She looked a little sad, those days of last summer, when her heels were coming down into the town, as when an army marches, with drums and trumpets Night was spreading from somewhere the smell of red poppy fields, and she had the name of grace.
She looked a little sad, in that coat, tailored just for her, and no other. Or that sadness was in my eyes, as I watch her stand, waiting for the train that drives ex-loves. She said "i'm leaving" and she said she heard in my head drums and trumpets.
And I couldn't watch her anymore, and I couldn't even take my eyes off her.
She looked a little sad, in that colorless picture, which we made for the new year, and now the picture and the year are old. Or i'm just old as I watch as she look at me from the image of a motionless face. She said she heard in my head drums and trumpets.
And I couldn't look at her anymore, and I couldn't even take my eyes off her.
She looked a little sad, while she read all my poems, as she tried to seduce me. And she didn't know I was a writer, that the sky is my meadow, and that my hat is too small for two. My house is on my back, and storms blow through my pockets. But letters and verses sometimes are not enough to hide you from the rain.
And I couldn't look at her anymore, but I couldn't even take my eyes off her.
A thousand and one nights you're just fiction, a bad diction, Dostoevsky died in vain, he missed all those letters of her name. And I missed her, in vain too, and I swing in the square, like a lantern in the wind, staring at the promenade, some sad coat passes, and rain's feedback for crying dances. She said "I think I'm a better girl now", and she said she heard in my head drums and trumpets.
Written, in vain, by artistano1
Happy new year to you all, with love from Serbia, artistano1
The dim purple and green lights on the buildings spread the scent of history through the fog. I met you through them on the city streets and squares, forever looking for your steps. Thank you; I am forever trapped in this city. How sad it is to live with memories.
In the warm room of the rented apartment, noise came, the window looked out on the square; There, where the gallows used to dance in the wind, now coats of various colors dance, with cold faces under masks. Like actors on boards. The harsh resemblance of theater and life in that square. And so I will begin the book, the diary of one great love; "My home is theatre, it's a small dirty town ..." I'll write to you tomorrow, Gloria. If I don't die.
As much as I tried to escape from the theater, it was getting bigger. In the beginning, it was the words of passers-by, some inscriptions on advertisements, or music. Now the theater has swallowed an entire city, and surrounded me on all sides, as I solved the riddles of our encounters, and put together the puzzles that make this city what it is; A scene of super-reality. Why is every movement in this city a modern ballet? Why are you all? -Another annoying handwriting with a mere list of facts. Close your eyes, wherever you are now, Gloria. Let's at least squint together. I will love you tomorrow. If I don't die.
The phone rang just long enough to break the silence. I called into the handset in vain for a few seconds, the call was accidental. Are there any random calls at all? As I listened incessantly repeating the sound "tu - tu" in the handset, I looked in the mirror. (Creating a scene) I light a cigarette. She approaches the window lithely and sophisticatedly like a ballerina in a theater. Night and neon signs have long since covered the city and cars have made rows of glowing, winding lanes. She stared at the moon, and her bare back merged with the moonlight. She parted her brown hair and pulled on the panties that had cut into her flesh. The music started.
I took a cigarette smoke, she inhaled and began to dance. She bent her arms gracefully, imitating long-lost wings, and made movements by drawing concentric circles in cigarette smoke. She wanted to reach immortality and then die. I only wanted her. What a perfect scene, in a city of dying art.
I'll change your name tomorrow, Gloria. If I don't die.
Curtain. Dark. The end.
Just still counting down the rhythm from the handset: "tu - tu, tu - tu, tu - tu ..."
There are a million spoiled beauties in Belgrade tonight. There was a buildings of glass. Due to aggressive moonlights there is a drive directly to hell; - Fuck off and thank you!
Its streets are full of beggars, and everyday street masquerades. Constant stepping for centuries drove peace out of this town; - Fuck off and thank you!
Your character smiles on the cover of the book. In that cave of my dark dreams. Your unconditionally walk convert from steps to letters; -Fuck off and thank you!
