly digging into the darker jean fabric. Black frames match the kohl behind them, as she lifts her eyes along with the pronounced name, Jill. My eyes catch hers for a second as I await her to read my mind. A talent and shiver as I see that shade. It makes you feel naked, as the pupils seem nearly lifeless, the blue catching as if I were a bubble.


She's friendly and open.

Jill's hair is gelled back neatly, blonde with a bright pink stripe to protest against the known.

Next was a guy who called himself Derek, his hair hidden under a chullo, released by a pull coming along with a smile and smirk sparkling from behind his eyes.

Pull, a confetti of colours emerge as his enourmous lips form a smile.

His fingers keep tapping a rhythm as he passes the flag of introduction.

The next ones weren’t as pleasant as the first, not as friendly opened. But then you can’t judge by the first appearance and several occasions proved it to me. But despite everything it was hard for me to get rid of that impression. And I could never see them again. I could get expelled, like they would.

One was a dark haired tanned girl occasionally taking drags from her cigarette as her other hand fiddled with the cross around her neck. She leans her head forward exposing her neck more, where her real skin colour is hidden. She mutters Amy with a quick drag and adds her hometown quieter, as if it were a disgrace and a word filled with burnt stars and regret.

The next girl seems to open her mouth wide her tongue piercing nude, as she talks about her life changes in a high, emotionless voice, not looking at anybody in the circle, but tracing one un the back of her palm. Her dark red hair held by two scarlet ribbons. Her lips were a dark brown due to her sudden pick of lipstick or sudden glass kiss. Brenda is her name, the only pompous thing she exclaims.

The third one, her biography under her breath, causing Derek ask her to speak up which ends up in a straight back, facial exposure, her two piercings under her bloody red lips, quickly glance at everybody, as she repeates Agnes, with her red eyes. She isn't drunk. Eye contacts.

The next girl has shoulder length blonde hair, most likely bleached out. She openes her mouth and fixes her black specs at the same time, waiting a second before saying out her name, Amelia. I blink at the sudden mouthful of names beginning with A. Maybe it was a plain coincidence and I’d forget all the names, faces and people I met today. As sad as it sounds it will be a big grey memory later on, because I won’t be able to recall who said this and who did that.

I should've taken a camera.

I met and forgot you.

James, the guy says after an instant, a blink, as Amelia stops talking. She gasps at the sudden quick reaction. Pow. James just shrugs, poking his red Converse with black shoelaces. Black, red and write wristbands. Classy. Hair gelled, as the winds blows and kills it.

The circle of unknown finishes, me making a pause for me to say out my name. A seagull introduces himself walking into the circle and demanding a non-existant sub. He gets a cig from Agnes, lit on both sides.When I say my hometown aloud, Jill mentiones that her sister lived there. Brenda had some ex boyfriend there. It was no surprise my hometown isn't (would love to say wasn't, but it's still there), that far away and has quite a population, let’s say its own celebrities who run away and made their place in the world. Something, I’d love to do one day.

Only I wouldn't go back... to a once acclaimed home.

Then Melvin and Frankie follow, giving small fragments of their autobiography. I fell like asking them who their girlfriends are and why aren't they here. But I hold my tongue instead, listening to end of his presentation as Melvin leans back, falling onto the grass, closing his eyes, trying to relax. The blur building. The wind occasionally ruffles his hair, causing him annoyance as his eyebrows move closer hinting that.

But mine isn't here as well.

Then the heavy blur returnes.

Laughs. Giggles. Melvin ranting about our schedule which isn't even given but he still finds what to complain about as we wait in line for something. Maybe we aren't in the line anymore. Maybe it is all over. Maybe there is no Mel in front of me waving his arms showing his impatient built-in feature, waiting for something to happen, something expected, something so awaited, so loved.


Was she expected?


Her hand against her lips. Eyes fixed.

Light eyes? Dark eyes?

I could feel something turn into stone in my chest.

