събота, 31 март 2012 г.

Smallman "Labyrinth Of Present"

2 AM.
May.
Some would say the end of spring. Some would call it the beginning of summer.
Whatever. It's a warm night. Much warmer than I remember it.

I was sitting in a 24/7 neighbourhood cafe, which was trying to seem higher-classed than it really was.
The prices were according to what it thought it was, not what it really was, too.
I was waiting for my pint of coffee to cool down enough, so I can start drinking.
Yes. Pint. It was a pint-of-coffee night.

The moment They walked through the door, I knew She'd made her choice.
I knew what we would be discussing.
They kept a short distance between them.
They didn't touch, didn't even look at each other.

They sat down.

I took a sip from my coffee.

I could see them. I could see them together, ten years from now.
I could see Her in the wedding dress I wanted to buy for her.
I could see him in the white suit I wanted to wear.

I could see a little girl, frolicking around.
As pretty as her mother, and with the unruly small curls of her father.
She smiled at me, winked, and then went off to play with some intoxicated patron's phone.

A vision.

We were civilised.
No one screamed. No one shouted.
No one said bad words.
I let You take over, after all.
You've always been good at handling these things.

A pint of coffee and an hour later we were sitting in His car, on our way to The Seeker.
I was wrong. It was a two-pints-of-coffee-and-two-packets-of-cigarettes night.
We said our good-byes.
We wished her happiness.
We were sincere - both you and I.

The Seeker poured us a glass of ouzo and a cup of coffee.
After you told him, as brief as possible, what had happened, we didn't discuss it any more.
There was no need.
Facts are facts.
He knew that, and he's always been good at jingling shiny keys in front of your eyes, so that I can sit down and think.
So I can scream my lungs out and not bother you. Not bother us.

We were adrift on the river of time, rapidly going forward. Always forward.
We decided we should finally craft ourselves a fucking rudder.
We decided we need more coffee.
And that ouzo can taste bearable after all.
It was a two-pints-of-coffee night.
And a go-and-do-your-job morning.

And life went on.

събота, 17 март 2012 г.

Oren Lavie "Her morning elegance"

We slowly open our eyes.
It feels like the weight of the night is still hanging on our eyelids.
Heavy.
Sluggish.
Brutal.

Slowly, with a lot of effort, we roll 180 degrees.
Every part of our body creaks.
Rust begins to fall off our joints and our whole systems feels like someone just wound the springs of a clockwork mechanism so ancient, it should have fossilized by now.

We focus our gaze.
Her hair is messy.
She's rolled herself up like a cocoon.
She looks at us softly.
She smiles.

Her smile.
Pure sunlight.
Burning the mares off of me.
Bathing me in warmth.
Polishing my cogs and gears.
Tightening the springs.

We smile back.
It's a perfect morning.