The moon is sweating on your bed, while i dream of you, Gloria, Gloria, I would repeat for days those few letters thrown into poetry; -Fuck off and thank you!
Who will stay in your bones, when the sorrow comes out? Free me from you, from everything, laws and regulations, memories and connections, and fear of death. And dance for last time, here, in my eyes; -Fuck off and thank you!
Belgrade has million theaters, where my character is played, where the mouth is full of impressions. There are bars where art dies, character and hope; -Fuck off and thank you!
The memory will remain forever, in the fog of a sad afternoon, where we finally talked, first and last time; -Fuck off and thank you!
I will be in your remorse for a long time, hidden under your fingernails - Drowned in the river of your scent, away from the coast. I will repeat your name as we sink to the bottom, theater, you and me; -Fuck off and thank you!
And the memories will bury my soul and the ivy will cover my face. I will sink in you like the Titanic, with light tones an ancient cinema piano, by the distant creak of the first morning tram and with a cross on back; -Fuck off and thank you!
You will forget me like a hastily learned lesson. As the first quarrel. What a tragedy to know your name! Tonight, come here at least in a dream. Bring me back to my memories, where I first started from the bottom, And imagine a scene Theater, you and me; -Fuck off and thank you!
Good night all your tears, your former toe walk, i love you forever Gloria, and, Fuck off and thank you!
She looked a little sad in that coat. In that winter. It's like she only loves me when I leave her. Art died in the paintings in which she fastens her bra. My skeleton is rotten. Collor. Column. Corona. Under infrared rays, the Moon is plump, airy and accurate in its appearance at celestial parties. After she left, my palms plowed more than when I started my circle. Circles. Plows. Debts. - Now, we have started to unknowning each other. But flashes and dreams come by habit. We should have parted before the pandemic, in that past life. The cobweb grabbed the door, which was closed in one direction. - Why are you putting padlocks on your door? She asked in her mind. Why are you making a circus of my life? - I criticized her in the mirror. - What's wrong with circuses? - At least I can walk on the wire and stumble ... and fall ... and ... It'll be part of my show, the kids will laugh. Everyone laughs in the circus. - I'm crying. Circus. Citrus. Cycle. She nervously walked out of my show. Seeking transportation for freedom. She found him quickly. And my transportation is lost. In fact, I don't need transportation. I am the one who stays. Clowns laugh the most at themselves in front of the mirror. Mirror. Clearer. Swearer. And then comes the procedure: looking for lost sleep. In light women. In alcohol. In vain. In pain. No, in the moonlight. I will patent the product during the winter; "An unfaithful woman saves heating in the bedroom." - How happy are the failed married couples. - Since I'm the same artist in the circus, how I just hate me. But I still laugh in the mirror. The motive is the same for killing and locking the door since you left. - Don't let someone... - Don't let anyone. Artist. Atheist. Arthritis. Five years later (everything always happens five years later), there was a parade of charged gay particles in the city. I paraded among the bookshelves. The letters shone under the lamp, words fell from the sky, sky created us, we created books, books created shelves. And the circle closes there. Round. Scream. Click. They said on TV that "Get rid of fear" and I didn't know her anymore. Her. Her father. Her son. Her holy spirit. I’m working on writing a screenplay. The last piece of an ex-man. It will be called "Name" ... Or they won't. - All people get a name, to be marked by it. - you asked me, non-existent issue, in a non-existent voice, with non-existent eyes, losing the clear distinction between me and everything, "Is life worth anything?" Now I need a translator of my own thoughts. - I'm afraid to forget you. - To let you go, and leave you once more. Because if you don't exist, then "forever" does not exist. And I just fell in love with you forever. Various fears plague people. Risks, feelings, misconceptions ... It was Sunday when we left. I was at the cemetery. And it wasn’t as black as I imagined. I was happy to feel sad. - Does it matter to me what she thinks now? - when all my roofs were sour. - Then what matters? - Something. - Well, something else matters. I got scared one last time. I looked like I loved her, as I fastens her bra in letters on the paper. Winter will come again. Snowflakes. Well, yes! - It is matters... To be ready for a new winter. To lose her again. - To lose what I'm afraid of. - Then all songs would lose their meaning. Then we would all wear masks. - You finally taught me to go home. We loved each other, here. For the first time, maybe. Maybe the last one. Defeated. Trampled. Transformed. I was standing on the moon.
