Blood cells grow apart in small apartments

kitchen_by_eugene_kukulka-d4g5jkm

*Image found HERE

*Translation updated, and is down below!

Blood cells grow apart in small apartments

In their mother’s petticoats
and sans handkerchiefs
they gathered round the glaced oak corpse;
Nylon and smoke strangling
the cheap perfume out of the air –
the rosemary, the dirt, the painted nails,
the ancestral glare lurking from the depth of grandma’s
old shrieking closet;
the audience cushioned gently
into the tail of a stuffed fox,
the theater a dim lit room
clawing it’s way out of my wrist –
ashes to fiber to cells
and the drivel burns.
“Death has not been kind to her.”, they say.
“He was kind to me.”
“To me.”
“To me too.”
“He drove me around all night in his Cadillac,
and he rode me all night by the river,
and he was filling my holes with the dirt all morning,
and look,
how I’m just fine!
(Like a daffodil drying in the sun.)
“but not to her!”
“No, not to her.”
“I loved him so much, I even asked for more!’
“We snorted the cinnamon right of the cake,
he held my hand at midnight
and took me by the lake,
we even knocked down a tombstone or two.”
“Lucky you, I only died once, like a burnish,
on a shore, a broken lantern in his arms alone” –
So pretty, so elated pon their golden mares,
twirling the candy snakes round their sunshine hairs
with their ill porcelain hands
they bleed their second hand fuchsia
all over my floor.

But right here, oh right here in the kitchen
I have loved you with the will of wind
to wed the symbiotic, fleeting notes
between the pillars of a pagoda,
loved you like a melancholic mermaid
twitching in panic inside a jar of pickles;
Loved you so much I asked for legs.
Loved you, oh all forsaken things now hear me,
loved you, so much I tore myself out of myself,
right here in the kitchen
choking on the smell of slow-cooked sciamachy
where your invisible non-existing lip
had kissed the life out of the corpse
and wore the skin as an apron.
To the ball, to the fair. To another kitchen.
I was your everywhere, smeared across the plate
when the meal was done, but you weren’t full.
Like a cloudwhore locked behind the cupboard,
I was chewing my way through rotten wood for you.
I loved you like a fingerprint on the sweaty, dirty
window of the city bus that doesn’t care
who revives it with his breath as long as it stays there.
As long as my heart is somewhere in your freezer.
As long as you sometimes lacerate me
while I am arranged in neat cubes
and lick me to see is it a tear or is it oil,
as long as you return to soil my living room
with your bubble gum stereo hysteria
drumming inside your leaky, seaweed patched chest.
As long as the elevator keeps working.
As long as your soul can rest its chromium atop the bedlam raspberries
of my punctured flesh
and fall asleep

while in the kitchen,
me and Eris,
baking apple pies.

And that
is Death.

*The finalising of the poem was inspired by the wordle at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, but I am a belated rabbit, so I again combined two of them, since by the time I got to finishing and posting this, a new wordle sprouted.

***

Razdvajanje krvnih celija u malim stanovima

 

Svaka u majcinom ziponu

I bez maramice,

Skupljaju se oko izglacanog hrastovog lesa;

Najlon I dim

Hvataju jeftin parfem za gushu –

Ruzmarin, zemlja, nalakirani nokti,

Odsjaj predaka koji vreba iz pozadine

Bakinog vriskajuceg ormara;

Publika posednuta nezno

Na rep preparirane lisice,

Pozoriste je slabo osvetljena soba

Koja grebe sebi izlaz iz mog zgloba,

Pepeo vlaknu, vlakno celijama

I govorkanje gori.

“Smrt nije bio ljubazan prema njoj.”, kazu one.

“Bio je ljubazan prema meni.”

“I meni.”

“I meni isto.”

“On me je vozio celu noc u svom Kadilaku,

on me je jahao celu noc kraj reke,

I on je punio sve moje rupe zemljom do jutra,

I gledaj kako sam dobro!”

(kao narcis koji se sushi na suncu)

“al ne prema njoj!”

“Ne, ne prema njoj.”

“Volela sam ga toliko, da sam trazila josh.”

“Ushmrknuli smo cimet pravo sa kolaca,

drzao mi je ruku pod Mesecom,

odveo me na jezero, I tamo me uzeo,

cak smo srusili I spomenik, il dva!”

“Bash si srecnica, ja umredoh samo jednom, kao sjaj,

na obali nekoj, bila sam

slomljena svetiljka u njegovim rukama.” –

Tako lepe, tako uzvishene sa svojim zlatnim grivama,

Vrte zmije od bombona oko svojih suncanih vlasi,

Svojim bolesnim, porcelanskim rukama,

Krvare svoju polovnu fuksiju

Po mom celom podu.

 

Ali bash ovde, oh bash ovde u ovoj kuhinji,

Ja sam vas volela voljom vetra da vencha

Simbiotichne note pobegulje medju stubovima pagoda,

Volela vas kao melanholicna morska sirena

Koja trza u panici u tegli kornishona,

Volela toliko da sam trazila noge.

