Look what you´ve done to yourself! Just a while ago you were beautifull. A picture of life, lust an happniess. And now look, look what you did to you. Your wonderfull, intelligent eyes, freakishly green, full of curiosity and rouge. Now their dull. Just dull can´t even say more, cowering so far back in your face, like two sunken stars. It really saddens me. Now stop beeing stupid and start drinking coffee again.
As you might have noticed the recent posts all came from the same five on five word combo. This one is the last of those. Got some new words to play with.
Crowing Air:
Crowing air exists. In citys only, but it exists. You can feel it, you can smell, you can taste it and sometimes if the ir got really polluted, you can even see it! Crowing air is shy. You can only experince it after a good summer rain. You know those. It didn´t rain for days, you´ve waited for it, you could feel it comming and after the rain was there, the air is finaly clean. It´s a whole new breathing experience. Take look around, you´ll see people taking deep breaths, smelling the clean an fresh air. It´s like air found it´s salvation it´s like the air is crowing.
Today there will be two posts. Those two are of the category failed yet again, yet not so bad that I would trash´em. As with harmless knife I missed the point of metaphor writing. Did them all at once after a bit of a break. Still here they are.
Ruthless Morning:
Mornings are ruthless. When it comes, it comes to wake you up. Without mercy, with great pleasure and absolutely ruthless. You can´t tell me the morning doesn´t have feelings…I know it likes it, i know it´s a sadist. Why? Easy! Did you ever notice, that you always wake up in the best part of your dreams? Did you ever notice morning always seems the be there a little bit to early…everyday. And did you notice, that morning never seems to last long enough?! The morning is ruthless, the morning loves it, morning is a bitch!
This one was inspired by the story “Harmlose Luft” two posts before. I wrote my own version of it, hence the similarity. I think I might never grow up.
Harmless Air:
It was an evening just like any other. The last person I expected to visit me was her. I just finished my plate of baked beans as the bell rang. Who should it be at this hour?! Of course I thought it was some buddy with beer, so I just strolled over to the door and opened it. And there she was, a young goddess of a woman. I was sure that Lady Helena would look like a hooker next to her.
We just met recently and she actually shouldn´t know where I live.
She had asked around till she found a friend of mine who told her where I lived.
Of course I asked her in, hoping she wouldn´t see how dirty my flat was. I can get desperate sometimes. I went straight for the bath. I never ever brushed my teeth, tidied up my hair and put on deo as fast as at that evening. I even found a used t-shirt which wasn´t as dirty as the one I wear. Before I went out of the bathroom I flushed – damn I´m witty sometimes.
She sat on my couch and waited for me. She even brought a good bottle of wine and asked me if I had some wine glasses. I could smell her across the room. I remembered me of freshly blowing syringa. We were silent as we drank our first few sips of wine out of my beakers. I just wanted lean over and kiss her, as she said: “Fuck it“ sat on my lap and kissed me first.
Thats when it happened. I baked some aircakes.
You bet I didn´t want that. And I bet you know what happened after that. Of course she stopped kissing (I didn´t). She looked at me „Thats disgusting you pig.“ Stood up, took her purse and stormed right out of my flat. I ran after her. I couldn´t her go. It was lookin´ so good for me. I mean really good. My brain worked at as hard as it could in this situation, which obviously wasn´t that much, cause all I could come up to shout after her was:“ But – but it was just - just some harmless air!.“
Never saw her again.
First, as the title my indicate, I wrote harmless knife. Showed it to the friend I mentioned earlier. He told me something which was sadly absolutely right. I missed the point. The aim of metaphor writing is to create a picture of those two words. A picture one might not see at the first glance. If you do that, it helps you to find metaphors for situations, objects or whatever which are surprising and still good.
In harmless knife I just wrote whatever came first into my mind about harmless knife.
Harmless knife 2 is a second try on those to words. I tried to get back to what I eventually want to do with metaphor writing.
Harmless Knife:
Knives are harmless. Really. Absolutely harmless. After all it´s people that kill people and not knives. Knives don´t kill people. Knives are for cutting. You can´t shoot people with knives. Guns shoot people, but not knives. You can´t club people with knives, or that you got – clubs. You can´t strangle people with knives. Hands strangle people, but not knives. You can´t shock freeze people with knives, Nitrogenium does that. See? Knives are harmless.
Harmless Knife 2:
Words spat in spite, accompanied by dishes flying right past my head, you scream at me. Yet every curse you throw, a harmless knife. Why the hell should I care? The oceans big! And sorry to tell you that, but your colors ain´t as bright and shiny as they used to be.
This one is of a friend of mine. Same technique I use, just in German. Enjoy.
Wenn ich zurück denke, kann ich es immer noch nicht glauben. Ich hatte nicht erwartet, dass sie an dem Abend noch vor meiner Tür stehen würde. Eigentlich war ich schon dabei den Fernseher aus zu schalten und den Pizzakarton in den Müll zu werfen, als es auf einmal an der Tür schellte. Die Klingel klang eigentlich wie immer. So als ob sie nicht wüsste wer sie benutzte und aus welchem Grund. Oder sie wusste es und wollte es absichtlich für sich behalten.
