-

I crossed the illness, 

Called self-loathing. 

It was feverish, harsh and fiery. 

It was bloated and sluggish and toad-like. 

It was pitiless, doubtful and death-loving. 

I crossed the illness, 

Called self-respect. 

I wrote and words poured out of me 

Like venom and plea and sorrow. 

I longed for something long lost, 

something long denied to me. 

We all play someone. 

And while I mastered the role, 

I denied my self-born child the experience of life. 

For life is courage

And courage is looking

Into the eyes of him (me)

And not averting the gaze

And not admiring the sight

And not correcting the perception

Or plotting corrections. 

I crossed the illness, 

Called self. 

And the land beneath me

Is the land of wondrous world. 

And I finally see it. 

I finally drink it and taste it and smell its breathless fields of rye. 

Is this what being god feels like then?

Am I it?

A child is sitting in a room

A child is sitting in a room
with a hat of blue and white.
I still dream of time you bloomed
and became all pale and light.

Cold is crippling streets of "out"
when it runs with screech and shout.
But the child, without a doubt,
Stares with eyes that speak too loud.

She's a witch. I'm little wicked.
She's a beetle. I'm a cricket.
She is luck and I'm misfortune.
And the cold becomes exhaustion.

-

I’ll play you like a saxophone

With early light in midnight dark.

I know I own your moan alone

While you purr, and scratch, and bark.

We’ll drink the gin and play with ice.

And lips will suck on cigarettes.

And I’ll pay much higher price 

When mornings turn into regrets. 

But tonight we fuck like demons

Just to blow off little steam in.

-

You asked me to tell you a story.
I said I’d tell one about life.

My life is the simple moment:
when you say something too fast
and too honestly,
and then you realize
you’ve made a grammatical mistake,
but you still don’t give a fuck.

That is my life.

only... sentences I say
are my nights and days,
and mistakes I make
are not grammatical.

-

Blue jeans, white sneakers,

green socks and a hat

walked by me

with a dreamfully light walk

with Bill Evans tempo.

Was it Debby? 

Steps flirted with the pavement.

And the pavement tried to grab them

with its strong and muscly arms.

But steps 

(frantic with evening cortado

and playful with Spanish sun)

slipped away and disappeared

among well-pressed trousers, 

cognac shoes,

charcoal socks 

and Doberman-like coats.

I looked by the stairs.

I looked at the subway platform.

And the one across the rails. 

I searched the trains.

But you had gone.

And I only wanted to know your name. 

Not because I’m restless.

Not because I hope we’ll meet again. 

But because I’d hate this poem 

to stay nameless. 

-

train rattled (iron snake)

and I swayed into red wine.

my smile breaks 

when you’re awake.

I’m your mistake.

but you’re not mine.

if you hear crying, it isn’t me.

that’s just my heartbreak on the floor.

you said I was your dopamine, 

and you don’t want me anymore..

but that night, with crimson wine

I was yours and you were mine. 

-

My dreams are made of my insecurities.

In my dreams I’m taller,

My name is David 

or Nicholas 

or Johnathan 

or Oliver 

or Pip.

I am full of adventures.

I am in your stories.

I am admired for my wit

and humor 

and heart.

I am happy, 

sometimes sad, 

but mostly happy.

I live a reckless and carefree life.

I am young 

and beautiful.

In my dreams I am loved,
being loved.

-

‪I love New York in rain. 

It is still messy 

and overly practical 

and anxious. 

But rain soothes ambition 

and clears perspective.‬

‪And boys like me fall in love. ‬

‪I am controlling 

and strong-willed 

and well-disciplined. 

But rain rhythms out my walk 

and turns it into waltz.

-

You should have killed me.

It would have been better.

Thought you were kidding

When I read your letter.

But page one with sadness

Set Page two fears free.

I begged gods to end this

On cruelest page three.

But you were just honest.

It tore and ate me.

in a bar

a guy walks into a bar.
drinks whiskey on rocks.
smiles a lot,
and talks a little.
others watch a wonder.
some flirt and offer drinks.
but he leaves alone.
with a heart that's broken,
and stories,
too sad to tell in a bar.

-

‪It’s somehow impossible to listen to Orville Peck
‪on the subway.. ‬

‪I crave that intimate atmosphere of my silent room, ‬
‪where
a little drunk with gin and New York, ‬
‪I lay spreadeagled on bed, ‬
‪wearing nothing but Mojave Ghost ‬
‪and mask of exhaustion and satisfaction. ‬

‪I am a hungry nocturnal cat.‬
‪going hunting.‬

-

Why should pain bite my heart
When sadness already nests in it.

Why should doubt tie my thoughts
When panic set them loose.

If I was a bird,
I’d be a short-winged one
with Amber eyes.

-

Blame me for being me.

I’m flattered.

After all, I’ve always blamed you 

for not being him.

-

Since you left me
I cried for a week
in every street in Greenpoint,
every corridor of my office building,
every bathroom.
I drank for three days.
and fucked around for one.

now I sit in my bed every morning
reading books I loved more than I ever loved you.

-

Every time I'm happy, 

I forget all my rat-like worries.

I’m the Summer sun,
thinking I will last forever. 

Every time I'm happy, 

I live my life faster and louder. 

I jump down the subway stairs

and my smile is wide and loving. 

Every time I'm sad, 

I can hardly move.
My lungs are drained of air.
And my heart turns into a dead turtle. 

-

Remember,
something that you said,
something along the lines of:
"You are calm and normal
and different.
You are my sanctuary from the craziness of this city.
You play my refuge,
and I am fortunate to have found you.
You are the warmth of the early sun
and the quiet breath of the ivory moon."

And for the first time
I felt my soul then.
I saw beyond my body
and muscles
and bones
and blood.
And I recognized something,
an emotion,
or thought.
Something we all refer to as
soul.