Volela vas, oh sve me proklete stvari sad cujte,

Volela, toliko

Da sam sebe ischupala iz sebe,

Bash ovde u kuhinji,

Guseci se u dimu sporo kuvane izmishljotine

Tamo gde su vam nevidljive, nepostojane usne

Izljubile zivot iz trupa

I nosile kozu njegovu kao kecelju.

Na bal. Na vashar. U drugu kuhinju.

Bila sam vashe svuda, bash kao mrlja,

Trag koji ostaje na tanjiru kad je obrok gotov,

A trbuh nedovoljno pun.

Kao kurva-za-oblacima zakljucana u kredenac,

Kroz trulo drvo sam zvakala put do vas.

VOlela sam vas kao otisak prsta na znojavom, prljavom

Staklu gradskog autobusa

Koji ne mari ko ce ga oziveti dahom, dok god ga ne operu.

Dokle god mi je srce negde u vashem zamrzivachu.

Dokle god me ponekad recnete dok sam u uredne kocke slozena,

Pa polizete tu liniju da vidite

Curi li suza ili ulje,

Dokle god se vracate da mi uprskate dnevnu sobu

Cvojom stereo histerijom od zvake

Koja bubnja iz vashih bisnh

Grudi zakrpljenih algama.

Dokle god lift nastavlja da radi.

Dokle god vase duse mogu odmoriti svoj hrom na dzumbus malinama

Mog nachetog mesa

I zaspati

 

Dok u kuhinji,

Eris I ja,

Pecemo pite od jabuka.

 

I to

Je Smrt.

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~ by Oloriel on October 6, 2014.

44 Responses to “Blood cells grow apart in small apartments”

  1. Oh wow you have combined them beautifully! I love your use of sciamachy. I also love the part about being a broken lantern. Your genius is enviable!

    • Thank you very much for the kind words and for reading! My husband didn’t understand this poem at all, so wanted to ask you, since your opinion means a lot to me, what did you get from it, like, what do you think it is about? Is my rambling too lunatic?

      • Well you writing definitely has a surreal character which I love and which try as I might I can not seem to master. That intense attention to detail when you are smitten with someone, that you fall upon every word, every moment with the intent to consume and how that kind of love/friendship can be a death because so much of yourself is destroyed in the upkeep of such tremendous momentum. It seems to be about immersion so complete that you are unable to exist on surfacing or at least not in the same form, perhaps not even as the same species.

  2. Someday someone will decipher your genius, and make sense of the pathways of your brain. I am, as always, in awe of the ferocity of your words, the subtle humour, the unimaginable twists. Loved the bit about snorting the cinnamon right from the cake.

  3. “As long as my heart is somewhere in your freezer”- what a line. :0) I can relate. Who couldn’t?! I’m betting every woman could. And this is me with my guy- over (and over and over) and over again.

  4. Your poetry leaves me breathless, Oloriel. I always want more, and dream that one day I can write just one piece like this.
    So many fantastic lines:
    “Grandmas old shrieking closet”
    “The audience cushioned gently into the tail of a stuffed fox”
    “I have loved you with the will of wind”
    “Twirling candy snakes”..
    Amazing!

    This poem made me think about my first love – an all-consuming love that almost killed me.

  5. I wish I could do this.. write like you. So many brilliant lines in it, I can only read it again and again and try to understand where it all came from. No doubt: you’re awesome.

  6. This is like fine wine! One can never leave from your space without the sweet aftertaste!
    Self-devastating love.. who could imagine putting it like this.. the intricacy of details moved me..
    Much love!

    • Thank you very much, I am glad that the poem could offer you something, and even more happy and proud of myself you compared it to wine 😀

  7. Kada te citam kao da se vozim a slike se radjaju, ne znam jesam li pitao ranije, pises li i na srpskom ili samo na engleskom?

    • Pishem, dosta, kad stavim ovde nesto uglavnom napomenem da je original na nashem 😀 E sad, voznja i slike, ali fali mi muzika, tako da Dule gitaru u ruke! 😀

  8. “He drove me around all night in his Cadillac,
    and he rode me all night by the river,
    and he was filling my holes with the dirt all morning,
    and look,
    how I’m just fine!”

    The best lines I have read in a long, long time. I so love the poem.

    • Oloriel, what is your Twitter ID? I share your work but it comes with @wordpressdotcom.
      This is an amazing work and I shared it with my followers.

    • Thank you very much Peter, and thank you for sharing my work. Unfortunately, I do not use Twitter, I cannot wrap my head around how would that thing even be properly used. I often find myself unable to fit 140 characters only. I am a long, long, dark, autumn novel.

  9. I have to agree with someone above – i love the broken lantern imagery! This is lovely, my dear friend. I missed your smart and profound words.

