The masterpiece

The greatest fuckin' song, that keeps me ecstatic for months already

Funeral For Femininity

Optimistic. Enthusiastic. Driven to tears. Hysterical. Drunk. What a great scenario to what is counted to be an international holiday! But anyway - this is what is real. Without those phony "shopping holiday"-mood, without kissing everyone in the cheek for every fake smile and a couple of congrats that are said only because they should be said. I used to hate that all, and through all these years this hatred hasn't become weaker. Right the opposite.

I hate myself. I've never got it so clear. I hate myself because I love him that much, that I even shut up my pride to stay by his side. No one - never! - told me so many insulting, hurting and disrespectful things like he did. But still, I know for sure, he's the closest person to me. Ever. That's why I swallow this bitter liquid, only not to burst out crying. Even now, when he's spending his time somewhere with someone. Well, if he told me that he does all this only because of usual male jealousy, do I have this right to feel jealous?.. Or is that also only his right, the privilege of being the boss? OK, I'm bitter and sarcastic. But I need to say that.

March, 8th. International Women's day. A cabin in the night subway. A woman in front of me. Disillusioned, drunk - because everyone in her office was drinking, so she took her portion as well, - holding two roses in her wrinkled hands. Two roses. I don't know, maybe she, being drunk, has lost the third one, or just has taken the second flower for her absent colleague, who was absent and couldn't take it herself, - that's basically doesn't matter. The fact is that she's holding only two roses. Like for a funeral. And generally this is funeral. The funeral for femininity. Another couple right by her side. A girl with her paltry-looking miserable boyfriend. They're kissing, the girl is also drunk, and the guy is caressing his crotch while slavering her. And now you still ask me, why I hate this world that much?..

And now that. He led me directly to hysteria, and then told me that he loves me and cares. And it is my fucking fate to believe him, because he really deserves that. And even now, when I silently watch this promiscuity in a metro cabin, he's spending his time somewhere with someone. When I embrace that white rose he gave me as the present for a holiday. Along with the drinking glasses I also received from him - as he explained, to celebrate something with my further "wimpy flames". Enough said.

Maybe I'm chained to this emptiness. Nonexistence. Loneliness. Because I'm ready to forgive all his insults for one single embracement. Fuck. I hate myself.

Reminiscence

Just came to mind. Hello Mr. Leonard Cohen...


...Through years it bears the trace of Inquisition,
Society I'm born and sold within...
And thus I'm never asking for permission
To take my own Manhattan and Berlin...

And more - also mine, but already a Russian translation of the original masterpiece...

Вердикт зачитан - четверть века скуки
За то, что против строя шел один.
Окончен срок. Я умываю руки.
Сперва возьмем Манхэттен, а затем Берлин.

Меня ведут вслепую голос свыше
И шрамы углубившихся морщин.
Но гул боев не стал с годами тише.
Сперва возьмем Манхэттен, а затем Берлин.

The Maker Of Victimized

Frozen fogs of November are silently hanging between the dirt and that drained gas that once was called The Sky. Fast steps are getting stuck in the mud and turn into melancholic and lazy moving one leg after another. Here I am, slowly walking down this street of sick memories, where every object on my way is a memorial for a broken dream. And I know, that someone is watching me - again, as always. They always do, because when someone doesn't have his own life he tries to release his voyeurism, and I'm often the choice. I don't give a damn, what they want to see. Well, if you stare - then take me who I am, for granted. I'm not going to act for you. And if I behave filthy - oh, that's even better: I'm not gonna be another dolly monkey in a golden cage people love to judge and envy. Not gonna make a picturesque fairytale out of my existence. And finally not gonna decorate it for the watchers. Trashy, wasted, lost and found, with a screaming audio system at 4 a.m., twisted, alone, messy and wasted again. A sensitive loony. Not a lollipop celeb. I like to throw them into confusion with my way of living. That's not what they expect from me when they see me on the streets.

But these steps at the background sometimes make me think, that probably the only thing that is worth in this world - is that somewhere lives The One. The one I'm waiting for. The one who doesn't give a damn about who's lying next to me another bloody morning. And who is waiting for me, even though he himself still may be unaware of that. My killer. We wander like two bubbles of oxygene in the veins of this world, and I'm not sure about him, but I undeliberately look for him in everyone. I look for someone to victimize me, to cause me pain. And still this is not masochism. It's just a desperate try to check if I'm still able to feel. The Maker Of Victimized, is that you? Or maybe you are my tormentor? Why are you staring like that, finally do something! But you're too weak for action, yah. You can only gnaw me round with your eyes, and that's all. I know this kind of people. They are used to believing that a sexual partner is a device for masturbation. That thinking is freaky, and slavery is freedom.

So, go on, watch me, punch me, point your fat fingers at me - this is nothing, comparing to that mental devastation, reigning in my mind, because of being tired of waiting. For the Maker to come and make me feel...

Astray

I just wonder why I always have to bury my deepest feelings in the past. Sometimes the choice is to kill or to be killed - in my case, to suffer or to bury the suffering. Along with dreams. Because they're just unseparable - I don't feel pain when it comes from something I don't cherish. And here - once again, putting one cross after another, trying to forget and not to give a damn. But that results only in sensual disorder and sexual conveyor - when I'm in the mood, I call it "rock'n'roll"... But these memories always come back, like ghosts return to the abandoned house they inhabited long ago. They surround me, and there's something like reproach and regret in their luminous eyes - and that causes real pain. When it starts to seem that these flashbacks are your real life, I begin thinking that there's just one step before I touch the wall of insanity.

I have to hold on anyway. But to keep this strength I should either live my dream, or kill it to get rid of those quicksilver reflections.

Numbing Futility

Take a breath... and bury your feelings. If you want to survive and keep your sanity.

Undress Rehearsal

Faded daylight. Freezing shivers down my spine. And me - mentally undressing here, among the neons and soffits; stripping my soul for I don't know what. Yes, I myself don't clearly understand why I'm doing this. Maybe because I'm drunk - just totally wasted, but still holding on to the undying ability to think, make decisions and analyse.

I don't want to be struck in the past. To live some several days again and again in my memory and close my eyes for the present. No. No! But everything within me screams that what I've done was the only right way to do - in every tiny detail. I'm so fuckin' honest towards myself now, that it even scares me.

Only today I've realized that then, in those four days it became clear to me, that something was wrong with that life I was used to. That something has changed. That it's just great to know that someone cares. That someone worries about you, supports you, helps you to carry something you would otherways never ask anyone to help with... And now it's definitely hard to return to that semi-automatic existence, that I previously counted to be my real life.

Yes, that was an adventure. The biggest one I ever taken. But the feedback of it is immense. Huge. Overwhelming. And now I know, that I needed that emotional rollercoaster, I've been longing for that, but the other part of my ego didn't hear (or didn't want to hear) that fierce demand. These five people have given me previously unknown freedom: freedom to feel myself through them. And now, if someone wakes me in the middle of night, I can unmistakably name their preferences, hobbies and addictions. They're MY BAND now.

...And today - while trying to live my life as usual, I came across the view that doesn't fade in my mind: overcrowded metro cabin, some person holding a colorful paper bag with an italic lettering - save me... The words I wanted to whisper to him during all the four days of our life under the same roof. But I didn't.

This past deserves to become present again. And I will go for it. Still, everything's possible as long as you believe in it...