fragments(sometimes...something)

Sometimes it feels like every word you’ve ever had in your mind was drained out of you onto paper. You feel your heart just an engine, perfectly contracting: not skipping beats, no accelerations. And your blood just the right mix of chemicals in a flawless flow, your brain is empty and blank; it bored out of its mind. It has nothing to do, just amuse itself by the work of this mechanism, called the human body: synchronicity, sync, order and agreement.

But something… something deep inside longing for the chemical imbalance, heartbeats with skipping, accelerating, abrupt stops, for words to surface again over the tranquility of a quiet mind… and rain, and rain, and rain… with love, fear, pain, death… with life…

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments (life is a teardrop of time)

Through the cloud of ice
falling…
into the dark waters of the Styx.
Frozen…
…cold smiles, masks of pain,
deception embedded in a web of irises.
Static, plastered onto an icy surface.
…moments in time
stuccoes side by side
in a horizon of forever.
… broken,
falling through a cloud of ice,
disappearing in dark waters,
like teardrops,
bitter and hot,
too insignificant to make changes.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments (again)

Again…
the shadow
of a familiar silhouette
shimmers
against the white noise.

A face, reflected by blue indifference,
sometimes shrouded by the bones
of a winter's stripped tree...
The cloned memory invades
the innocence of the night.
The eyes are broken
by the sideview of a never-ending landscape.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments (the sea)

The sea is quiet, obedient
stays in the definition of its shores,
always pregnant with anger. Don’t talk.
The rage is growing, brewing in depth.
Don’t trust. The reflection of the sky
in the tranquility of the surface. False.
The true nature is hidden from the blind eye of men.
The agony of birth breaks the stagnant shores.
The sea rushes for refuge into the sanctuary
of a human life. Don’t cry. It destroys all in its path
in a failed attempt to deliver a healthy child,
only to leave a lifeless fetus behind... in ruins,
infested by decaying corpses. All silent.
It rushes back into the depression of a wounded face of Earth
to heal its sorrows, to mourn the children of the Sun
in the House of the pale Moon.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

letters (a touch of sound)

A snowflake shivers
on my lips.
A drop of water
trembles,
slides.

Your name…
a bird
born to fly,
migrate
to distant lands,
home,
the origin.

A beacon in time,
compass,
guiding force…
Your voice.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

letters (why would I care?)

Life has been found everywhere:
beneath the frozen poles, in acid lakes,
it creeps on the ocean floors
despite the pressure
and flourishes in boiling vents.
Some day it would be found high above
in exotic nameless places…

But why would I care?..

They say the end of days is coming,
world squeezes into a bottle neck,
refuses to drink the misery by portions,
it wants to swim in liquid hell.
Neutrino finally got up to speed,
or shall I say ran over limits.
I’ll write a siltation for those bastards,
if I would care.

It rains. I’d say its blizzard time.

There are your footprints in the snow…
I care for winter to never end,
for the wind to stop to blow,
until I find them…

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

letters (my sister)

My sister
is the master of the final touch.
She is determined to break the spell
that lingers over my solitary soul.
She tirelessly makes concoctions,
improving recipes with new ingredients,
increasing my immunity
with every drop of remedy.

She reached her limits
and the finality of her solution
is to send me to the Moon.
First man to land would be my cure.
tale of the princess and a fool,
had crossed my mind. At my request
at least a human man, she looked at me,
she raised her brow and said
“stop being picky”.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

letters (less than nothing)

A thought bridges what is
and what would be.

An avalanche of effects,
chained to the cause
by the moment of birth,
ripe and ready to break free.

I am at the bank of the known:
frozen, invisible, less than nothing.

Mortality imbedded in every breath.


© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments (The Worst Day.)

It has been lonely since Sally left. At first Sam would forget to turn off the lights. On occasion, he leaves a faucet on and the sounds of dripping water echo through the empty house all day. He doesn’t pay attention to his water bill quadrupling in the last few months. But why would he? He never paid the water or any other bills before. It was Sally’s responsibility.

There has not been much food in the house lately. Sam drinks every evening until he falls asleep in the front of the TV.

I missed Sally too, but I have snapped out of the grief. I wonder when Sam will finally get back to his normal self.

Today he left the light on, the faucet running, no food in the house, and the front door unlocked. My last drop of loyalty and patience evaporated when a strong gust of wind hit the door and pushed it wide open. The cold air filled every room and every corner.

I sat by the front door for a while waiting for his return, but there was nothing coming in except the snow piling up on Sally’s favorite green carpet. I decided that today was the worst day of my life and I walked away. I hope to find a better home. I know no one will call me Sally anymore. Sam gave me that name the day he found me on the street and brought me home. He said “Sally meet Sally” and placed me in his wife hands: they were warm and soft, and smelled like milk.