But it was not you who I fell in love with then.
It was I,
the image of me,
the perception of me,
the significance of being something,
the curiosity of being seen as someone,
of having acquired that function
of being an object.
Liberated -
I felt.

But I do not fit your ideas anymore.
I have left the room.
I have gone.
And this silent departure
has wrecked my mind
and broken my pulse.
But I am going,
I am moving,
I am searching
and running
and shouting
and living
and changing.

I do not play the role of the muse
anymore.
I am not looked at,
admired,
anymore.
I do not pose for you
anymore.
I do not smile for you.
I do not play the role.
I do not follow
the script.
I break the line
and scattered I might be,
But I call this state of me
"beating".
And I know you think
I am lost.

But I'd rather be lost,
than easily found.

-

I try to write but mind goes silent.

Been too quiet, far too long.

Snow has turned my fingers violet.

Missing you feels dumb and wrong. 

Walk with me to subway station. 

Talk to me as though you’re here. 

Trees will bloom in celebration

Of my hopes and thoughts and fears. 

But pretending has been harder

Since memories have disappeared.

-

When I see white clouds on a midnight sky 

I think of you.

And I wish you could see them too.

I know we share the sun

And the moon

But I’d like to share my city too. 

-

‪My nicknames disappear
faster than coffee shops in Brooklyn
and my personas suffer monotony
and nostalgia of performance days. ‬

‪Hysteria takes over
as I’m confronted with my “real” name
and predisposed identity.‬

‪I suppose sometimes I do sound a lot like Satan. ‬

-

everything is substitute for something
since I left.

-

Dionysus kissed my arms 

And fish swam down to by ribs

And birds broke off my shoulders

And olive leaves burst off my veins

I was alive again

And drunk with divinity.

-

Please, still call me

if you get scared

in the middle of the night.

I’m still here.

Dear World

Dear world,
where are you?
I need you.
Please be here.
It' not that I can't see you.
It's just...
nothing is clear.
nothing is calm or pretty.
I think I'm not alive.
It's not that I crave pity,
It's just...
I won't survive.
I won't be like the others,
I never was like them.
I think I killed my mother,
cut her with poem.
it really scared the children
living in my head.
They're dead.
I think I killed them!
does that make me bad?
Dear friend,
where are you?
I need you.
Where you've gone!
I think I lost my value.
I'm nothing on my own!
I should have known!
I loved you!
You left me, with no choice.
I can't hear the children,
it's only mother's voice,
And I'm scared to listen.
Her hands are wet and slimy
they grow and multiply!
Please, world,
Please find me.
I think I'm not alive.

excerpt form chapter 13

Black coffee shoots into my veins and stains them like oil, dripping off abandoned pipes, soaking the meat and earth beneath alike. It’s Friday morning and the sun isn’t much brighter than the ghostly moon. And the warmth has left the light. And I’m trying to feed on sudden chill in the morning air. 

It’s been long since I had seizures. I’m not used to them anymore. I was told to move on and I did. But now old habits are trying to claim me. Old sickness has metastasized into my consciousness and what ease once life had, has been weighted down by quiet fears. I write now not because of my love or desire to be remembered, or even worse, to be “understood”. But because I hope it will suck out doubts from my mind and heart. 

People around me seamlessly move into autumn without realizing the damage it brings to their hearts, the lines it leaves in the corners of their neglectful eyes. People around me live away their lives, unconcerned about the things that are natural, the things they’ve gotten used to. And I like to think that I’ll be like them one day. But today I wear black to mourn years soaked in autumn. I drink black coffee to feel the intensity of aging and its bitter flavor. And I eat nothing to honor that pure and painful energy generated by hunger. I am a boy from Vincent’s charcoal drawings, with a lot more past than future. 

And now I believe you can’t really explore your mind unless you put it in danger, unless you torture and cut it, damage and abandon it.. My brain was colored by Marc, not Renoir. And instead of Greek masters my body was cast in bronze by Rodin. If there was any freedom in madness I did not see it. I was sought out by anxiety and doubts instead.

Marta and I fucked that morning. I craved answers lost inside her. She craved domination over me. And both of us, willing to die, lived on.

-

I believe you when you smile

With eyes of Hendrick's blue.

My mind will eat up fucking lies

If you say they are true.

And my guards: my fear and doubt, 

Leave and hide away.

Cigarettes will burn and shout

When ghosts come out to play.

But you're cruel like crocodile

who’s never left the zoo.

And the sadness in your smile

Blooms like the Hendrick's blue.

-

I am selfish, fat and tired,

And I eat like hungry sloth.

Cmon baby, light my fire,

To which you’re drawn like fucking moth.

I am titan, king and goddess,

All my posts you have screenshot.

All my poems are kinda wordless 

But they mean a fucking lot. 

If I’m bored, it cause I’m boring.

I really lied a lot above.

If I was room, d’be lavatory

I’d be pigeon, not a dove. 

-

Jump and scream and fall and laugh,
Life is what you make it of.
I lived mine with sneeze and cough,
between Berlin and Dusseldorf.

But the life with smiles and tears,
Is the life everyone fears.
Before you know, it disappears...
So never measure life in years.

chapter 12

Boys tried to capture so much substance so desperately... But these attempts left them dry and hopeless and hungry for approval.

excerpt form chapter 11

My mornings are usually plain and quiet. I sit in the kitchen for hours, reading the New Yorker and sipping black coffee which has gone too cold. It’s these simple pleasures that leave room for unpredictable incidents that my life is now full of. I see how slowly the light grows outside. How darkness is drained into narrow shades of trees and fences… how my sleepy neighbors walk their indifferent dogs, bored with laziness and routine they’re going to miss when dogs are gone to heaven. My windows are tall and wide and my vision is clear and free. 

But the living world pours itself into the kitchen and settles by my feet, purring and stretching like an old cat. He looks at me and expects me to adore him and care for him, to nourish his ambitions and satisfy his hunger with my time and potential. 

But the truth is, I don’t really take interest in ornamented mechanics of this world anymore. I stay in, refuse to travel and create a micro universe in my small room in Brooklyn. And perhaps that’s why he seems to crave my attention more and more lately. Perhaps the world is just like an ostentatious lover: he starts wanting you more as you grow colder. 

My yoga journey

Every day I'm given chances

To be bendy, strong and light.

But my splits are staged romances,

And my handstand - losing fight.

And my teacher lurks in corner

Like a hairy screechy owl..

I can't breath with ease anymore now

And my toes are clutching towel.

But I'm never in a hurry.

(In times of crisis I'm a cow.)

I would love being ordinary

But I'm told that's now allowed.

So I'm special, sweet and funny,
And I "OM" like dying swan.
Instead of sweat I'm dripping honey,
And in lion's breath I yawn.

I'm a rebel, and a yogi!
Deal with it!
This might be shocking,
But when I'm in downward doggie
I look cute as baby corgi.

In the past, in conversation
If someone said word "position"
I would think of sex, or chess.
But I'm yogi now, my mission
Is to deal with mindfulness.
So this harmless word "position"
Means a straight spine on flat ass.

Everything is fine, no, really,
I am dying, but that's cool.
At least in grave I will fart freely
Like the God intends me to!

I tell myself this every morning:

Spotlight NEVER is too bright!

And much like a little pony

I look left when I twist right. 

But here's a cautious word of warning:
If you tickle me I'll bite.

That’s exactly what’s expected

From a guy of modest height.
And a little death while sweaty
(they say) is practically implied.

-

Perfection is admirable but it rarely sparks curiosity. 

I prefer odd over perfect.

-

Paint me something, tall and happy,
old man, standing like a tree.
Paint me kid, who you caught napping.
Paint with grace and gallantry.

Paint things that will grow and blossom.
Paint the things I wrote about.
Paint like young Vargas Llosa.
Paint with sound and paint out loud.

Make me see and make me ache.
Paint me whales, trapped in lake,
birds of prey of sea and forest.
Paint me like you'd paint dead snakes.

But if life gets claws in canvas,
and "too soon" becomes "too late",
than my room will be your palace
and I'll be the prince you paint.

-

Something happened in my room.

Music stopped, the lights turned grey.

It absorbed the numb vacuum.

Darkness hid like frightened prey.

Birds walked in with grieving wives.

And the train missed platform two.

I had learned that I could fly

But I never intended to. 

Chair was pushed against the door.
Laughing toads rode purple pigs.

And the train missed platform four.

But I never opened wings.

Why is it that when we feel,

When we really feel and know,

Life just loses its appeal

And the death is sold out show.

Something really, really honest,

something full of taste and tune,

lonelier than quiet forest,

Something happened in my room.

The only living boy in New York

July 21, 2019

Dear M,

It's been an unusual day, which is pretty normal for a guy without a job and not an awful amount of money.

I woke up at about 8 in the morning. The sun was already dripping its golden fluids with the generosity of a pregnant woman. I had breakfast, which, in my case, meant having a black coffee with a little bit of oat milk. This combination certainly brings out the non-existent richness of the cheap Nescafe flavor I bought months ago on sale. Then I wisely decided it was too early to continue watching Guadagnino's "Suspiria" (certain movies demand to be watched at night, in an empty room, on an empty stomach for full effect). So I did what any reasonable gentleman would do - I kicked off my oversized boxers and jumped under the covers. By now, my bed was pleasantly cool (thanks to our central air).

I napped in and out and back in again (and that's not some weird sexual innuendo) for about three hours, listening to Shostakovich and dreaming about "Eyes Wide Shut".

When I finally decided it was time to get up and go on with my usual unemployed shit, it was well past noon. And I had lost every intention to be productive in my aimless, nevertheless necessary job search.

I decided to stretch and try to do more than 10 pull-ups, but I was still too sore from last night's yoga. And honestly, what's the point of doing pull-ups when you're never going to look like one of those young recruits from "Postcards from London" who clearly have a wonderful, god-given talent for being visually pleasing? I mean, one can only do so much with one's genetics. Ironically, I decide when I want to believe in my ultimate self and extraterrestrial heavenly powers. And that's mostly when it comes to physical activities. And my beliefs usually manifest in complaints, such as: "WTF, why am I less flexible than a dead horse?", "WTF, why are my hips made out of cheap cement?", and "WTF, why do I sweat like a molested kid hearing floors crack behind his bedroom door?" (not pretty, I agree).

Much like everything else, I fall in and out of my beliefs, like my weird accent when I'm too buzzed to pursue my less controversial American one (accent that is).

Needless to say, I soon managed to rewatch 4 episodes of Schitt's Creek, after which I made up my mind: I needed to get my Schitt together and claim the success I was destined to achieve! So I hit the bathroom and spent 20 minutes in the shower while scrolling Instagram and looking at my old photos for motivation. You know you're fucked when you seek motivation in the dark days of your past. But I guess everything might have its quirky appeal if you care to adjust your perspective: old photos - younger (and skinnier!) me. I briefly consider the idea of going for a run in Central Park before remembering that while running, I look too much like a horny deer, scared Schittless, chasing a much bigger horse. (Very specific!)