She glances at me, her mouth tense, arm now pocketed, eyes glancing back and forth, lost, a notebook tightly against her chest. Nervous glance to the side and then back at me.


It’s not her. It can’t be.

It’s not her.

I stare, watching Melvin and Frankie walk away. I look away now. I look back. She’s still there, but it’s not her. My eyes catch every detail of her appearance, as I compare her in my mind. I know what she looks like, what she feels like. I could feel myself trail kisses as memories fog mind, trying to break into reality or lure me back in.

Then I walk past, without a single glance at the girl who resembled Lola.

Never look back.

Maybe we never broke up. Maybe we are still going out, in my head. It still echoes. Maybe I dislike ruffling my hair and if I did I’d feel her fingers run threw my hair, up to my chin stopping there.

Walk away in silence.

Maybe I really did adore her. Maybe they weren’t just words I’d whisper in her ear causing light shivers upon both bodies. Scared. My voice never shook when I’d say them.

I’d think that I was lying.

Just like any guy, the method to get a girl. Fancy, fancy, fancy-dancy words to get her.

She never believed in them anyway.

She’d just smile Lie back. That’s what I thought.

Both tangled up in a web of lies, trying not to choke believing in the possibility of getting out of it unharmed. Lies, lying, lie. All of that would scream in my head, giving the shake in my voice the lack of sparkle in my eyes, the trembling fingertips brushing against the brow.

The broken kisses.



Maybe they weren’t as broken as I thought they were.

Chapter 10

Wednesday, 6 October 2010


I fell in love in October.


That’s when I was born, when I opened my eyes not seeing anything which I was used to see behind my closed eyelids in the deep slumber, only to receive a faint grasp of that innocence when I’d sleep.

I felt my teeth glued together as I tried not to shake, feeling the icy cold water wrap me up as I’d get towels and voices echo as I’d raise my head seeing the leaves falling and growing in amount of the streets.

I just stood up, feeling the cold spring heavier with the drenched cloth.

I rubbed the water out of my lips, plunging my arms into my pockets feeling the water falling in drops onto my drenched shoulders; I thanked whoever it was at such time in the morning after a sleepless night.

I felt that again, the innocence before air was thrown into my lungs instead of water, icy cold, never resembling the body’s temperature and as it filled my nostrils.

You feel love when you are born, but then does that scream mean of pain as cold is thrown at you after… childhood?

Is that a faint hint of what adolescence with the first sloppy kiss is, when all the energy is given as you try to remember how they kissed onstage at that play I was taken with my class.

All the boys whistled in a whisper nudging each other, saying that it was porn, not even knowing what it even was but using the word thinking that kissing onstage is porn and gross. Well, the gross word never escaped our lips, as we wanted to try it out, feeling some light excitement growing in our minds and not only, the first hints of something physical but still harmless, something resembling that saint of a prince on his white horse. We had a horse, it was a plastic one, but we didn’t dye our heads blonde and we’d never kiss the girl we loved, because we couldn’t kill the dragon.

So I fell in love when I was born, the teenage years springing to be erased by childhood, only when I lost the feeling of thirteen I was stuck in desire as I’d look at my nails in boredom, just for a second before I’d find the white keys.

I played since I was five.

I started in June.

My gran asked me to play, her white hair resembling the keys with the earrings as black as the keys, as I’d be afraid to press hard. I’d play softly, pressing them chaotically, she said I played too quiet, I told her I played loud, my fingers shaking, she complained.

I asked her to be quiet and I played two or three keys without an order, the notes mixing in front of my eyes until they blurred as tears would fall and I’d stop.

I played nothing.

They understood nothing as the water dripped as I pushed the door open to my apartment. I never kept it locked, afraid of the keys of losing it and get lost outside, as I’d wait the door dividing me from my own personal space and then you feel a strange feeling of loneliness, a growing passion to the walls the scratched places which the nails found to dig in, lovers’ lipstick smeared, notes glued, dust under the television as I’d move it around the room and into the kitchen, the always opened microwave luring food in as I’d stuff it on, shoving and staring up into the ceiling, as if water shall drip from it onto my face and immerse the whole room in its grief.