I may not find a home since it is easy to get lost in a snowstorm when your fur is just as white.
© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments

I am blind,
…indifferent
to the world
of reasons.
I play in the sands
at the shore
of the land,
I had made,
at the edge
of the seasons,
where the snowflakes
swim
on the boat
of a tilted
rainbow.
© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments

Dust, spider webs,
frozen memories
old and demented,
left behind by the previous owners
residents of the Nursing Homes.

I wash images from your walls
layer by layer, day by day
until I see the white virginity
of your bones.

I will hang my images,
decorating your new emptiness.

One day you will bury it all
in the rubble of your corps,
while I look indifferently
into a blue sky,
through the glass
of a locked window.
© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

letters (that smile embalms my spleen...)

My breath whispers
never happened memories,
echoes forbidden rituals.

That smile embalms my spleen…

I choke on my thirst,
drink from an empty glass.
I rip a nerve each time…
I touch memory
of the never happened.
I inhale deep,
filling my lungs with deadly addiction.

I measure my walk heel to toe,
unbroken chain of footprints
at the shore.

I close my eyes
and let the night ripple
over my skin,
cut the umbilicus, erase my world…
… I sit in tall grass
and spread the bones of my fingers
contemplating my escape,
a gateway, I’ll walk one day,
over the hill, in damp sand,
following my footprints.
© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments

pain isn’t a feeling but misery,
luxury when all feelings are gone.
I beat myself into a pulp
against the wall…
never seen, never felt.
layers of polished quartz
byproduct of imagination.

may it all go to hell…

apocalypse is not applicable
due to its statistical rarity.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments

I noticed dry blood
around the corners of her lips.
I asked ‘why did you do it?’.
while tourniqueting her arm,
taking her attention away,
making casual conversation.

The truth is hard to conceal
in the moment of shock.
I had expected anything, but
‘ I was a vampire and needed to feed.’
I shut my mouth and tilted my head to my shoulder,
feeling sudden attachment to my jugular.

As far as the official story goes,
the thought of Jesus being nailed to the cross.
She eased the pain of compassion
with the pain of her flesh.

It’s a wonder how the human mind can find balance
on a narrow ledge, half a step from Jesus and half from a vampire.
© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments(life is not a choice, Pytia, part III)

Pythia

Out in the distance, a figure clad in a black cloak with golden inlays stepped out of the whirlwind and whipped her hand around, causing the unnatural phenomenon to disburse as quickly as it appeared.
She looked around, her grim exterior taking in the desolation of her location while the dust itself paid her homage by settling at the ancient sandals that covered her tattooed feet. She floated over the hot sand, levitating inches over the surface before stopping at an abandoned campsite. A place where a woman named Amy Barnes had successfully fought to survive the death edict imposed on her by one of the last remaining Eternals in the universe. A slight that Pythia, Goddess of the Mortal Coil, would set right – even if it cost the lives of millions to rectify. She closed her whitened eyes and tilted her head, sucking in the words her latest plaything had uttered while she laid there. A sneer crossed her lips.
“Life is not a choice, mortal. Life is a chance and death the only certainty your kind will ever know. Your existence is merely borrowed time. Your breath mine for the taking. For I am death... and I will not be mocked, eluded, or denied a soul which should be in my gullet.”

She came into the world in 422 BC, was named Saffa by her parents, and thrived under their care for the first eighteen months of her life. Since her face had been covered by a caul when she was born, and animals and birds would congregate in her presence whenever her parents took her outside, the portents were too much for the leaders of Delphi to ignore. After being taken away from her home to stay at the Oracles of Delphi, she grew up to become Pythia, the most powerful seer in all of Greece, and making her prophecies and warnings from the Temple of Apollo located on the slopes of Mount Parnassus. In those days, no major decision would be made without first seeking her council: life and death ones like to wage war or forge peace, nature-based ones such as telling farmers when to start planting their crops, and sometimes trivial ones to determine the father of a child in the belly of a fornicating woman.

One day, the vapors from which Pythia's visions came were darker than usual, affecting both her mind and body. While being consulted by a local politician on which day his wedding should be held, blood began to seep from every orifice in her body. As the onlookers gasped in fear and ran from the temple, the brackish vapors floating around her turned into fire and engulfed her, burning not her skin or tissue, but seemingly her soul instead. When Pythia woke up from her ordeal, she found herself naked, save for a few shards of burnt clothing clinging to her waist and legs. Taking a purple cloak that one of her followers had discarded during their escape, she wrapped it around her body and gasped when a voice announcing he was Apollo himself called out to her from the very air inside his temple. After informing Pythia of his displeasure in her growing haughtiness, and her frequent prayers of wanting to know the pleasures of a man for the first time in her life, Apollo decreed her a Reaper. Doomed to spend eternity taking souls to the underworld while she herself would always be denied the death awaiting everyone.