Also, New York is currently experiencing a heatwave. While everyone else seems to be frying on the beach - my lesbian friends, my gay friends, my gender-fluid friends, and of course, my sexually boring friends too - all I'm experiencing is a desperate need for fewer edibles and a little more self-control. The rest of the world is trying to "make the most of the summer" while I willfully stew in my sweat and laziness. Speaking of sweat... I shower. Not because I need to, but because I'm freezing! After two years of living in New York, I still passionately hate the idea of AC on both mental and physical levels! Oh, and what's even worse, I'm not allowed to keep my own windows open while the central air silently disables my bones. My landlord says he'll fine me, and as much as I'd like to be punished (because I'm a bad, BAD boy), I can't exactly afford it right now.

American society is divided by issues concerning racism and sexuality, but nearly everyone seems to be in agreement when it comes to maintaining sub-arctic temperatures indoors while climate change seems to be in full swing outside. And let me say this, subways are simply unfriendly to tropical birds like myself. Peculiar country.

I get to Think Coffee at 5. They're closing at 7. Why does no one drink coffee after 7?

Given the fact that I'm still looking for that job thingy, I've decided not to tip a barista if my order is just below 5 dollars - a rule I break every fucking time she smiles and says in her Eastern European accent, "Here you go, Sir! Enjoy the rest of the evening!" Oh well, you know what I always say: cheap is cheap. I leave a dollar and promise myself to man up and not do it again. Well, maybe except tomorrow because I'm meeting a friend tomorrow and I don't want to be the guy who spends 9 dollars on a coffee and pockets a dollar in change. Monday it is then! On Monday, I tip NOTHING!

I spend an hour gazing into space - an incredibly revered and by far the most time-consuming form of art. I am alone in the backyard. Inside the coffee shop is packed with bespectacled hipsters and young, unsuccessful entrepreneurs. "Young" because I've almost hit 30, and everyone in their 20s seems unbearably young. "Unsuccessful" because what kind of loser would spend an excessively sunny Saturday in a cramped, freezing coffee shop in a not-so-hot part of Williamsburg instead of going to a beach? God forbid they experience what our planet does - extensive heat and unfortunate discomfort.

I refuse to include myself among the coffee shop nerds. In my humble opinion, I qualify more as a reasonably sophisticated guy who's too cool for mainstream shit like Riis or Rockaway or even worse, Fire-Fucking-Island. I'm that mysterious yet charming European who's always too interesting to slip your mind but too intimidating to actually befriend. My self-esteem is under a lot of stress right now (being rejected even by TD Bank). So I have to dig deep into my imagination to remain a functional human. Well, almost-functional.

At 6:40 pm, I toss my coffee cup into the bin. The shop is still in full buzz. These fucking millennials never quit, do they?

The night is still young. I'm living that la vida loca! So I put on Vince Giordano's Nighthawks and start walking with the enthusiasm of Buster Keaton. I can feel someone recording me from behind. (Could I be MORE paranoid?!) If I had left my stuffed backpack at home, perhaps they would have enjoyed a better view of my perky and unintentionally mouth-watering butt. I am Naomi with the BDE (100%, that bitch), and dusty old Metropolitan Avenue is my Versace runway. I got legs for days!

I always envision the smooth walk of a sleek jungle cat when I want to walk sexy. Still, it usually qualifies as a Buster Keaton walk.

I get to the banks of the East River. A ferry is leaving in 10 minutes. I find a secluded (!) spot and wait for the sunset while reading the last pages of "Gentleman in Moscow". Not exactly ideal for the occasion, but I'm almost out of internet data, so it will have to do.

 

The sunset arrives at about 8:15. I've lost track of time. I listen to Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" while a nutritious, bright yellow ball of butter sets behind what I imagine to be the East Village. I think of Stina, who would enjoy watching it with me in silence while plotting scenes for our documentary. Did you know that some people can just shut up and stay in the moment without experiencing an insufferable need to escape into their perception?!

I'm starting to sound like a pretentious old New Yorker who's now too witty for the city. Should I move to Paris for a month?

I think about my favorite spots on my way back. Not necessarily my favorite, but more like spots where I've imprinted my emotional intelligence. The entrance to the Metropolitan Avenue G-train station is one of those spots. Contrary to general objection (mostly from my friends), I call it my "G-spot".

A 20-something skater guy is sitting in front of me. He wears round glasses, is cross-legged, and keeps his bottom foot on a skateboard while reading the New Yorker.

 

I fucking love this city.

___________________________________________________________ 

P.S. I wrote this whole piece without a drop of gin in my system. Would you believe it?

Ever thine,

me.

-

Sadness is a little child.
Feed him gin and Nino Rota.
In the dark his mind grows wild.
And he’s helpless but immortal.

With neglect and too much liquor
You will turn him deaf and blind.
Thoughts of me will make you sicker.
I am sad like little child.

-

I live in New York.
Come!
Will you come?
Will you lend me time
if I ask for some?
Will you look at my bed?
Judge me by my books
which I never read...
And give me that look
when I am just sad?

Will you wake at seven?
Come to Rockaways?
Will you find my heaven
long lost, locked away.

Will you drink black coffee
from my chipped, blue cup?
Will you fix my drawings?
Will you make lines sharp?

Will you name my plants?
Will you then name me?
Will you just be here
in my Saint-Rémi?

Will you rest your temples
on my collar bones?
Will you be concerned
when I am alone?

Will you chase the streets
in Fitzgerald stories?
Will you let me be
stupid and worried?

Will you read me poems?
Will you come to play?
Will you fix me drinks
with old Tanqueray?

Will you decide later?
Will you ever know?
If I am a waiter
will you stay or go?

Will you hope to kill me?
Will you grieve and cry?
Will you play me Billie,
with Holiday smile?

-

You smirk and you mock
and you think I'm dumb
for being in New York,
still hoping you'd come.

-

Days depart fast.
I've only managed to read few books.
I go for a walk every afternoon.
I take my water bottle and find a park,
or a coffee shop.
New York has plenty of both.