I got robbed several times to see nails spread around but the black piano never lifted which stood in the middle of the living room sometimes covered in left over pizzas, coke dripping and patches of it glowing with the remains of yesterday’s cleaning resembling spring, which never ceased to come, gripping onto summer which never showed its nose. They both made out, summer, the lover boy grasping spring’s hand, as the green would flow between them.

I despised their love and their hatred towards winter, which remained as spring was abducted forever to remain in love’s arms which was only given to gods and never to mortals whose existence meant to spread more life onto the soil.

We’d grow, biting the sand, destroying the earth, as oil would spill and Yorke would rant. I’d do nothing, I’ll just watch bbc before going to sleep, turning off the light with gas pollutioning and taking the remain of electricity, because I didn’t care from what shall our children feed on.

Our parents polluted, laughing, not thinking about who shall stumble in their greasy footsteps, laughing as they’d die, grasping our hands for us to fall into the hole and get dirt in our mouth that the gagging reflex could never work and we’d choke, our bones upon our parents, with a shaky finger luring the children as they’d grab their beloved by the glued braids, the ribbons once tied as the eyes opened with the first gasp.

We were choking from birth.

We die once the pink ribbon around our neck unties and the dreams collapse, because we can’t take reality, the beauty of torture, as we dream of dying in satisfaction, on a bed, chair, table, on the ground but with a pleased grimace of peace printed as we’d rot, the organs pouring, the keys flicking until the fag is lit.
And the world collapses in burnt feathers of the crows falling around the trees. The –

The TV is on, teletubbies jumping as I fall in front of it, chewing my nail, not hearing them speak as the keys spring to my mind and silence hisses at me, begging to be written and shared, poured and exposed to die in the blackness of the insides of people’s opened mouths, open to earn pleasure from the sharp silence rubbing off the teeth and falling off as we smile.

“Do you want to dance?” I grin at the nearest girl as she stares at the water dripping into the insides of my mouth, the rest falling off the chin, not shielded by my wide grin. The cloth of my coat drenched that I feel ice building here and there.

I had a swim fully clothed at the beginning of October, feeling the sad waves of the seventh coming to wash over once more year after year, reminding that everything ends.

Like the dance I never got.

The hope which runs through my veins, grabbing my chin, holding my tongue, splitting my soul as the words would form and my eyes would fall upon the dark haired girl, her dark eyes reflecting my own.

Then she agrees.

I see my reflection in hers,

because she has nothing to show, nothing to share,

so neither do I.

I walk away in silence, she walks away with laughter.

I feel cold, but not for long as I go into the crowd wondering wherether in that thousand there shall be a smile, a dance and a wiped out reflection ready to vomit out in the streets, holding the arms like a cross, as the eighth shall roll.

It’s the fifth.


Tuesday, 5 October 2010

Papercut. Chapter 8.

The bus.

Oh, damn, damn, damn.

I run up to it, dazed, trying to get the image of a cackling Lola out of my head. It’s not that attractive.

Why isn’t it?

I focus on how her face looks twisted, teeth showing, lips seem to harden in some sort of open snarl, eyes focused at something distant. Did I ever see her like that? Or is it just a fragment of my imagination? Drawn by shards of the past? It’s like in that banal and stupid to the core question what is fake and what is not? What’s real? What’s reality? Is it what surrounds us? Or is that the world created by others? The one we get thrown on television? How can we believe that there is a tsunami somewhere when we cannot feel it? Is it? Is it ours or somebody else’s? All of our thought crumbled in that insane mind of fate.

Fate has more than two personalities which stay with their eyes closed until the realization of death comes and they open one, bright coloured eye. We are at peace. They open both as he inhales them for the first time. They eye so bright that we stop giving the commands to the hearts. Resembling love in some way nothing rational. You just feel the presence of the second. The second is the judge.

