Operational Absence


Designed by Mary Matshine aka Marija Mrvošević.

Hi Everyone-who-reads-this,

I am back… It’s not like I went far, just to the hospital. But, more on that later.

Here’s a poem as a little tease for what is to come. That being an entire NEW Corpus titled (probably) The Peninsula of Healers. The poems are awaiting translation. By moi. So… it will take a while. 😅

Also, you guys are the first ones ever (well, except my mother) to see a part of the cover page for that new corpus I’ve mentioned.
If you like Groups of Poems in general, here are some other options: Wings, Oblivion.

Had a pokey day.
They stabbed my gut,
Released the pain,
No vein left untouched.
All is well now,
Without the blind part.
This ─ a matted spark,
A stingy start.

Don’t forget to like, comment and share!

And, as always, happy reading.

Mary Matshine

My Other Blog


Hi Everyone-who-reads-this,

This here, Right Here (do I need to put an arrow? no? you are fine? yes. good) is my Other Blog. In Serbian. Because, as Mr Grozdich always says, you should speak a language other than *insert a language here that is not the one mentioned previously*.

If you enjoyed my works here you will have a blast with the ones featured there. It is basically the same, just in Serbian. So, if you can’t read the awesome letters presented there, just pretend. In time, you will be able to. It is not so hard. 😊

Don’t forget to like, comment and share! (if you do you shall receive an Awww, or in Serbian an Ањњњ, from me; it will come silently, carried through the wind of awesomeness and thankfulness) :Џ :П

And, as always, happy reading!

Mary Matshine / Марија Мрвошевић

Photo OBsession…s


Hi Every-one-who-looks-at-these,

A sneak peek at some photos a Friend and colleague took of me. Such art, much professional!

I felt like I would need them for this blog; my Portfolio (these are links; just an FYI) as well, and other business stuff I don’t know about. 😅

Don’t forget to like, comment and share!

And, as always, happy reading/watching/painting/general-art stuff 👮📚🌭‍!

Mary Matshine


My Post

Thank you, Nata Li!


My thanks!




A hint.


Hi, Everyone-who-reads-this,

I just wanted to take a moment and give my deepest thank-you’s to all of you who are there for my posts, who wait patiently (we all know how inconsistent with publishing posts I can be) and who still take the time to read and like, even sometimes comment.

So, once more, THANKS!

I’ve got a big surprise for you!

To show my gratitude I will offer all of my current and future followers a signed online copy of… wait for it…!

Don’t forget to like, comment and share  (oh, why not, you can like this one FYI — as if you haven’t done that on previous ones 😀 )

And, as always, happy reading!

Mary Matshine

The Mynah [Video Reading, for your convenience]


Hello, Everyone-who-reads-this,

Here is the VIDEO edition of my newest poem The Mynah, inspired by the great Edgar Poe. I hope you will endure until the end. There is a little firework-surprise there for you! It’s mignificent!

I found a semi-volunteer to read my poem. Thank you, Rod, Mike, or any other generic text reader name. Please, thank him as well, it’s hard work. Imagine having to hang out all day on a website, without being paid? Being used, clicked on, forgotten. Poor guy. Send your love to him. [a disclaimer: he is not a real person if anyone missed that].

If anyone missed the link up above: TAKE ME TO THE RUDE MYNAH

Be bold. Comment, share, like.

Tell me your opinions, I’d love to hear them.

If you would like more videos like these, do tell, because depending on the likes and request, I will or will not make them.

Cheers, and, as always, happy listening!

Mary Matshine


The Mynah

Hi everyone-who-reads-this,

First of all, I want to thank everyone who reads my humble writings. This is because I know some of you may want to stay away from that after you read the following poem, which is not entirely written by me.

Second, I have to emphasize just how much I love the writer and the poem this one is satirically parodying. This is because I know that out there are some gentle flowers who get easily offended.

Thirdly, I hope that, despite all I’ve said above, you still like this work which was in my thought for quite some time, and today it is finally realized.

A disclaimer: I am not aware of similar works, nor do I associate with them. I haven’t checked if there are any, because, well, I’m kind of lazy, and, I think this one differs, at least somewhat.

Enjoy the poem. Don’t forget to like and share.