My water bottle leaks every day.
All of my books from summer 2019 are little damp.
But they still house fascinating lives.

-

Bobby stops by to pick his iced coffee up.

3 pm every day.

Donnie’s always with him.

He stays outside.

I don't think Donnie drinks coffee at all.

I watch him stare at the flowers.

Bobby comes out.

Donnie sneezes.

Bobby scratches Donnie’s nose.

They really are best friends.

But if we’re talking species,

Donnie qualifies as a Boston Terrier.

-

Funny. 

After all these years, 

I still carry a pencil in a front pocket of every bag 

and inside every jacket, 

hoping to remember the name you gave me
when you first wrote about me. 

"funny face", was it?!

-

This sunshine is disturbing. 

It’s near to impossible to find a dark place in this city. 

Every cafe is bursting with music.

And all of them grew a backyard all of a sudden.

I’m afraid I’ll die like a fool in this sunshine.

-

Cherries bloomed in red and white.

I spent years, all day and night

Thinking, fearing that you’d see

that I’m noise in ecstasy. 

But you only heard the song, 

Thought of me as young and strong...

And as cherries bloom and shine,

I am silence in blue wine.

-

Take me away 

and burn the map

so I can never find home.

It’s only pain.

-

Play with me.
Put down your book.
Let’s go out in the yard.
I’ll play. You’ll look
At your cards.
I’ll pour you Tanqueray,
Let’s play.

Play with me.
Rest your eyes down.
Look into water.
It’s green and brown.
Nothing else matters.
We’ll all die anyway.
Let’s play!


Play with me.
Wake up from dreams and
Come to my city.
We’ll listen to Bizet.
And you’ll be witty and smart
And pretty.
Life is a cabaret,
Don’t you know?!
Let’s play!

-

You didn’t mean it
When you kissed my hands.
You didn’t taste the guilt.
Did you ever know me?!

The plays that we read together,
All seem so distant,
Part of fiction
Called my "life".

I blamed you for admiring me.
I thought that was sad and pathetic,
And arrogant.
It made me feel earthly and domestic.
And I am so much more than that.

If I'm not fear,
I am regret.

The thought of leaving you thrilled me.
I knew you’d die.
And death is something.
It is sufficient.
It kills my thirst
And puts wild hunger to sleep.
It's the one who's earthly,
And domestic.
You should meet him.

I would have pitied you.
I’ve pitied people for less.
But even that seemed
Unusual.

And now when spring has winged me,
When annoying flavors of others
Have blended in my mouth,
I crave your taste, dear human.
And wild with excitement
I crawl out hunting again.

All about my flower

I had a red flower,
living in a pot
on a window lid,
of my small room
in Berlin.

I named him Fitz.

It only bloomed once.
When I watched Almodovar.

And then I fell again,
Into being blue
And anxious
And indifferent.

I sang at nights
And slept all day.

And as my sadness deepened
My flower started to grow small
And yellow.
It lost its wings
And its leaves.
It absorbed my worries
And my dark dreams.

One day
When it was cold
And windy outside,
Colin died of my sadness.
It turned grey quicker
Than a day turned black.

He relieved me of grief
And self doubt,
Sorrow of uncertainty,
And pity for loneliness.

And as he freed me of myself
I embraced consistency.

It bought me a moment of relief
And a breath.

-

and your blood
melting down your neck,
sliced open vertically,
is the only warmth
you’ll ever know.

-

Questions float without reply.
They’ve left wrinkles on my face.
And one large, blue butterfly
Has filled the room with death and grace.

-

Put on Liszt,
take off your glasses,
I am dancing
Just like Mars is.
You’ve been quiet,
White and clear.
Rooms are spinning
Just as we are!
And my fingers
(Strong and salty),
Chase your thighs,
And keep on hunting.
Every breath
Is glued to other,
Every child
Has killed its mother.

I smoked my pain
And scratched my meaning.
As Liszt turned
Into Puccini.

-

You tied your knees into a vine,
And your throat grew long and paler,
Lilacs bloomed out of your spine,
As the “yes” became the “later”.

-

I escaped your room in Paris,
And played with my small existence.
But I’m yours,
And it’s all pointless,
For this run produced no distance.

-

Life must be easy
when one is as perfect
as you are.

And I know you’ll say
you’re not.

But your imperfections are freckles
on my serpents’ skin.

-

-
Painting on the walls of the room,
Can hear your thoughts.

-
Morning came and dreams flew out
of the window like blind birds
of insomnia.

-
Postcards that you gave me,
With your poems in the back,
Rest in every book I’ve loved.

-
Placed into the cup of paper,
Coffee absorbed the morning chill.

-
Words he said climbed down my spine
And nested in my shaking thighs.

-
Simple people dressed in jeans
And simpler people dressed in leather.

-
There’s so much vanity in
“I like your stuff”.

-

People swayed left to right,
left to right, right to left...
Sadness floats into my life,
the kind I’ve never ever felt.

When the sadness goes away,
I stand up and I get dressed.
And I watch as people sway,
left to right, right to left.

-

Chet gets me every time.
and I go back to dark, Berlin bars
where I used to sing his songs
for penniless melancholics
who drank beer and wine
and banged on tables,
and shook my hand.

I used to have dark hair then.
Dark thoughts dwelled in my hair.
I spoke in German, with an awful accent.
But my friends tolerated that.

I Drank too much coffee at night
and stayed out till six in the morning.
Wrote class papers about anarchism
and fell in and out of love every evening.

I was young and skinny
and skipped class every day.
I kept secrets.
Many.
They were about my life,
my life at night,
traveling to and from,
acting in films,
acting even when cameras were off,
fucking for the sake of it,
down in warehouses,
singing in streets
and bars
and anywhere.

