Pass the moments with the pain of words
Look at your feet, let the clouds wash them with
rain
To remind you of the living
Heat your veins with steel
Be the sword
Cut through
the doubts of the past ...
And don't
kill yourself
More
Never…
In the abyss of fallen doubts
in the
fire of hope
in an effort to conquer yourself,
I part
with the past remains,
with leaves that withered in winter,
to sprout new buds
Bloom my flowers
penetrate
the sadness and tear it apart with your Love
Let new
life arise...
Heart pinched
in the
depths of the vessel, a tin pick hits the temple with a stream,
someone else's consciousness wants to break
in
In me,
inside
Without knowing,
Nothing
else can be known
You're the only one and you don't have to
lose yourself
A sunbeam will go through the consciousness
of longing,
Painting the sky in the colours of bare
nerves,
So that the blackness does not close its
eyes,
Take a
breath and submerge
To fight
yourself
There in
the deep
And conquer
your departed heart
Let a new
scarlet flower grow there...
A couple of lines, face and eyes curled up like big snakes
In the world where the socket is on the plane
of the screen,
Sequins dotted
the face
Waiting for
a little forgetting about yourself
Nothing to say
it exists
Sirens caught
black spots on postcards
They will soon be released in envelopes somewhere
in other countries
Where we are
not
The stain spreads
like a wing,
White cuts into
my heart
Taking the leg out of the gap...
Sit on the thin edge of a branch,
Won't hurt what never was
In reality, it is frozen in fantasy on
small scraps
of paper
To create a
miracle...
Heart in the last beat
It pumps
difficult and unruly blood,
To be able to live in another, to give
What is
gone in the past
Consciousness
has thinned like sand
Light
translucent moments penetrated the curtain
You became
a grey mouse
Retired
into the slot of a dark hole,
To the
world to run paws ...
There is a cup in your hand, and there is black water like the ocean,
Maybe she will
absorb all the sorrows,
Everything that happened before...
My tears have dried
A
transparent package is like a shroud,
Thousands of white scarves are buried there,
like birds.
They did
not fly away, there was no wind
And only
eyes in the distance, her gentle hands
Touching an
almost dead tree
A scarlet drop of blood on the trunk,
As a sign of the death of my soul.
And rustles behind my back,
Puts in a bunch of unnecessary thoughts, lost
happiness,
Alien, from another
I would like to return, but I did not see the
face of the lost
Only a
mask, white as a plane of snow.
Shadows leave blue marks on the transparent curtain and window sill
I drink
bitter tea
And the
taste of orange, sweet and fragrant, remains on my gums and tongue,
Someone is drilling in the house with a drill
on the outside,
Change the cover
But who
will change my failed destiny?
Sometimes I see the future that I want
But I've lost it forever...
blue mug,
sea for me
shells on a
black and dead branch,
A living thing that will also soon die...
Dogs skin
their own soul in life
They are
people in my eyes
I'll cry
for the night to close the inaccessible door,
That no one will open for me
I'll fly
away from a dream like a bird
The warm
and many-sided sun will shine behind the mountain of multi-storey mountains...
The Bus Travels
Flash Fiction Story
by Irina Tall (Novikova)
The bus travels along a muddy road covered
with snow dots. The man in front of me has an unusual black moustache, grey
short hair is knocked out from under a cap shifted to one side, in his hands is
a dark package with a half-erased gold inscription, the fashion for such things
was in the mid-nineties, it was a kind of prerogative attempt to become rich in
poverty, like gypsies who wear unwashed clothes and at the same time have magnificent gold beads, necklaces and rings, an attempt by a poor but rich family
not to lose face in public.
The man is wearing blue jeans, he moved from
the window to another seat, dangled his legs, a lilac shirt and a chequered
scarf are visible under a blue dark jacket, he shifted the package from hand to
hand, straightened his cap, it hung even more on its side.
He tilted his head and the shadow of the cap
hid his eyes, it seems that he fell asleep.
Behind
him is the white face of a girl in round large glasses, she looks like a big
black fly in them, silver and red dreadlocks on her head are intertwined with a
white ribbon of forgiveness. She got up and walked to the exit, picked up a
black backpack and hung it on her left shoulder, behind her an old woman in a
brown coat and a grey beret, they went to an uncleaned stop. Everywhere there
is some kind of secret decay and two children in front, a boy in blue and a
girl in pink, everything is very traditional, the boy makes some strange
inarticulate sounds, he cannot stop and constantly sways. The young man in the
back seat looks up at the grey ceiling, the only clean seat on the dusty bus. I
rise and exit the yellow fortress of reality.
The girl behind the transparent counter in a
sky-blue T-shirt picks up my phone, her delicate white hands have long red
bright nails with sharp tips, like a wild cat, she has dark long straight hair,
silver weaves of wonderful plants and flowers on her ears.
Soft, inaudible pop music plays in the salon,
it stops, howls, the bass guitar comes in and the performer screams and
silence, her voice scares me, bright moments.
There is a silver ring on her finger, she is
probably married, her slightly strained voice constantly explains something...Her face, like a fox, hides and turns around again, she believes that she
is right all the time.
Boundless analogy of being.
I leave
the salon, dark cars with headlights on, sedately large doves, go by me, in the
bustle they are dark like crows.
The
asphalt, wet from salt and snow, mixed into the mud, the pavement tiles became
a single whole, where grey and white mixed.
Large shopping centre, moving accordion doors.
There, on the fourth floor, there is a shop
named after the famous Italian artist. When I go upstairs, I see a lot of
foreign people, but this is not the kind of city that would welcome them with
open arms. Two guys with beautiful oriental black and curly hair.
They pass by the escalator, go around me and
go down, where there are many stalls with delicious food.
A shop, a red entrance and an inscription,
very small, as if it is hidden from visitors.
Inside
are five cash registers, storage boxes and an information desk.
Behind
the third racks are the materials I need, paints for the fabric, I need two
colours red and black and an outline to stroke the details. But there is no
black and instead I buy silver like stars. Let the eyes shine, covered with the
brilliance of the past.
From the next shelf, I take a block of tinted
grey paper, which I use for graphics. The first page is a little wrinkled in
inept hands.
I go to the checkout, behind her is a completely
middle-aged girl, the lenses of her glasses cover her eyes from the world, they
reflect thousands of fragments with brilliance. While punching the goods, her
hands slide over the cover of the folder, and the paints, the only question:
"Do you need a package?", crumble in the colliding reality.
What is lost can no longer be returned, like
my past.
Shop, revolving doors below, the ghost will
not leave this house, the glass will grab it and swallow it forever.
There, many faces and souls crashed against
the walls of soulless stone masks...
Heavenly creatures left this world...
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Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist,
graphic artist, illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic
Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design.
The first personal exhibition
"My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim
Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she devoted a
series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws on anti-war topics. The first
big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species
of animals and birds. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories.
She draws various fantastic creatures: unicorns, animals with human faces, she
especially likes the image of a man - a bird - Siren. In 2020, she took part in
Poznań Art Week.
Links to my social networks:
https://m.facebook.com/profile.php?v=photos&lst=100009868569…
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