I would love to hear your thoughts on it. Have I stayed true to the original? Do you find it literary blasphemous? Does it strike a nerve? Do tell.

And, as always, cheers and happy reading!

Mary Matshine





Once upon a midnight boredom, while I nodded, high and sordid,

Over many a naked and morbid ladies of  The Hefner’s Hall —

While I nodded, nearly rapping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently… tapping, tapping at my bedroom door.

„Tis some visitor,“ I uttered, „tapping at my bedroom door —

          Only this and nothing more.“


Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the warm September;

And each separate crying treble wrought its rhythm on the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow

From my Mac surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Backdoor —

For the rare and radiant sphincter whom the angels named Backdoor —

          Nameless here for evermore.


And the silken, rad, uncertain rustling of one yellow curtain

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic tremors never felt before;

So that now, to still the greetings of my organ, I stood beating

“Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my bedroom door —

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my bedroom door; —

          This it is and nothing more.”


Presently my pole grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “Madam, or Whatever —  your insecurities I ignore;

But the fact is I was… napping, and so gently you came tapping,

And so faintly you came rapping, rapping at my bedroom door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

          Darkness there and nothing more.


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, dreaming,

Doubting, squeezing squeezes no mortal ever dared to squeeze before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Backdoor?”

This I whispered, and a roommate murmured too, “Backdoor!”—

          Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the bedroom turning, all my blood within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my part be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

          “Tis the wind and nothing more!”


Open here I flung the shutter with many a splintered clutter, when

In here stepped ignoble Mynah of the nowadays of snore;

Not the least obeisance made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a chest of J. Love’s just above my chamber door—

          Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this bluish bird beguiling my lad-fancy into smiling,

By the knave and kern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and spiny, thou,” I said, “art sure so whiny

Vastly fat and recent Mynah wandering from the Copy shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Copy’s Pastonian shore!”

          Quoth the Mynah “Pay for More.”


Much I marvelled this banning fowl to hear discourse in planning,

Though its answer little granting — little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door —

Bird or beast upon the sculptured breasts above his chamber door,

          Without the name “Pay for More.”


But the Mynah, sitting lonely on the titillated teats, spoke only

Those words as if her soul with those words she sold long ago.

Nothing farther then she muttered — not a feather then she fluttered —

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before —

On the morrow she will leave me, as my Whores have flown before.”

          Then the bird said, “Pay for More.”


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some gleeful merchant whom unmerciful Production

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that enthusiastic burden bore

          Of ‘Free to — Pay for More’.”


But the Mynah still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bosom and door;

Then, upon the pleather sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of snore —

What this knave and kern, fat, and ominous bird of snore

          Meant in croaking “Pay for More.”


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose watery eyes now starred plainly into my chest’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s pleather lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose pleather-beige lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

          She would press if I, ah, paid for more!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-balls tinkled on the linoleum floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy god hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Backdoor;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and give me this lost Backdoor!”

          Quoth the Mynah, “Pay for More.”


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Populated and all daunted, on this plentiful land enchanted —

On this home by Money haunted — tell me truly, I implore —

Is there — is there balm in Dogecoin? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”

          Quoth the Mynah, “Pay for More.”


“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends beneath us — by that god we both adore —

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a tainted maiden whom the angels name Backdoor —

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Backdoor.”

          Quoth the Mynah, “Pay for More.”


“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Copy Pastonian’s shore!

Leave no blue plume as a token of that dread thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bewbs above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

          Quoth the Mynah, “Pay for More.”


And the Mynah still is sitting, bill is sitting, still is sitting

Upon the valid chest of Love, just above my chamber door;

And her eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er her streaming throws the shadow on the floor;

And white soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

          Shall be li… Pay for More!


1. Original: THE RAVEN, Edgar Allan Poe (my first literary love, a big influencer of my writing, and a truly awesome innovative king of American Romanticism)



Postmodernistic Love

Hello Everyone-who-reads-this,

No, this is not the third part of my novel, this is a new short story I’m currently working on. I will post a part of it that functions as its own story, I hope.
Don’t forget to like and share.

I would like your thoughts on it.
Did anything like this ever happen to you? (I mean, it probably did, but, you know, give us all the juicy details.)

And, as always, cheers and have a good laugh!

Mary Matshine


Photo by Ferdinand Stöhr on Unsplash.


