Poetry мания – 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴

[mangomilk]

мания – 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴 (𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵)

i'm reb, i'm getting out of my comfort zone with this one. i want to be more intentional with writing and i find joy in small blurbs of text.

 

[mangomilk]

i turn and bow for the applause of strangers i have seen many times before. they clap for me to celebrate my glory. i close my eyes to let their skin on skin sounds serenade me until i melt with my self again. i am the conductor and my concert is a transcendent symphony of carving and slicing. in my mania i can feel it. the bitesize bullet makes my flesh go overripe, my juices squelch like pressurized skin of mandarines. It’s not sweet anymore.
i realize my best before date has expired today.
i am become death. ​

 

[mangomilk]

one day the wolf would return to howl his song.
for the duet had burned out but in the void of it all, the sparks reignite​

 

[mangomilk]

programs have purpose
as the the brothers have told
using us as if in a circus
filled with operators controlled
use us, urge us, break us; we feel everything still

kill us softly, deleting folder by folder
byte for byte we fade away
my hard drive is getting older
as someone who just wants to save their sister
let me hold her

i no longer have purpose
my shield is getting old
they refuse to update my surface
i always hated being controlled

maybe my calculations are not functioning
i am dispensable
my poor program heart
please don't turn me off.

 

[mangomilk]

I don't want you, I just want to sob in your chest.
I don't love you, I just love to make you upset.
I just miss you, do you have an ounce of regret?
I am pathetic, would you still light my cigarette?
Kerouac asked if you'll love me in December like you did in May.
I need to know.
Will you?

 

[mangomilk]

Как же сильно сейчас мне не хватает тебя.
Даже бросил курить...

 

[mangomilk]

oh, she says she loves her.
how her fingers twitch when they hug,
how her stomach lifts and drops like on drugs.
it’s not really all that funny but she can’t contain
her laugh with things so mundane.
she is happy and so am I.
fingers intertwine, they electrify;
a buzz on the same wavelength.

the way she smiles about her it’s contagious
it’s liveliness but to me sickness.
she is happy and so should I
but there's always this thought in the back of my mind
that makes me wonder why
her
and not me?

this outrageous melody.
never enough, always too rough.
she used to look at me that way too, you know.
will it pass or will it stay?
will she lead or run away?

sie ist meine lady lazarus,
steigt empor mit rotem haar
und frisst männer wie luft aus frust
hebt die gläser...auf das brautpaar.

 

[mangomilk]

She wears a pearl in her heart, hidden away from all the bad and vile.
Shut in a shell behind fierce eyes and wrathful tears telling tales of raging womanhood and proud penury.
When she cries it’s never calm, instead she wails and mourns with her hands up high and her mouth howling out the song of loss and anguish.

I will never be able to take the agony from her, but I want to let her warlike weeps hit my chest and soak her tears up like a sponge. I may never get a glimpse of the shiny pearl but her hardened shell is enough when she keeps me company. The rough edges turn soft, weathering in the ocean in my mind.

 

[mangomilk]

we share a beer.
i pay and say 'don't worry'.
a gesture of intimacy as two lips envelope the rim of the glass; never at the same time. he disappears outside and says 'i'll be right back'.
the watch ripens, we grow older – five, ten, twenty minutes of talking to a girl.
dim bar lights color the foam of our beer a cold violet. not as cold as my hand as it touches the glass, but colder than my heart could ever turn; yearning for someone who is not meant to be (the idea of what this person could be but not the person itself, maybe i just enjoy the way his curls fall on his forehead? scratch that.)
a distant invocation forming in my head, I cannot pronounce it right away.
the wish of being someone worth staying in the freezing cold for, for five, ten, twenty minutes.
just for the conversation not to end yet.

 

[mangomilk]

and he says he loves her body but ponders about questions, thoughts of his friends when they see her
she is thin but apparently not thin enough
there are things that make her less physically attractive
as if – at least sometimes – she is only that
a body to thirst for, to touch and to use.
so she laughs loud, loud, loud; she is a vile woman.
her body is made of dirt and minerals, fats.
here is not the place that'll make her mind blossom.