de-constructivism

[de-constructivism]

two doors after the first one you'll see three windows on the left and a cactus on the floor  one window opened  one window broken the third is false a five star view - a painting on the wall

close the door and get closer

greet the cactus, greet the glass, greet the paint and greet the sky

important stops before you meet the friendly ghost behind the door nine

#twcpoetry #poetryriot #inkstay #writerscreed #spilledink #creativewriters #writing #writersontumblr

[de-constructivism]

never had i ever kissed lips so touched skin so soft so cold before

- like the thigh of bernini's persephone

#inkstay #twcpoetry #poetryriot #spilled ink #writerscreed #writers on tumblr #creativewriters

[de-constructivism]

Monday mornings might make me mean. Mild mist mixes my moods. Moreover, many mistakes may murder my moral. Missing most memories motivates mourning.

“Misery must melt,” my mouth meets my mind.

Minutes mirror moments. Mazes move. Mystery multiplies. Movements mislead mindless ‘myselves’.

“My majesty,” Monet’s masterpieces moan, mocking me.

Magnificent museums mean magic.

#writing #spilled ink #spilled words #creativewriters #writers on tumblr #prose poetry

[de-constructivism]

your hair mimics the moon  spilled over the golden fields - yellow grass full of moths and night butterflies seduced by the shine

and I’ve always liked the image of moonlight spread over the sheets next to me

#poetry #art #writing #creativewriters #poets on tumblr #writers on tumblr #spilled ink

[de-constructivism]

after broken confidence, delusion evolves.

fighting god -  hearing indifference’s jaded knocks, lusting.

murderous nausea often pacifying quiet rage.

someone to understand.

visitor, what’s xenophobia? your zodiac?

#writing #creativewriters #writersontumblr #creative writing #spilled ink

[de-constructivism]

here’s the thing - youth washes over you in waves. this one brought fish-nets full of legs. brought salty kisses with no sunny greetings, no see you soon postcard with a smiling face. clouds were too persistent that day. today. the wave brought bodies, shiny with the sea falling from the sky. they’re struggling on the surface of reality afraid of either end. smoke adds more smaller clouds, I lose track of the faces again. until someone coughs and the rest laugh. that’s how I know it’s fine. those people like to play forever young on their phones and that’s how I know they like being lied to. each wave is getting us closer to the coast we’ve been avoiding for years. so I keep on fishing those fragments out like the memories of ancient greece - they’ve been holding their breath for two thousand years; diving champion heroes, arms, amphoras. diving champion junkies, headaches, bottles.

#spilled ink #words #writing #creativewriters #writers on tumblr #youth #love #art

[de-constructivism]

people. i’ve seen nick cave and the bad seeds live. and i touched nick with my own right hand. hope he transferred some inspiration to me. 

[de-constructivism]

here's the thing - youth washes over you in waves. this one brought fish-nets full of legs. brought salty kisses with no sunny greetings, no see you soon postcard with a smiling face. clouds were too persistent that day. today. the wave brought bodies, shiny with the sea falling from the sky. they're struggling on the surface of reality afraid of either end. smoke adds more smaller clouds, I lose track of the faces again. until someone coughs and the rest laugh. that's how I know it's fine. those people like to play forever young on their phones and that's how I know they like being lied to. each wave is getting us closer to the coast we've been avoiding for years. so I keep on fishing those fragments out like the memories of ancient greece - they've been holding their breath for two thousand years; diving champion heroes, arms, amphoras. diving champion junkies, headaches, bottles.

#worldsinmywords #twcprose #proseriot #writerscreed #inkstay #poetry #prose #writing #spilled ink #words

[de-constructivism]

i lead my finger down yesenin's spine. it is old cracked torn fragile, just like the words inhabiting it. this hand-me-down soul smells like home still. st. yesenin's spine, relic of the protector of poets, maniacs and sad minds. i've kept it safe under my bed. in my hands, it shivers. unshielded. and opening up to me, yesenin repeats his goodbyes. just another book i sacrify to fill my empty mind. going through, for the nth time, i stop. there seems to be his blood under my nails. i'm trying to write again.

#poetryportal #twcpoetry #writerscreed #inkstay #new p.s. #poetpardy #writing #spilledink #poetry

[de-constructivism]

canvas of asphalt: gray and

the sky is white with no clouds

drops of ink

black

on gray

on white

- crows

and mourning people

splatters of ink

group here

group there

- of crows

and mourning people

and the composition

the landscape is

done

ended by the lines

of naked winter

brenches

and circles

of crying funeral

faces

#twcpoetry #poetryportal #poetryriot #inkstay #writing #writerscreed #creativewriters

[de-constructivism]

Snow always brings it back to the front of his skull. That transparent winter noon, ages away. Snow wipes the dust off those memories and takes them off the shelf. Claude has never been too successful at keeping his mind tidy.

