photo : Kateřina Štefelová
Късането на цветя е начинът на човека, да краде красотата от всичко. Обикаляме света сами, докато реалността ни срязва на две в новата публикация на Ерик Давидков.
A PLACE WHERE WE CAN MEET
After months of spending time together,
I noticed you changed the way you laugh,
it sounded a lot like mine, mimicking
the highest and lowest pitches.
It became apparent that we had adapted
our mannerisms, rather selfishly,
we echoed each other,
even in our pathetic little talks.
We would talk about politics, right and left,
our views had contrasted, but now met
somewhere around the wrong middle,
and we started going backwards.
We didn’t have the time to agree
on how much of yourself you leave
and how much of me you take,
we just assumed and took what was left.
Then we both became mute,
but only for each other, left in the aftermath,
a silence, limited to our ears only,
at first unnoticeable, then unbearable.
It’s like taking a hike to our favorite spot
and seeing a hole where the lake used to be.
When you spoke of the Sun, warmth and flowers,
your face would light up and reflect the shine onto me.
Let’s talk about something as boring as the weather,
and the weather is beautiful today.
COMPOSITION: SPACE NUDITY
for Andrzej Czajkowski
When Andrzej lost his head to a production of Hamlet,
his mother lost her memory of his birth,
she never remembered that he had existed.
When she went to a production of Hamlet
by accident, the actor turned the skull towards her,
she knew it looked familiar but couldn’t remember.
Wave to her, she is always listening, but Andrzej couldn’t,
as he had been long gone, but appeared in her dreams,
as a stranger, someone she couldn’t quite figure out.
It’s funny how people lose things that are invisible,
like their minds or memory, Andrzej said to his mother,
you haven’t lost me, I’m scattered, but here.
In her dreams, he would play the piano and she would watch,
Concerto for piano, Space Nudity, I am the wind and cries,
you’ll know it someday, unlike other concertos,
this one isn’t for God, it’s for you.
Sometimes the caterpillar stays in the cocoon
longer than it needs to. Maybe because it’s difficult
changing into something completely different,
something new. Maybe it is comfortably numb
in the state between its last breath as one thing
and its first one as the next. Maybe it is the fear
of saying goodbye to what it knows best.
Much like people, living in a shell of own,
studied in biology classes on fig.1 and fig.2,
bodies, living, breathing, striving for the ubermensch,
constant neuro-klepto-manifestation of the self,
constant replacement of cells, hairs, skin,
maybe it is to do with sadness and nostalgia
and the way it affects the human brain,
but much like caterpillars, people are afraid
of goodbyes to the known, the own, the shell.
The last people – the idiots, the sick, the insane
and matter –
They don’t have to live their lives being afraid of goodbyes.
Chances are the goodbyes are never going to stop.
Our parents walk alone.
Our parents walk together.
Our parents walk us.
We walk together.
We walk our parents.
We walk alone.
ERASE HER HEAD
There is nobody here, except for the woman with the hat,
and I leave my socks behind to join her in the water.
We meet halfway between the deep and shallow,
there is no sun, but moonlight, no heaven in sight.
We move towards the reflection of Méliès moon,
it accepts us, naked, changing, swallows us whole.
Before she leaves, I want to bring the Sun back,
so that the day starts again, so that I enter again.
I can control the weather with my moods,
but I can’t control my moods at all.
I am a Jesus crisis, James Dean the cricket,
I click, like a pistol, click, click, cli-
She knows this, then walks over to me,
tells me she is here until I erase her from the page.
I can control her story with my moods;
I can’t control her story with my moods.
This happiness won’t last, I assume.
I begin to worry.
This will do me no good.
I begin to accept reality. It cuts me up.
for Luis Buñuel
when you were held and passed around,
when nothing really mattered,
and everything you felt was new, remember
when your body tingled,
as your mother hummed the song
that became your own, remember
when you first drew blood,
how it dripped like honey,
remember, body, remember
when you held a hand,
how different it felt to all other hands,
because you loved another body, remember
when you were stretched, tattooed,
how nails scratched your back,
because of passion, remember
when you went inside another body,
to plant bad seeds, leave, then come back,
how it felt to love, body, remember
when you heard your song in a dream,
stored in the subconscious, your mother’s voice,
how much you need her, remember
when you were old, lost all memory,
a vaudeville act with no trunk,
how sexless & careless you were, remember
when harvesting teardrops,
you dreamed about leaping over heaps of sleeping children,
praying you could move again, remember
when they prepared you for the dirt nap,
with velvet cushions around you,
and soil knocked hard on wood, remember
when you were laid to rest,
trapped in amber, surrounded by few,
who will forever hum your song, remember
when the song became an echo,
when they never came back,
when all feeling had gone,
when you stepped away,
and let the world turn
 Robert Andrzej Krauthammer was born in Warsaw in 1935. He had shown musical talent from an early age, and his mother, an amateur pianist, was teaching him the piano when he was four years old. Despite his success as a pianist, André Tchaikowsky’s greatest passion was composition. He wrote a Piano Concerto, String Quartet, a setting of Shakespeare’s Seven Sonnets for voice with piano, a Piano Trio and several compositions for piano solo. He completed an opera, The Merchant of Venice, based on Shakespeare’s play. Tchaikowsky died of colon cancer at the age of 46 in Oxford. In his will he left his body to medical research, and donated his skull to the Royal Shakespeare Company, asking that it be used as a prop on stage. Tchaikowsky hoped that his skull would be used for the skull of Yorick in productions of Hamlet. For many years, no actor or director felt comfortable using a real skull in performances, although it was occasionally used in rehearsals. In 2008, the skull was finally held by David Tennant in a series of performances of Hamlet at the Courtyard Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon.
Списание „Нова асоциална поезия“, бр. 14, септември, 2018