Oh, I’ll die tomorrow.  The thought so transparent and has glimpsed in everyone’s mind. People laugh at it, not knowing how far from ideal life is, without a second glance. It sounds like the phrase said at the end of something, before the abyss. I am wasted, as average teenagers jump up and down. I’m above them all with the amount of vanity I hold. Bite me.

Hell with the next life, it won’t be me. I’ll rot in the ground or get turned into ashes and be stuck into some ceramic vase of sorts so that my great-great-great sons and daughters now among the average will stare at me in confusion blaming their parents in their lack of IQ to carry that vase wherever they go, forgetting whose ashes they were as they shall be drank with tea, held among gossip, instead of sugar, hoping to grasp something I had.

But then would it matter?

Why my lack of everything would make a prequel? A call out to theirs now with no insignificance.

I see a couple make out, ignoring everything around them. My eyes rest on them for a while as if they were a circus. But then should one show emotions or hold? It suddenly felt as if I could still storm into Lola’s room, (would I?) grab her by her waist and kiss her as much as I wanted. I could feel her taste upon my lips, I could feel her hair intertwined in my fingers, the heat taking over me lightly, letting me go with the flow.

They stop and the guy quickly glances at me with his dark brown eye, but the girl shrugs, whispers something in his ear, as her thumb brushes against his cheek and they continue. That was my cue to step into reality and not seem like a perverted stalker. They were making out in a public place. If they would be into it, they wouldn’t care. But they do.

I watch everything go past me, as the houses get richer; more shops fill in, not leaving any space for the regular houses, playgrounds and supermarkets. I see countless ads and shop signs replace the tress with its amount and brightness. Can’t there be some sort of ad ‘get rid of your shop sign and grow a tree’? Right, Greenpeace is waiting for me.

Everything seems to go in a flash that I nearly skip my stop. I manage to jump, seeing that the couple left, but not like I care. I jump out of the bus, the address and photos printed in my head. I turn around and see it.

Well, what can I say?

Different words spin threw my head, as I catch shadows, light and divide the whole building into rules as if I was drawing the university. I feel nervous all of a sudden, but then maybe I’m not. I feel my feet take me above.

Literally past the gates, into the embrace of the noisy crowd which is the opposite from the melancholy drenched in school’s alcohol. I observe, trying to memorize at least one friendly face, somebody I could come up to and socialize. But instead I head into the building, through the crowd, cutting it. Am I late? I’m not, but everybody doesn’t seem to hold the big yellow envelopes several people are holding or are besides them, sinking their nails into, waving with free eyes.

I’m scared.

My eye catches them as they sit in a circle, some with cigs; students, some must have drugs as the scent is lightly felt in the chilled and stirred morning air. I watch them, a near trip on the first stair and a quick look up to see the hazel eyed guy from earlier, look at me with interest. Where is his girlfriend? But thankfully, I don’t ask that aloud. Instead unlike the annoyed look, he gives me a small smile and digs his nose into the envelope.

A familiar face is a friendly face. Remember that kids, as you’ll choke on my ashes.

A moment of uneasiness leaks onto the air, piercing it, clouds the chill and sweet smell of weed from the city. He looks up, making eye contact and heavily holding himself from an eye roll. The brown eyed closes his envelope loudly, that even his dark hair moves or maybe it’s due to the wind?

“Hullooo.” And an arm flops around the dark head’s shoulders, bringing the making out dude closer to the skinny guy. His gray blue eyes look at me with interest, a grin forming upon his lips below his messy light brown hair covering his eyes. The guy’s haircut seemed to be way shorter and is screaming ‘hey’ to a stylist to bring his bangs into shape, if he’d ever care, as all of them seem to be different length, but they stick in different directions as if he is electrified by love in a cheesy way, only there was no girl to cling onto, just the raw feeling, but in a sort of messy neat in need of a haircut way. He doesn’t seem anorexic at first as his oversized red hoodie is hiding it holding at the lives at stake and baggy jeans asides from the black converse peeking out to breathe some air to stash for winter.