Also nichts ahnend slappte ich barfuss, gähnend zur Tür. Als ich den Türknauf umdrehte konnte ich sie schon riechen. Es war dieser vertraute Geruch. Der Geruch, der mich immer runter holte, wenn ich mal wieder gestresst von der Arbeit kam. Genau der Geruch, der meine Sorgen vertrieb, wenn sie in meinen Armen lag. Eben dieser es-ist-alles-in-Ordnung-Geruch. Und da stand sie nun vor mir: Meine Freundin, meine Muse, meine Göttin. Alles wie immer…..dachte ich! Plötzlich begann sie zu sprechen, aber so anders. Doch konnte ich all ihre Laute gar nicht so schnell verarbeiten wie sie ihr aus dem Mund vielen. Ich stolperte schon über ihren 2. Satz: „ Ich weiß gar nicht, wie ich es sagen soll, aber du musst mich verstehen.“ Ab jetzt verstand ich gar nichts mehr, außer ein paar Wortscherben, die sie mit jedem Schritt, den sie in meiner Wohnung machte, fallen ließ. Sie erzählte was von „Freunde bleiben“ und „schwere Entscheidung“, von „mal ne Auszeit nehmen“ und „es liegt nicht an dir“. Aber irgendwas war merkwürdig, stimmte irgendwie nicht. Trotz dieses verbalen Amoklaufes roch die Luft so harmlos wie immer…Als hätte sie nichts von alle dem gemerkt.
„One day, I´ll be a full blown restaurant.“ the dreamy chippy thought. The other chippys laughed at him, but the dreamy chippy clinged to it´s dream. The dreamy chippy had many dreams. It dreamed about a new chip pan. It dreamed about a new cook. It dreamed about getting cleaned some day. And it dreamed about becoming a restaurant. With tables, a good cook, a dish washer, clean toilets - without rats and a waitress. „Yeah a waitress“ the dreamy chippy thought while his tragedy of a cook threw in the next load of chips.
He sat in his car an waited. His hands were sweaty and his heart was beating just a little bit faster than it should. He remembered when he got his first. Back then he wasn´t the big shot he was today. And yet he had already some political weight. It was back then when it started. When he got his first black suitcase. First it felt wrong. He felt guilty about it. But this feeling faded, after the second and third suitcase. What was left was the pleasure, the thrill of the forbidden and the craving for more. As he barked and yapped his way up in the food chain of the hyenas he got more suitcases, more regularly. He got so used to them, he couldn´t go on without them. He barley lived through nights, wandering up and down, waiting, desperately for his suitcase. Sometimes he asked himself, if his decision was wrong, to take the suitcases, but those questions dried out as soon as he got his next suitcase.
They sure took their time today. Where were they? Where was his suitcase? God dammit! He needed this black suitcase. NOW!
As some of you might have noticed…or at least this is my hope. It was silent for the better part of a month. Well that was ehr…well I was writting on somehting bigger, had a trip to the study town of hell and ehr well partyed…a bit…somewhere between that, I lost my brain….and didn´t find it. Well lucky yous if got it back. Soooo so be prepared to get some more tasty and as it was wished by some, shorter mindblasting…eh…Mindblasts?!
Der schwarze Gehwegpfosten stand schräg. An der, der Strasse zugewandten Seite hatte er Dellen und Kratzer. Lack klebte an den Dellen. Der mattschwarze Gehwegpfosten war angefahren worden. Er tat mir leid, wie er da hing. Mit seinen Dellen und Kratzern sah er traurig aus. Als ob er den Kopfhängen lassen würde. Der traurige, mattschwarze Gehwegspfosten sah im Lichte der untergehenden Sommersonne so und erbärmlich aus, dass ich nicht anders konnte als zu ihm zu gehen um zu schauen ob ich ihn nicht gegen alle Erwartung aufrichten könnte. Bei ihm angekommen, strich ich mit den Kuppen meiner Finger über seine klaffenden Wunden. Die glatte, aber dennoch unebene Oberfläche des Pfostens wechselte sich ab mit den scharfen Kanten und den tiefen furchen seiner schrecklichen Erfahrung. Warm, angenehm warm, war der traurige, mattschwarze Gehwegspfosten. Ich stellte mir vor, wie es für den Pfosten gewesen sein musste, als er angefahren wurde. Er hatte es bestimmt kommen sehen. Das Auto, das langsam aber unaufhaltsam auf ihn zu rollte. Immer wieder stoppte es und dennoch rollte es immer wieder ein Stück näher. Bestimmt hatte er versucht es zu verhindern, aber was sollte ein Pfosten denn schon groß machen? Er war ja nur ein Pfosten. Kräftig drückte ich ihn, um ihn wieder aufzurichten, doch vergebens. Ich versuchte es mehrmals, so stark, dass meine Hände anfingen zu schmerzen, doch der Pfosten bewegte sich kein Stück. Zurücklassen musste ich ihn. Und so steht er noch heute da, als Mahnmal einer kleinen Unaufmerksamkeit. Traurig, mattschwarz, manchmal warm, manchmal kalt. unbewegt seit dem Erlebnis, welches seine Welt erschütterte.