Never had much of a voice.
But the owner thought
there was something very foreign,
yet very familiar in me.
Once, drunk, he let it slip,
that I reminded him of his childhood friend,
with that careless nostalgia in my eyes.

Those months are a blur.
I was alone,
I drew,
I wrote
and acted
and walked.
I was rarely sober.
And when I was,
I’d throw all my poems
and drawings into the trash.
Longing for someone who’d care.
No one to stop me.
Countless letters, postcards, stories
(written and disposed),
found their own resting place
in the hills of garbage,
somewhere, near Berlin.

It was always cold.
Except for May.
And may be, June.
But I left in July.
Went back home
to be the success I was raised to be.
And I was.
for years.
for everyone.

And since then, I’ve avoided Berlin.
For it’s marked me with a little more craziness
than you’d like to know.
One day, may be,
I’ll write it all again
and title it:
“The life of a baby blue, who never left”.

“baby blue” was what people from the bar would call me.

-

In this town - big and lonely
I've spread out like winds of north,
listening to little Dolly,
selling time for what it's worth.

In this town with streets all over,
they stand and wait for applause...
I'm becoming a leftover
of the boy you thought I was.

In this town spring comes unnoticed,
friends grow far and I stay small.
While listening to little Otis
bit by bit my dreams dissolve.

-

Life starts when death doesn't feel right.

-

People stayed in their old houses,
played old cards and wooden chess.
But I left and changed my story,
lived bit more and wrote bit less.

People stayed in their old houses,
watched same films and sang same songs.
But I left for quick adventure,
then it turned out to be long.

People stayed in their old houses,
and never really thought of me.
They grew old, and tired, and lousy,
like forgotten colony.

But I fought and lost and shouted,
hid from wind from town to town,
but wind still licked me, cold, undoubted,
in and out,
and up and down.

-

Did you make me see myself
The way you saw me?
Or did I just got used to
Seeing everything from your tilted perspective?

Did you make me change my name
Into something funny?
Or was it me who got too desperate
And wanted you to laugh?

Did you really forget me
The way you lost the others?
Or was it me,
Breaking free?

-

Waiter brought a bottled blue,
and I spilled it on my palm.
I let it dry and late at night
licked it under my grey sheets.

I was hungry for a taste,
and a memory of you and I.
Waiter brought a bottled blue
and I drank it like a red.

-

I walked out.
It was dark and quiet.
Hands heavy.
Chest empty.
feet light
and eyes unfocused.
would it be too bad
if I fell right here?
Would someone notice me?
would I sit up?
or would I stay?
million possibilities of my disposal.

I did everything I could think of:
I slept around.
and excelled in writing.
I made people laugh.
I cried.
I made them fall in love with me.
I traveled.
I played with children,
hoping they'd know the truth.
I played with pets of strange people.
I made friends
and I made acquaintances.
But all I did was for the wrong one.
And no one was you.

And now I live
like a pigeon among others.
I only cry at movies,
when they're sad.
I eat when I'm hungry and
sleep when I'm tired.
I read when I can
and save up some money
for the trips,
which I'm never going to take.

And in my fully adequate
and more than average life,
I miss the your disruptions,
my compulsive obsessions,
life which was governed by Mars
and death which was in every corner
of my cruel experiments.

Few of my friends
have abandoned me.
They thought I'd changed.
And perhaps I have.
Perhaps I say "thank you" too much,
and "sorry" when I should be saying
"fuck off".
I say "may be" when I should "of course",
and "let's do that" when it's a "no".
I say "let me think about it"
and "I know what you mean"
when I should just shout
"I don't fucking care about your life!
You mean nothing."

But there's always a fear,
just a purple uncertainty,
flexed against my heart
that people will leave
and I'd be alone,
with myself.
And we both know,
that's not the best company.
that's why you fled,
did you not?!

-

Ringing of the naked body
when the death has entered room,
greeting me with smile and nodding
as I burn and bleed and bloom...

Sitting down on knees like fire,
he will lick my blackened thighs,
with blue eyes and slit desire
he then starts to emphasize
flowing blood inside my veins.
And his fangs scratch marble back
(like midnight sky is scratched by cranes)
and he rests them on my neck.

As we sway into the music
little piglets join the dance
and, Bach turns into Debussy
and tragedy becomes romance.

-

Softly, you have, slipped from my mind
And my memories.
I no longer cry.
I no longer remember you on Sundays.
I no longer say the words you would say.
I no longer live without you.

I live despite you.

Softly, you have, pleased others.

-

Flowers died.
but I still kept them.
and then,
right before I went to sleep,
I imagined dying with flowers
and I thought I wouldn't mind much.
because I was drunk with gin,
and sad with life.

sleep is the closest I've been to death.
I've played with him in dreams,
and it's been one gorgeous adventure.

-

And I sold my soul to devil.
And he kept it for himself.

And he played with it on Sundays,
While the only game you liked
Was hunting boys when you were bored.

And now I’ve made him the devil,
And you’ve lost this game, my god.

The Loventine’s Day poem

Praise him, and tell him
you love him, and care.
Tell him you want him,
So he’s unaware
That he isn't funny.
In fact he’s just boring.
And tell him you’re fine
If he says, he’s sorry.
Build on the lies,
And smile when in tears,
And little by little
You will disappear.

And life shall be happy
And pretty and pink!
Everyone’s clapping,
You’re wearing the ring.
He tells you, he loves you,
And misses you, cares...
Tells you, he wants you,
But you’re unaware
That he thinks you are dorky
And porky. He’s lying.
And you’re stuck with walking
When you should be flying.

You eat cake, you smile,
And one thing is clear.
Little by little,
You have disappeared.