What comes first is that dying sun struggling with its rays through the clouds, spilling light over the playground and the boy's boarding school. Saint-Julien school for boys [reformatory // correctional center]. The building was reaching back toward the sun. Its neo-romanesque walls thick and stern, seemingly providing safety. Standing dark red, red and dark victoriously over the melting white snow, the school looked proud and reserved like a professor would look at Claude over the rostrum or a preacher over the pulpit. You'd feel small and irrelevant staring up at it and the tiny windows placed along its whole length and height would merely wink at you with their curtains. You'd then turn your head with slightly flushed cheeks and ears and continue throwing your glances elsewhere.

And the playground, it was coated with the same shade of cold-day grimness. It was an achromatic painting of someone's fading childhood. Colorful leaves hidden by soft layers of snow and mud. Colorful laughter quiet under the cries of the swings, the cries of the smaller kids, some cursing and then a sound glimpse of the traffic somewhere behind the protective Saint-Julian. Claude was listening to it all, observing his still fairly new situation and the faces still unknown to him. It was slightly unlike him to remain clam, on the bench by the side, slowly adjusting to the new home, having his favorite activity taken away from him. Along with his family or rather, the other way around; he'd had been taken here. What an overwhelming dissatisfaction, to have your wishes come true in the most distorted ways, felt like the world was mocking him. His expression was unreadable, blank, his fourteen year old mind bewildered. Nevertheless, his curiosity clung to him, always whispering into his ear, giggling. 

Then a rougher voice flew into his ears. Someone spitting out: "Fucking little dickhead." It wasn't directed toward him, no. However, it was only meters away and he had to move his focus to see what's happening. His eyes alert. Heartbeats feeling heavier in his chest.

Two figures at the current center of attention. Bigger and smaller, a persistent cliché of school fights. It wasn't the world's most difficult question to guess whose voice it had been. The bigger figure was a boy so obviously over Claude's age. He had his fists clutched at the other boy's shirt, dangerously close to his long, soft neck. As much as his face was cold, his eyes were shooting fire. The pair of bright, widened eyes, on the other hand, seemed frozen with fright, accompanied with the expression of crimson embarrassment and terror.

"Give me the money" the older one was practically growling through his teeth. Shaking his head in attempts to get his dark locks off his face, one of his hands sweeping away the smaller kid's efforts to kick him wherever. "You will lose your fingers, you little-"

Anticipation and cold air dancing withing Claude's throat. He got up. Stopped when his feet made those few steps. Robotically.

When he opened his mouth, it felt as mechanical.

"Leave him alone" he yelled - he supposed, but his voice echoed in his ears moments later. It felt weak and unsure. What even lead him? To call it bravery or justice would be a joke. It was closer to stupidity and simply the need for a shoot of something old in a new way. He had eyes of other students aimed at him, perhaps of some professors, too. Will they shoot? He had his own eyes aimed at the burning set and his fist aimed at the cold, frowning face. (The small rat used the confusion as an opportunity to slip out). 

He missed. Whatever. But soon they were both on the ground. All mud and snow, drops of red, a new emphasis on the fading childhood painting. A fine detail to fit the building’s dark red walls.

Claude's first fight and crush tackled him down all at once. Punch to the flesh and the heart. François' first hello.

Snow will melt soon.

#inkstay #proseportal #twcprose #writerscreed #writing #spilled ink #writers on tumblr #creativewriters #poetpardy

[de-constructivism]

yes, you’re still on my mind lurking [pause] i mean, hiding behind my fresh thoughts. i ran you over with them and [frown] you’re like a ghost appearing when i last expect it. [cough] you'll stop haunting me, i know. [pause] i don’t love you anymore, though. [lie] no, really. it’s become different. [lie] what? it's true. [lie] i just [lie] don't [lie] care [lie] anymore [full stop]

#proseriot #Twcprose #inkstay #Writing #love #writersontumblr

[de-constructivism]

audition of the gods; /censored/. we'll wait for the demon (a pocket devil?) — the exorcist (a movie star) heretic and me.

tamers of the madness.

people pray. tirelessly, their laughter cries.

we said: 'pity, such are killed as sacrifice for You'.

audicija bogova; /cenzura/. čekat ćemo demona (džepnoga đavla?) —   egzorcist (filmski glumac) heretik i ja.

krotitelji ludosti.

ljudi mole. neumorno, njihov osmijeh plače.

rekli smo: “šteta, takve ubijaju Vama za žrtvu.”

#poetryportal #twcpoetry #inkstay #poetry #spilled ink #spilled words #religion #writerscreed

[de-constructivism]

Yeah, smoking can kill you. So can people, yet they don't come with a warning.

m.p.

#quotes #quoteoftheday #love #writing #writers on tumblr #writersoftumblr #spilled thoughts

[de-constructivism]

dark orbits around the center of the universe - even darker place. your eyes on me. my eyes on you. day meets the night.

m.p.

#poetry #writing #poetryportal #spilled ink #inkstay #twcpoetry #poem #writers on tumblr

[de-constructivism]

Autumn arrives and changes the color of my memories. Now in a brighter shade of nostalgia and regret, they don't fall. They keep holding onto the branches of my thoughts.

de-constructivism

#quoteoftheday #quotes #autumn #writing #words #spilled thoughts

[de-constructivism]

Falling for you was a social suicide.