  10. The death is mystifying… and so are your words, which are chilling and comforting at the same time. You are a master in weaving words together in such a way that they bring about the images to life, with all their bizarre hues and truths.
    This is one of my favorite pieces by you… your poetic voice gives thrills and anticipating as they might be whenever I begin to read your verse, I always find something new and so originally yours to enjoy in your words.
    🙂

  11. Lovely poem…

  12. you are awesome xx

  13. Visual with each passing word, no difficult in waltzing a dance at night’s gloom as the haze of day’s now faded, hunger sets in and now the minutes make a wish upon a lone passing kitchen feast.

  14. I remembered this poem and read it again. And another image caught my attention:

    “I loved you like a fingerprint on the sweaty, dirty
    window of the city bus that doesn’t care
    who revives it with his breath as long as it stays there.”

    This is keen. I have seen such fingerprints, even on my own window at home, and the way they are exposed by breath. But to see it expressed such is truly ingenious.

    • I dont know anyone but myself who has ever expressed they have thought what could be the meaning behind those fingerprints, how do those fingerprints think and feel 🙂
      On a sidenote, I think my book will be ready soon and have not forgotten about sending you one, still 🙂 Its the first thing I am ever really publishing on paper so I want it to be perfect in the way I think it is, hence why it is taking so long! If you are bored in the meantime, I think there is some work burried here that you still haven’t read or how about you send me some of your stuff to read, some which are close to your heart? I would be delighted!

  15. First of all, I apologize for my English.. Serbian is my mother tongue. Also, this poem requires too deep insight to be able to avoid or to wish to avoid my poor mistakes. I have not read thus original poetry for a long time. Surrealism, however, the modernist expression of Sylvia Plath, but certainly Oloriel’s unique poetic trail. Dialogues reminds me of ancient Greece dramolete with whispering chorus and voices that possess revelations of almost magical character through virtuosic poetic process. The corpuscles are signs that are scattered on the stage – they are chopped up, hovering around the oak tree (dead body). My further associations: an intertwining of Eros and Thanatos recapitulating with dialogues the usual “incompleteness” of surreal events that have probably very objective meaning, and maybe not, because the poets are always in their totality (especially when they dream…), so, highly subjective, through symbolism, this poem may be the general history of poet’s death and life. The poem is permeated with dialogues that give it a rich internal dynamics.
    By identifying, of the dissolution of cells, through the breakdown of apartment, furniture, through the collapse of the world, through the eyes of a dead body/soul, through the explicit elements sprung the most dramatic confession of the Body/Dead/Soul that says:
    “Loved you, oh forsaken all things now hear me, loved you, so much I tore myself out of myself,right here in the kitchen/choking on the smell of slow-cooked sciamachy”
    The death should not be understood literally. There is a whole network of relations among cell creatures that are falling apart inevitably and simbolically. Still, they discuss. They are individuals who have survived the death, they have witnessed events whether they are visible or tangible. a symbol of elevator could define the the society and re-established the fake life after death and viceversa encompassing grains that have been circulating about “old oak tree” , peeling of its crust, peeling an apple. At the end, as in the sonata, I see the complete reconstruction in the guise of a false life where blood cells are simply components of parallel entities, beings and realities they (blood cells) create. In the poem there is no reality, and grains in their shredding constitute fragments of endless labyrinths of these expanses and reality. In a way, this poem shows all the illusory of nature of life and death.

    • Od srca zelim da ti zahvalim za ovaj komentar. Pomaze mi da opet vidim varnice ljubavi prema pisanju i da otkrijem stvari o sebi koje precesto cuce zataskane.

  16. wow – this is just powerful!

  17. This is a foray into how to create a narrative without really telling the story… Letting me (the reader) filling in the blanks, of images like a painter use her tools…

  18. Oloriel, vidim da govoris srpski jezik. Da li si bilingvista? Pokusala sam da pronadjem tvoj mejl, ali nisam uspela u tome. Zelela sam da ti pisem na mejl, da te zamolim za sitnu, kolegijalnu uslugu, posto na wordpress – u ne postoji takva mogucnost (privatne poruke). Ukoliko se slazes ili te zanima ono sto imam da te zamolim ili da ti predlozim, pisi mi na mejl leila.samarrai@gmail.com Ukoliko ne, razumecu i nastavicu da uzivam u tvojoj poeziji. (samoj sebi sad zvucim pisuci ovako javno kao da sam potrazivac, uvaljivatelj proizvoda tipa magnetna rezonanca ili carobne papuce za pisanje, ali odista nista od toga.) U nadi da cu dobiti odgovor na mejl, Leila

    • Srpkinja sam, govorim 3 jezika, 4ti francuski ne bash najbolje, ali ima vremena 🙂
      Ja istovremeno tebe trazim po netu, necesh mi sad verovati,ali ona tvoja pesma sto sam je procitala (a i sijaset drugih), evo i dalje mislim na nju. Odushevljena sam, multidimenzionalno! Pisacu na mail veceras, drago mi je sto pored Afirmatora sad mogu da te pratim i na WordPressu 🙂

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