-

‪I’m just a kid,
standing in front of another kid,
asking her to play with him. ‬

-

If I wrote one poem, one single poem worth the eternity
I would surely slit my wrists and bleed all over it.
So it can die with me.
Humanity would be in my mercy.
And I would deny it to this world.
I’d laugh while blood left my body.
I’d laugh because I won.

-

There is so much romance in being nobody.
Nobody cares.
Nobody loves.

And when looking for someone to love,
There's Nobody.
Nobody loves you.
Nobody cares.

And I fall in love,
All over again.
With Nobody.

There is so much romance...

-

There is no romance left in New York.
May be except for a bit of it
in my stained coffee cup.

You don’t have to worry, darling.
You’ll always be my poor,
silly, little funny valentine.

-

I've gambled my life away
with dull curiosity and waiting
And when death showed me its tits
I licked blood off them
and planted my teeth in its neck.

When you’re ugly

Fuck!
Some people are so pretty!
It’s so unfair!

If I was handsome
I’d love my body,
Not take shit
From anybody.
I’d have friends,
And they’d be wealthy.
Now they’re dumb,
And broke and messy.

If I was handsome,
I’d make money,
I’d fuck twinks
And bathe in honey.
I’d let all worries
Disappear,
No one would think
That I’m weird.
I’d do juice cleanse,
All organic.
When paycheck’s late,
I wouldn’t panic.
If I was handsome
I’d be funny,
My spirit beast
Would not be bunny.

I’d be eccentric
If I was pretty-ish,
And no doubt
I would be British.
But I think
I’d live in Jersey,
Just to spark
Hot controversy.
I’d spell “you”
With single letter.
U would think
I’m cool trendsetter.

If ur ugly,
Than be clever.
I’m gorgeous tho..
So... yeeaah.. whatever.

-

You got soaked into the sea.
The sea was black and deep and dark.
And despite my jealousy,
It would never put you back.

Winds of dull and grey existence,
Grew its hands inside my sleep.
I talk to sea from great distance.
But it’s black and dark and deep.

Play for me that Prokofiev,
I will listen.
You’ll be near.

witches' little wishes

make a wish,
and write it down.
turn it into
paper crown.

place this poem
on your eyes,
may be once
you'll be surprised.

and the wish
will come to be
if you won't
abandon me.

may be we
could walk together
get some coffee,
discuss the weather,
look at people,
tell their stories,
sort them into
categories.
dream in films,
and speak in riddles,
fuck a lot
and sleep a little.
may be we
could live in cities
which are green,
and clean and pretty.

make a wish
and write it down,
and wear it like
you'd wear a crown.

NY Wishlist

Instead of typing in "blogspot.com" my heavy fingers went and wrote "drugspot.com". That's why I shouldn't be writing this at 8 in the morning. But I woke up with a story in my mind and I won't be able to find my peace until I spit it out.

It's not even a good story, a funny one. I think it might just be a literary manifestation of my fear of forgetting my childhood and my past. This story is more of a chapter from my autobiography than an elaborate discussion of something relevant. And like most biographical shit, it is unabashedly selfish and revolves around your Royal Highness.

In Georgia (the suburb of Europe, not the peachy south of America) we celebrate New Year before Christmas because for some funny religious reasons "Orthodox Christmas" falls on January the 7th. So, New Year's Eve is the night of joy and presents while Christmas is mostly associated with boring mass in a church or even better, a day off! And most importantly, Santa brings us presents on New Year's eve. That's probably why I didn't really care for Christmas that much.

As a child I never really asked for much. The first Christmas present I remember was a magician's cloak. I was probably 4 and it might have been my birthday cause I remember twirling in it uncontrollably in the yard, in my white shorts (I was "blessed" with a summer birthday). My mom had made it and it was white, with a blue collar and blue stars on it. I remember its weight and smell. And mind you, all that was before Harry Potter or Sabrina the teenage glitch had happened. Thinking of it now, yeah, it probably was my birthday. And no, I have no idea why I asked for a magician's cloak. Fashion statement? premature drag? perhaps. But, I never really liked magic tricks. However, I was fascinated by Meleficent. But that's neither here, nor there.

My mother came up with a family tradition: every year, an hour before the New Year we'd put few things underneath the Christmas tree that would symbolize the wishes we couldn't possible get as presents from each-other. I'd put my passport first (because I was an adventurer through and through), followed by a dollar bill my great grandmother had given me (cause I wasn't gonna be a "stay in a hostel, eat canned soup" kind of an adventurer), favorite books (mostly about Paris), keys (hoping one day I'd find my home), my mother's small, blue glass statue of a filly (because I broke one of its legs when I was a child and had been tortured by my conscience ever since), postcards from places I wanted to live in (mostly Paris and London), and my drawing papers (so I would never stop drawing).

As the time went by the symbols underneath the Christmas tree disappeared into non-being. but few remained: a passport (for adventures to break me free from the "Now"), books (for the mind to travel) and papers (for heart to pour out over). It is curious but since I was 15 I decided the B6 was the perfect pencil. I've never used another. And since I was 15 I've feared my poems and my drawings. I sometimes wake up at night, imagining that all the faces I've described, all the eyes I've painted have come to life. They stand there, in front of me and ask me why I made them so ugly. And I tell them they're not, that they ARE the best creatures on Earth. They are beautiful in more than one way. But the truth is, I could never draw well. I could never learn proportions. I don't think I've ever tried to learn them. Because oversized eyes were more peculiar. And I'd always take "odd" over "pretty".

Did you realize
how different you were
from everyone else?
Did you grieve your peculiarities?
Were you scared?
Were you brave?

I wrote this letter to my children. I write to them always.

But the life takes me to places beyond my imagination. I meet people and get carried away with them. I live their ideas of life. I fall in love with objects and places. And I forget.