During the last three millenia, she performed her tasks to the best of her abilities, but she soon grew weary with waiting for natural deaths – she wanted to have an actual say in the matters to give her some small portion of satisfaction with her fate. She appeared in the dreams of Catholic religious leaders in the twelfth century, giving them permission to start the Spanish Inquisition. She scattered plague-bearing rats across Europe in the thirteenth century, giving scores of people the Black Death. She also whispered her desires for the concentration camps into the willing ears of Heindrich Himmler when she met him in 1923, while attending meetings of the Thule society, along with her dreams of 'restarting civilization' in the thoughts of Pol Pot in the twentieth century. When the twin towers came tumbling down in the twenty-first century, she laughed in glee from her vantage point of the green goddess perched in the waters nearby. On occasion, she tired of mass executions and concentrated on single targets, spinning her web of destiny around them like a spider cocooning its prey. To her, Amy Barnes, Alex Melnychuk, Peter Rossington, and Dennard Jeffers were puppets. Unlucky mortals who had pissed off a goddess by being in the wrong place at the right time.
Above all things, Pythia hated failure. The two bikers had failed to kill the girl, who stupidly chose to live, who involved the young man who should have kept his metal chariot going on the smoothed road.
Pythia stared in the direction of the smoke spewing transportation the mortal drove and smiled for the first time in decades.
“You will die mortals. There is nowhere to hide. No justice. No quarter. You will perish as all humans do; in pain, agony, and laying in your own blood and excrement. Like I should have... ages ago.”

fragments(searching)(revised)

Searching still
in the blindness of my eyes,
in the silence of my mind.
‘Am I dead yet?’… question?… statement?...
Singularity floats on the surface of nothing.
I hold on to it ‘am I dead yet?’
The glimmer of familiarity
within the ocean of senselessness.

I have not known me:
my sight dissolved in dark waters.
‘Am I dead yet?’ screaming, terrifying thought-entity
curled into the circle of repetition.
My mind holds on with the despair
of a legless soldier who was left behind…
With the effort of a man
that start to rebuild his world
around unknown reality
in a newly initiated blindness.

‘Am I dead yet?’ has no meaning, but must…
otherwise the embryo would be swallowed…
it has no past, it knows no death. ‘Am I alive?’
It increases itself cell by cell
into more…

‘Where was I before?’ ‘I am intact… and separated
from the music, broadcast by the car radio into beyond,
from the sunlight, voices of people
rushing from every direction
to aid in the scoop of biology
that used to be familiar…,
trapped in the engineering marvel,
reduced into the state of chaos…,
first time alive, aware to the rhythm of the heartbeat.
It would be surgically extracted in a moment
and given for the recipient.’

…I will know it later,
when my mind will reconstructs the crack in time,
cementing it with the reality of imaginary tales…
Last thing to go – first thing to return,
hearing, that would be it…

Invasion of the sound into singularity
rebooted the system.
The radio was there and I was not.
I felt my heartbeat, my breath was back…
some memories… mind floated at the fringes…
flashing images of quadriplegia with horrors
worst than a death sentence…

I fought it…
‘Wiggle your toes’, was my only argument.
I refused.
Little comfort in the blissfulness of not knowing…

‘Wiggle your toes, coward.’ I caved in, gave up…
more effort that I have ever known…
I send the thought into my toes…
Oh, triumph! It listened…
with symmetry and equality.
Vision was back as a blur of light.
That was not important anymore.
I have surrendered into the hands of others.
I needed rest…

‘Stay with me, stay with me!’ hard hits over my eardrums.
‘Don’t drift, stay with me.’
So I did for a while… but then I thought
‘no more…’

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments (A woman.)

Agness, a prostitute by trade
marginalized by her need
to satisfy what she called her ‘albino-baby’
faced reality with numb body, dull mind
overstretched, ready to snap…
Hope’s last drop, sipped from within… redemption, recovery,
promised better days ahead.

Cosmetics masked the map of her fall.
Yet, I saw sparks of life in the blue morning sky.
Wind played with a shoulder-length hair,
While elegant hands, scarred and trembling
swept it back into the place.
I saw a woman unfortunate and ill
feeding hers and his addiction.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments (...)

The darkness swirls
near candle light,
as a helpless moth
flies
into the trembling flames.
Quick death
in less than a half
of breath.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments (Journey)

In your deadly embrace
I surrender,
I die…
…attracted, dissolved,
filtrated,
run underground….
until reborn and surfaced
in the cold creek
in the middle of night.
Naked… silver
in the light
of the local moon
carelessly suspended
in its fullness
from the dark corner
of sky…
Drops of water…
Wet trail left behind…
I run through the field,
no horizon…
Cold grass,
gift of the spring,
heal soles of my feet,
from the journey
through the minerals.
© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

letters (Step into my world...)

Step into my world, away from all the follies,
invented by my fellow men. Behind
the wall of rain, where the horizon stops
and doubles in reflection. Come with me.
Over the edge of the planet, it used to be flat.

The shape and color of an apple
is less important
that its taste.

Come with me. We’ll fly away,
hand in hand, through the wall of the rain,
into the land of many moons floating
beneath the canopy of uncharted constellations.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya