Archive for the ‘Past, Present, Future’ Category

Dzhentileski_ Melankholiya

*I*, am struggling with today.

*They*, are talking about tomorrow, excited and relishing prospects.

I want to forget anything beyond the past.

 

(To be continued…)

       

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Spektr-3

It’s a bad design. The kind of thing that makes one wish for a simple, old rotary dial phone.

The answering machine. To listen again to the newest message, he has to sift through the old ones. For him, this is a definite stumbling block. Reminders of all those past chances and disappointments, promises and lies. Snippets of voices long-since gone, people who never properly said goodbye.

But the here and now obliges him to dredge through this past, he needs to confirm the number she left.

Wryly he smiles: reminded that the past, given a chance by the present, always threatens the future.

Tonight he will be haunted.

 

(To be continued…)

       

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Charles the Bald 1b

Charles the Bald (not to be confused with Charles the Bold),

may or may not have actually been bald (depending upon what is meant by bald).

This year, if you want to give me a present, so as to say,

don’t give me anything new,

s’il vous plaît.

The past is quite enough to deal with.

 

(To be continued…)

       

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Headache, Drinking Tea, Utro_

Fuck you and your panic attack!

… The future?

Screw that fear!

Today and yesterday, are and were

bad enough here.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Jean-Pierre-Laffont-foto

The Big Apple is rotten,

as is the rest of the fruit salad.

Regardless, the tired and hungry masses clamor

to be accepted into its embrace,

its new and interesting ways of exploitation.

“Why?” I ask my dead relative.

Her reply: “The myth of apple pie.”

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Screw you and your time imperatives!

I don’t wear a watch…

It takes as long as it takes…

The Sun rises & sets,

now will always be now,

in retrospect,

and tomorrow is Revolution!

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Outside, I approached the car.

Inside, he watched carefully.

Slowly, he wound the window down.

I could hear Nautilus Pompilius playing,

one track transitioned into another,

a homemade cassette.

I smiled inwardly.

I knew we would have something to talk about.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

When futurity turns into maturity,

when tomorrow becomes yesterday,

you wake up in a cell,

and you feel you have nothing left to hope for.

They lock the door,

they staple your feet to the floor,

and force you to watch the same race,

turgid time, after turgid time,

your least favorite Biathlete ever,

winning, yet again.

30cm TV screen, all too large,

you took a wrong turn

after the Hermitage.

 

©ddr7hd

 

Inside.

In the cell.

Alone.

Sensory deprivation,

a strange kind of bliss.

No night, no day, no clock.

I no longer had any idea of time.

I had moved beyond the bounds of linear custody,

become free,

in a sense,

in captivity.

The thoughts in my head,

words spoken,

internal dialog,

a mixture of present, past and future.

“Screw grammar!” I said to myself tomorrow,

yesterday I will be free.

 

A different kind of deportation…

A reverse orientation…

They sent me to Lviv

for writing a poem.

Little did they know where it would lead.