And one day, I started this funny little "note" on my phone, of the "things I want". And to prove my point that I'm not who you thought I were, here is the list:

1. Bed covers, duvet. (to remind me that rattling, creaking sound of the white linen my grandmother would put on my bed. I loved going to sleep in white, wearing white.)

2. Bleu de Chanel. (to bring that frowning feeling into my mind, understanding that nothing is nice, or wonderful. That everything comes with a price. And I'm paying with time. I hid away from its midnight blue in my greying sheets.)

3. Liforme yoga mat. (to know that even the purest of practices are sometimes about money. And sometimes everything is about money. I've always wanted to be a soldier, my favorite fairy tale character was the Steadfast Tin Soldier and I carried his name as mine on Instagram for years (pale.tin.soldier). And practicing brings that steady, grounded feeling to my unpredictable life. And I'd rather practice on an expensive grounds, than on cheap.)

4. Mac. (because my last one stopped working and I'd like a pretty new one.)

5. Silver earring. (something only I can wear.)

6. White dress shirts. (because I used to wear them every day when I was a child.)

My list is simple and achievable. But it's missing things, things I decided not to share. Things I still haven't fully identified.

I sound like Philip Seymour Hoffman today. Read this letter with his voice.

the painting by Amadeo de Souza Cardoso

-

Did you realize
how different you were
from everyone else?
Did you grieve your peculiarities?
Were you scared?
Were you brave?

Save me,
From becoming them.
Save me.

-

You smelled of grass
And forrest, after rain.

And when it ended,
I came off of you
As a skin comes of a brown snake.

But your gaze followed me
Like fog follows ravine.

And the sun soaked me up.
And life burst from your depth.

You smelled of earth
And violets after rain.

Old gloves

Books and toys
And my brother in the yard.
We climbed the trees
And drank tap water.
If it rained,
We would wait.
If it snowed
We’d be allowed
To play with neighbors,
And freeze our fingers
Even if we wore old gloves.

But,
Now we’re older.
The house is gone.
If it rains
We get grumpy,
And still go out
To work for others,
And be smart,
And be efficient.
If it snows
We get nostalgic
And still go out
To work for others,
And be cheerful,
And be calm.

But,
If it really snows a lot,
I get lonely as a glove,
Lost, forgotten
In the snow.

-

Children played in lilac garden.
Snow was falling like a bird.
And beyond our little burden
Winter waltzes could be heard.

We were dancing like reflections
On the surface of the sea.
It was wine,
And misperception,
And waltz was from Tennessee...

With the time your breath would harden,
Shapes would drift,
Lines would be blurred...
But the children played in garden.
And snow fell like dying bird.

-

November arrived, playing waltzes we loved.
Yellow leaves turned crimson.
I drank an old bottle of sweet, black wine.
And my eyes darkened as nights grew long.

Children played with thoughts of pleasure,
Kept them secret, like small treasure.
Never were they short of storage.
And I danced to Shostakovich.

-

Our lives can easily be sorted into types of performances.

Some people live promiscuous burlesques, teasing and culminating into eruptive finish;

Days of others run along as plays, act one: wake up, act two: go to sleep;

Some people live in fantasy, blaming their misfortunes on spells and trying to charm their way through pitifully simple careers;

Some lives flow by like thoughtful indie films, without significant commercial success but nevertheless, worthy.

But we both had different views on ours:

You wanted to live in a romantic comedy, smile like Julia Roberts and laugh like Camron Diaz.

And I chose a tragic musical - an odd fusion of Rocky Horror Picture Show and Chicago.

-

If you leave,
If you won’t stay,
Take your little ghosts away.

If you ever change your mind,
Bring your ghosts to play with mine.

-

I played the Liszt and dined with death.
I cut myself, and laughed, and wept.
But despite my luck and wealth,
Solitude was all I felt.

But days ran by and nights arrived -
Cruel, dark flowers of your breath.
And I'm hight, and so alive
When I play Liszt and dine with death.

-

In the world of “what if”s and “probably”s
My life flickers as an “Yes”
And dims into a “No”.

I’m determined as an idiotic child
And confident as a stupid falsetto.

In silence

I don’t think I appreciate silence as much as it deserves to be appreciated. But I’ve been paying attention to it. I’ve been educating myself lately.

It’s only in silence that most thoughts come out from the dark, much like cautious, furry little animals with oversized eyes and pointy ears.

It’s only in silence that I see pure simplicity of everyday objects: tall, transparent water glasses, black leather shoes, curious lines on the palm of my hands, peaceful setting of books on the shelves, continuous flow of air from an open window.

It’s only in silence that I overhear short conversations people have with their dogs as they walk outside my room.

It’s only in silence that I listen to Brahms and remember my old gardens with pomegranate trees which were too easy to climb.

It’s only in silence that I can be fully absorbed by stories told by determined writers from previous centuries.

It’s only in silence that I think of the gift of existence and see green inhales and white exhales - miracle of my own energy, my only breath.

It’s only in silence that I acquire more importance, maintain my meaning and settle into pleasure of the temperature of my body and kindness of my being.

Silence has funny ways of finding my hiding places.



Extract from an old letter to a friend, never sent.

Extract from an old letter to a friend, never sent.

And believe me, when death finally figures out all my tricks I’ll welcome her with the same expression of pleased curiosity that you see on this photo. Because she’s nothing but a perfectly natural blond with a heart of gold and an exceptional sense of responsibility. And I’ve never been more than a mischievous boy with a heart of gold and and exceptional sense of humor. It won’t take long as there won’t be much to say. She will pinch my overly pointy nose and I will try not to blink and stay cool. after all, it would be a long-awaited encounter of old lovers.

Pity, we won’t have time for a glass of gin and a cigarette.