“I’m Melvin!” He exclaims it in pauses, trying to cause an epic effect. I hold myself from giving out my usual ‘wtf’ stare and instead I nodd. “He’s Frank, Frankie, Franco, Francesca and ow!”

Frankie gives him a friendly punch as his name is left corrupted in ashes. So that is the reason Melvin shuts up and leans, his messy hair falling on his eyes once more, as a gesture for me to introduce myself and Frankie’s light yawn, not bothering to cover it with his mouth.

“Oh, hi, hello, hey, greetings, hola…” I pause, my attempt unneeded and clearly a failure by judging Mr. snogging on the bus’s reaction, a smirk clearly hinting ‘look at that loser’, but then he didn’t seem as friendly as a friendly person can be. Melvin on the other hand smiles at my attempt, giving a light nod so I’d continue. 

“I’m Roman.” Pause. “Nice to meet you, Melvin, Frankie.”

“Frank, you-“ Frankie mutters, not concentrating on me and looked off into the crowd, as Melvin’s eyes quickly follow his gaze. He gives a small frown and looks back at me, the grin back as if it never left. He pauses for a second, looking up. Praying? Predicting the future? Expecting a flying TARDIS? But as he looks up, he looks down, his grin never leaving him for a second, but showing that something is missing no longer, even if it’s just in his mind.

“I didn’t know any Romans. Actually, you’re the first Rome I know. Hullo, my dear friend!” And then his other arm gives me a pat on the shoulder falls back down as the other still rests on Frank’s shoulders, hinting my current rank. I look at both of them, most of my attention capturing Frank. His eyebrows are pressed together, his muscls tense and no evidence of the one and only possibility of a smile playing on his lips seems to be possible. I look down expecting to see familiar footwear, but I fail. I look at his dark brown, definitely not Converse, until I realized that he had docs on.

Maybe there was the possibility of him actually having some sort of creativity there. As Converse seem to be a must-have now. I struggle trying to understand what he wants to do for a living. Show me your footwear and I’ll predict your future. I could see how he sketches now in my head, heavy, rough lines pressed against the paper at the tip of his pencil nearly resulting in a hole. He reflects anger threw his sketches doesn’t he?

Anger at what?

The docs seem to be a desire to hold onto the ground, but to be alone at the same time. But the point is, he’s there.

Then I glance at Melvin, who seems to be comical, like a clown compared to Frankie. His lines would be messy never to make that ideal straight one in that pool of small lines forming some unknown besides from him, form. I could see him stretch his arm out to get paint out of his brush and paint away what he would feel make his canvas look like some insane drunk dream bursting with colours and first impressions. I could see him grin from ear to ear as he would tilt his head, walk several steps back and look at his masterpiece, something not all could understand, let him alone.

It just looked Melvinesque.

What about me?

I’d press the other dry end of the brush against my bottom lip, running over the possibilities of different colouring for each object I created. I’d lean against the wall, chewing on my bottom lip, ruffling my hair, fiddling with my hands as I examined the best option.

I look back at Frank studying his canon ideal face and his square jaw which seems heavy until you’d look at his rather built body and big hands. Gym? I was overreacting but calling him a wimp was like calling an elephant small. His nose straight and his lips what you called full, it felt as if he just stepped out from some old Greek mythology with his cold gaze and focused expression to terrorize women and make-out in busses.

He seems like a womanizer to me back at the bus until he glanced at me with his piercing brown eye, which hinted annoyance instead of ‘oi, mate, I’m making out, be jealous’, which I usually labeled on womanizers. Was I womanizer? Well, I doubt that as Lola was my first. So I mean the years could turn me into a modern day Casanova, but until now I was a dude who broke out of his high school romance on the day before he left to university. Quite the bastard, aren’t I?

Chapter 9