Tag: death

Always a breed of life

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

The day I died would be the first day of my life.
After all, a man’s life never truly begins
until he reaches the climax of his story,
or so the scriptures say.

I guess mine begins with a smell, and believe me,
enuresis is no laughing matter, at least not when you are twelve
and have to survive three weeks at a scout camp
while your first crush lives in the next tent.

If memory serves, it was also around that time
that I started taking liberties with certain parts
of my body. But it doesn’t really matter,
because one day you will bury this skeleton
of feeble memories with me.

The day I died would be the first day of my life
as you know it.

Regrets

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

Does six miles on a bike count as a passing grade
in the arithmetic of cookies and pebbles,
or is it just plain old me trying to pretend
that it doesn’t matter how much my body can take,
as long as your smile covers the fundamentals
of cruelty—thanks to Niépce and the Lumière brothers
keeping alive the taste of cheap tinned peaches
served on peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast
with a cup of rooibos tea, already cold
and somewhat salty?

I always liked watching you undress,
but we never talked, and you would often laugh
at my sudden lack of confidence every time our eyes met.
Perhaps that was the problem, and now that all that’s left
easily fits under the crumpled sheet, it’s too late
to repeat the absent words, at least until I relearn the language
of picnics and mint chocolate—a rather meagre price
for indulgence.

An oil painting showing a man looking thoughtfully at the sea

To stay determined to breathe

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Who is to judge if I’m wasting my life?
As far as nature is concerned,
I have already fulfilled my sole purpose
by passing on my genes.
Now all that’s left is to sustain my body
to the very end, whenever that may be.
All the rest is fodder that I convinced myself
I needed to stay determined to breathe:
buy a book, read a book, go to the beach,
tell someone you wish you loved them
no more.

Surreal watercolor painting showing a sad man sitting with a cup of coffee on a bench under giant flowers

The happiest person

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

You are allowed to be happy.
I got this from a film, since, strangely enough, no one ever told me that.
I guess everyone assumes it’s a given, like being infatuated with actresses
(I’m somewhere between the Tilda Swinton and Charlotte Gainsbourg phases).
But this whole idea seems a bit sketchy—bedridden, if I may say so.
I have long suspected that of all the things that make up
our meticulous, hand-woven everyday lives, nothing matters more to us
than the pursuit of happiness, and yet all we get are bus tickets,
bank statements, cartes du jour, bills supposedly paid on time, detailed itineraries,
and the like. Is that why the happiest person I’ve ever known
was a diener?

A watercolour picture showing a man and a child writing on a blackboard

The screech of chalk

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

If we mourned our birth, would we smile
at our funeral?

Look at us
standing in front of the blackboard,
diligently noting all the knick-knacks
that make up our daily routine.
Nothing but chalk dust.

We can’t even order ourselves some rain,
let alone find someone really nice
to listen to La Vie en Rose—no wonder
the soufflé is too soggy tonight.

If we mourned our birth, would we break
through the shrill screech of chalk?

A watercolor painting with a surreal man sitting at a screen displaying a woman

A one-night stand

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Everyone has a need to matter, even if only for a little while,
and sometimes we can be oddly specific,
like when you mentioned a certain Morris Minor
parked on the corner of King Street and Merkland Road
while asking if I would look at you again in the morning.
Then you turned off the bedside lamp, so I couldn’t see you
wondering if this would sound different in French or Pirahã.
I guess melancholia is the word, but only if neither of us
is bold enough to point out the fact that we are both twisting
the meaning of repentance. Perhaps it’s not so much regret
for what we’ve done, or even fear of what might happen to us
because of it, as an attempt to feel something, anything
—anything at all.

Pencil sketch - skinless men walking in a line

Watching from the sidelines

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Life always seemed to be outside the realm of our expertise,
and as unrepentant as one can be, we thrived on the idea
that any seemingly genuine feeling other than all the anguish
that one could muster would turn out to be nothing but a façade,
so instead we have been collecting stains since time immemorial
and, ever eager for a gaze into the abyss, continue to do so.
But what’s most bizarre is that we truly intend to celebrate
our forlorn retirement as if we were mere spectators
in this panopticon.