Awakened Princess

Remembering, it was about a year ago. I was just-kicked-in-the-ass from my job, with many expectations to find ways to solve this shitty situation and save my family life, but having nothing for real, actually waited for the next kick in the ass to get out of the flat for inability to pay a hire fee. Every morning, when I lied in my bed, woken up starting on the morning with coffee with milk and typing my stories, my horrific, ironical, so called “carnal”, non-published (yet) stories on my note-book, Anna was always lying next to me and looked at me working, she was giving me plenty of inspiring smiles and strange baby-sounds. Most of that time I was thinking about two things – about her life and about – my death.  She is only one whom I can’t let say to me, “You are not strong, you gave up after falling…”

Look at the pic, there are me and my awakened princess on it.

Sleeping Whore

It happened days ago. I was awaken by Shota his home and felt suffer from strong hangover, unbearable hangover. We went to find a 24h shelter for a little eat and many vodka drink. And we found. The most interesting was finding there two girls dressed like whores, drunk, still keeping drinking, more and more and they felt disgust about us at once. One of them was obviously pregnant. We ignored their aversion. It was a dawn and we were too hungry and thirsty to think of anything else.

After a couple portion of vodka I turned my head to them and saw very poetic scene: one of them, the pregnant one was sleeping deep, legs spread and the right hand put right on the vagina, as if she was keeping there all the treasure of her life. She was sleeping beauty, sleeping whore beauty. She was looking like my poem. I pictured her secretly from the other people. After sunrise they left. We left also and that night I vomited a lot. Next day, I woke up with strong pains in my stomach…

and I’m still sick.

Sitting cross-legged

Sitting cross-legged in the veranda of a morning café
You can only think about a lack of hard-rapes
at your over-fortieth
and it makes you feel totally collapsed
and fills your nose with the smell of rotten melon in a fridge
or a dead rat in a basement
or you think even about your
split personality
and as much you think about it
as hard you press your crossed legs
against each other
you get nervous.
It’s tiresome.
And whatever you think about
Cross-legged
These moments you always know
The truth
You are right.
Even only one well-done hard-rape
Can change your mood
Stimulate you to living
And change your thoughts
And approach towards your age
Towards dark sides of human beings
Towards wars
And even homeless street kids

Edited by Emily Haight

Fairy Burcu

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I thought
Istanbul is getting so small and small now
It’d place even on your stomach
And I could kiss its ground
till streets lead me at your chest
or arms
or at your mouth
as at an abyss
you’d take breath
and I’d fall there,
keep falling,
endlessly.
Bucu.
Z.

I wrote this poem for her after leaving for homeland, – getting back to Georgia from four days of beautiful word-express event.
It was in Istanbul in 2010.

At the corner table of a terrace cafe girl in sunglasses was sipping tea while sitting alone.
She smiled at me.
I sat next to her.
Her name was Burcu.
Turned out we both loved fairy tales.
She was sitting at the table all alone.
So she is Bucu and writes fairy-tales.

I told her my story, how as a kid reading too much fairy-tales my mother though of me as having some kind of psychological disorder and how she fought with my longing for reading fairy tales, a harmful habit of mine. She thought I would either go mad or blind because of this whole reading issue. I could feel Burcu was sensitive to my story. It made her smile with pleasure.

At “Nazim Hikmet Cultural Centre” they made writers menu which they offered to costumers with the regular menu. So the point was that the costumers could order our names along with tea or anything else. We had to “serve” the tables that ordered us by reading our works to them in our native language. Our translator would translate the work in Turkish.

Burcu was sitting next to me as translator. When we finished reading the man who ordered me started talking about Georgia. He told Burcu that this is the country that looks like heaven. Burcu asked, in what ways? The nature and the people. Then he added that he planned to travel to Georgia several times but his wife wouldn’t let him go- she thought that women were way too pretty there and was afraid to loose the guy. Burcu looked at me when hearing these words.

When I last saw her, I told that I’d get sad without her, and she said “I don’t believe”.
She looked me in the eyes and i felt she was waiting for my reaction. I felt she was waiting for me to explain why I would miss her and what I was carrying from her to my hotel room every day after our meetings. I did want to explain, but her bus arrived very quickly. I had plenty of things to tell her that evening. Plenty of exciting things and words of warmth, but she disappeared into the bus. That was the last bus and she couldn’t miss it. So we had to say Goodbye real quick.

I haven’t seen her since than. It is sad. I often remember her, She was beautiful, I hope that we meet again if there exist Gods of kindness. Ever, somewhere and she would tell me how she doesn’t like my poems, somehow she doesn’t like them.

Rock Club Performance

In february, 2011, I had one more performance in Rock club. There piled TV and unknown documentary film director to get some materials about me. They asked me to make something unusual, scandalous, carnal…
“do it as you always do.” they said.
All of them, director, club manager, whole audience were begging to take my pants off and show them my… You guess what. I’d accidentally done it on my previous performance in the same club and now people came to see the same nude show by me. Even journalist came to see it, my astonishment was out of any borders, felt myself porn star. I had used to think society promptly forgets this kind of “scandals”, but no, I’d been deeply mistaken. I confused.
Though, despite I was drunk enough to be allured by the idea, I did not do it. kept on reading my poems, holding the audience and everyone in disappointment. I’m not a jester or a porn star, maybe unfortunately but still.

reading “Midnight Dance For Cancer”.

But in the end of the evening Robi Kukhianidze, undisputed patriarch of Georgian punk music suddenly came up on the stage. We did really original and interesting performance together that was much better then any nudes could be by me. (but some people still disagree it)

Me and Robi performing

Anna’s Judicious Vomit

When my daughter was turning to 40 days old, my in-laws fucked up my mind, compelling to christen her. Before getting married I explained my wife my approach towards religions, religious and especially Georgian orthodox church. But my in-laws, they never calm down. They were proving me my daughter will go to hell “if something goes wrong with her”. WTF, my daughter, my little princess, she does not recognize even herself in the mirror, doesn’t know what is her leg when watching it moving in front her face. And there exist people in the world absolutely convinced she’ll go to hell, “if smth”. I’ve been contradicting for months, explaining it as her choice, her right to make rational decision after growing up. But finally they decided to do it without me. They took her to fucking ugly priest with monstrous appearance and christened her, hang wooden cross on her tiny chest and came back fanatically happy of it. That’s how religions and religious people keep to be repulsive to the ones like me. They never leave you a freedom of choice. Never.
And one day Anna seemed surprisingly clever to my to vomit on the cross.
(see the pic)

Memorable Birthday Party

At my birthday party two years ago, we drank gallons of vodka and started singing songs despite we’d known the melody or not. Then we went out for some more vodka and then again and again, singing and going out to buy more vodka. It looked like we were going to drink whole reserved vodka in the world and sing each song to each toast. But unfortunately nights don’t last so long to fulfill even such a beautiful intentions. We failed. We went to another place and kept dancing until sunrise. We were drunk and sleepless guys dancing to the sun for coming out, like old, little Japanese Gods dancing for Amaterasu to get her out from damned cave she’d been hiding in.

Pavle, Tedo, Alex on my b.d party

This is how I do it

I usually wake up at 11.30 then go for shower. After that I drink weak coffee with milk and smoke half of a cigarette. Then start off reading a book, book must be interesting preferably story about suicide or written by an author who’d committed suicide or by the one which had suicidal inclinations, because it inspires. I do it horizontally  positioned. It lasts an hour. Then go to eat my favorite boiled eggs. And after these all procedures, after finally finishing my pissy things and everything, only after that -

I sit to write a poem.