Your panic attacks come at dawn, and you are no better if you take off your clothes. And you're not the only one, you just don't understand, you've been a woman for too long. But where am I? A thousand wings on my arms, played the blues for a distant friend, which I don't have. A mocking romanticism I choke the crumpled paper. Open mouth fireplace, as on dead guard, still gaping and silent, like he can't find, and seeks the word sweeps, for a terrible curse. And I'm so tired of periods, commas and letters. You take the bait, like any fish. And you're all waiting for one of your Godot, who you care about. And you tattoo my words, but I need a mirror, for my fantasies, to look the void into the eyes. - A mirror for a hungry stomach and a cold sleep; - Wait for me even when you know I won't come.
Life and death pass each other for days and find a compromise in statistics. You and me, long mad; Like wind and plain. Show me your breasts, and hold your breath tight, that in those few heartbeats I hear I'm not the only creature on this planet, languished under his cross. Someone's at the door, maybe just a day. I'll stay here anyway, engrossed in a mindless dream, I will sleep for hours. What does this mask mean which I can't take off? I know I'm under her, in the middle of a party bell which intoxicated the crowded city, when dealers procure them, everything is the same on this ground, and smell and stench. I don't need medicine, to forget sin; I need centuries to forget the applause and laughter. We will never see Paris with the same eyes.
I will play for a long time this role assigned to me, in the defeat that will save me. Godot, don't wait for me. In the city of sold souls, in the city of passion, you ask a stranger to listen to you, as you cum on my strings, you do not hear the song in the birds; And that's all you need, in a dirty room, while your hair stinks of oil, you don't need love you need a vaudeville but you just don't understand. It remained dark in the room. And a couple of pale pictures, dead tonsils, and some things. "Nothing" knocked on the door with a large suitcase ready to unpack and settled right there, in my room, and to sleep beside me; and to wake me; And to look at me from every angle; I will remain only a messenger of life, new world order; "Hannibal ante portas"
In the suburbs, I see you sometimes, and so it goes ... Some invisible umbilical cord, we bond easily, when I meet you in the antique shop all these years, which I gave you, in the aisle, in the suburbs, in a holiday idyll, on the bed. Other things i've left behind, burn, let it burn, just take a suitcase of songs, a pair of faded images and that piece of mirror, in which we remained still smiling, in memory, in the suburbs, in silk ...
We envisioned the Corona. I told you the world would change if you left. Now everyone is forbidden to kiss. Instead of love, we spread the virus like flies. I seem to have found a global problem. And i don't want a Nobel Prize, just give her to me. Yes, we screwed up. I told you art would change if you left. And I don't act anymore, now everyone wears masks. Night walks were replaced by nightmares, We lost the stars above, i lost you, and they quarantined love. Like in a weird dream, like a Mad Max, we lost diction, now a smile is science fiction. I admit, this is all because of me, and I told you the world would change if you left. Somehow globally I loved you, but at the local level of love. And no, I don't want vaccines, inject me with her, maybe it's not too late yet, maybe try with that, but, for real, now or never, choose, what can we lose?
I agree that I haven't any experience.. and maybe I am really too naive, but what's wrong in that.. if something bad has to happen, then I'll see how to come out of it.. it's an open secret that I don't like rejections, I don't like defeats then how come you think that I can't manage.. I can.. well, I don't even start that thing if I'm sure that I've to lose.. it's true that I take quick decisions but the folded thing is I always keep backup plans in my hands.. like if no plan B, then I don't even think to implement A.. so I don't need your help.. I'm an adult.. I want to be a monopoly.. let me do things for me my own.. don't interfere with your care.. let me learn how to manage myself.. I know I can do it.. and if by chance I can't then just forget that you even know me.. and about the deadline, it's near and I'll be on approx time..