no title needed
bitter words of a drugged-up, drunken mind, can’t
let fear overwhelm my soul and typing
fingers; words never meant to
be printed, stories the current market shall
shun for they’re dark,
gritty, realistic. I just hide
my manuscripts under whorehouse mattresses, or in
dark corners of shooting galleries’ attics and basements. the bar
in the sky doesn’t look at sales to grant
entrance—I draw another
breath, punching the banged-up
keyboard, chasing the craft I
never chose until I know I’m worth of
climbing on a stool of the great bar in the sky.
a junk song for love
a love song with no substance,
a junk letter with no fucking.
I try to forget, drink, remember more clearly.
you're still around, despite
the years elapsed;
your lips prevail over those that came before and after.
warm embraces during the coldest nights are
the only hope of escaping the soul-devouring mist.
too late,
you're away;
someone else may now kiss the lips I once kissed, holding tight
the firm body I once held.
who’s the lucky bastard staring into the eyes I
made watery countless of times?
I crack another bottle,
recall why you left;
it's alright,
you wouldn't have survived near me,
I couldn’t live near you.
two different worlds collided for a single moment,
begetting a refulgent beginning that
was doomed to an early death.
not where we belonged; attempts were
made to enter each other’s world. we
failed. it’s alright. we gained
memories for lonely, snowy nights; for me
you were the distant lighthouse warning me
of rocky shores lurking within
the fog.
insignificant promises
I shall never stop drinking again I promise
myself, I’ll never abandon the most faithful friend.
even during times of unbearable pain, of
thunderous heartache and desolating melancholy,
booze is always around to proffer comfort and consultation.
things are clear now: she never loved me, I was just her
emergency exit just in case her relationship
hit a sturdy iceberg. she’s home, it’s all over.
I drink, each glass eviscerating more memories of the
one that waltzed in and out of my life like a disease
and I’m free to live.
Midnight Ride to Nowhere
we were all down on our luck;
as much as you can get
in a socialist country with a well-functioning (for now)
welfare system.
the outcasts, the misfits;
we loved every moment of that misery,
how respectable citizens would enter
our bar only
to scuttle away instantly,
horrified of the glares we flung at them.
very few remained, those
who did
never left.
we drank from morn till night,
until last call, and up we were again
at opening time
drinking, fighting.
there was no bitching,
except for the newcomers
who quickly acclimated.
we drank in the bar,
unwilling to go out in the sun,
the snow, the rain, the
nice weather of a two-week summer.
one year, I spent it there;
right after Emily was gone.
I found it one lonely night
and knew it was home.
I had to escape, after all.
one year of pain, devastation,
loss, and rejection slips.
nothing good ever came my way.
they took me in right away;
only few punches were thrown the first night,
I took them well, landed a couple of my own,
bust a nose or two.
I was one of them;
they never bothered me
even though I didn’t speak their language.
I met quite a few characters in there,
most of them long gone;
one was betrayed by his liver,
it one day simply exploded.
another was hit by a car,
he crossed the street at night
blind-drunk; never felt a thing.
it’s how it was; one year in a
train going nowhere.
the ride was far more
interesting
than 5 years at the university,
6 years in elementary school,
3 years in junior high,
3 years in high school.
for a year, I just drank.
clean from junk,
only pot and blow in my blood.
a ride to nowhere,
and I fucking adored every second of it.
now, I’m sitting in the dark,
in an air-conditioned room in
the midst of a heat wave in
a different country altogether;
back to the childhood streets
and I still dream of that long year
in a bar.
I had absolutely nothing then,
no hopes, no dreams, no future;
nor do I have any of the aforementioned
now.
back then, I
had the bar, the drunks,
the occasional whore searching for an easy buck.
it was far greater than the mansions
and the expensive cars
and the rich kids with whom I lived
later down the road.
at least, the bar,
futureless as it was,
had soul.
now, I’ve lost that, too.
elsewhere
another hangover morning, mind
exhausted, creativity at it’s
highest—why am I at my
best when I’m at
my worst?
I write mechanically, just to kill
time; the lecture’s dull and pointless, I envision a
different place, somewhere to run to, to hide in.
I stay put, trying to subdue the headache with strong
coffee—waiting to get home where a fifth
of bourbon awaits like the best kind of
lover. with my lover, I’ll do the
calculations, decide the
next step. I see an
airplane soaring through
the sky—destination?