They met on a clear fall morning.

He was in a hurry to get to work, scolding himself for forgetting his phone there.

She was on her morning run, sweat pouring down her back and from beneath her breasts; music filling her mind. The park was bright but almost empty. Just the two of them, and an occasional runner, dog walker, postman.

„Excuse me, miss?“ he approached her, his breathing heavy from interrupted jogs.

She didn’t hear him but saw that he was coming closer. Stopping, she pulled a headphone out and smiled.

„Yes?“ her breathing was rhythmic.

„Do you know the time?“ he smiled, aware how weird he must seem to her. A man, dressed in a dog costume, with disproportionately large head under his arm.

She checked a multi-purpose gadget on her wrist. It tells her how fast she is running, how far she ran, her heartbeat, and, of course, the time.

„It’s quarter to eight.“

„Oh, man.“ He bit his lower lip, mad at himself. „That’s it. I’ll lose the job now, for sure.“

Her eyebrows raised.

„I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want some water? It must be a million degrees under that thing.“

He looked at her. Her short hair was in an awkward pony-tail, it reminded him of those dogs with their tails cut off. A single strand was hanging loosely across her left eye. Her breasts were moving up and down, slowly; the shirt under them was soaked. He glanced at her entire body. It was curvy, her skin firm and clean. He smiled.

She was holding out a bottle of water, looking at him expectantly.

„Oh. Thanks.“ He drank almost all of it. She found that amusing, but he apologized, and yet, drank what was left. She returned the bottle to a holder fastened to her thigh. He suddenly felt the suit getting even tighter than usual.

„Don’t be embarrassed. It’s fine. There’s a fountain nearby.“ Her voice was melodic, she pronounced every word fully and easily.

His face blushed.

„No, no. It’s not…“ Unsure of what to say, he just shrugged and let his words fade.

„I’m Katie.“

Her grip was firm, confident. His awkward, furry. They laughed.

„Well, John, shouldn’t you be off to work?“

„I guess there’s really no point now. Although, I do need to get my phone…“ He looked in the direction of the building which had a small questionable vet clinic in its basement.

His brows were close together, almost touching, so he looked like he was in deep thought. She liked that. She also liked how his jaw clenched, tightened, revealing his lean neck muscles. He was not a beautiful man, but a dark line beneath his eyes that made him look like he was wearing eyeliner, his unkempt beard, messy locks of hair springing in all directions, all of it made him look innocent and fun. It could all be because of his costume, sure, but the first impression was unerasable.

„You know what? The fuckers can wait.“

She smirked. He gestured to a bench, and they sat down. Immediately, he jumped up. She jerked and looked at him befuddled.

“Do you want some coffee? I should get some coffee. How do you take it?”

“Um. Sure… Black, no sugar.”

“Black, no sugar. Got it. Be right back.”

He almost ran off, tripping over his suit. Realizing he still had the head tucked under his arm, he returned and tossed it on the bench. She laughed.

When he got to the nearest coffee place, he decided he couldn’t return to her dressed as a fluffy Golden Retriever. So he hurried to the bathroom by the dazzled and confused looks of the employees and customers. He didn’t know what to do with the suit, once he managed to get out of it, becoming aware that he misses his colleague who always helped him with the suit, and, that he hates that place which hosts a secret fight club in the even lower level of the building.

The bartender called: “Jack and Kitty!” But John was in the back, stuffing his suit in a container. He understood he would probably have to go back to the clinic/fight club and realized one good thing — no one can call and bother him now. He returned to the shop to the disgruntled looks of the employees, grabbed the hot cups and rushed out.

While he was busying himself with the trash, she took the time to make sure everything is where its supposed to be. She placed the seemingly runaway lock of hair a bit further to the left, added some gloss to her lips, chewed a gum and threw it away, adjusted her breasts so the stuffing wouldn’t hurt her, and all of that while looking at her small black-mirror around her wrist.

Realizing only when he was halfway to the bench that he was wearing shorts and a white tank top, he stopped. This made a little drop of coffee jump out of the cup, pass through a small crack on the lid and land on his shorts. Good, he thought. It didn’t mess up my shirt. And with that, he didn’t care anymore about what he was wearing.

It took her a second to see that a fairly tall, kind of handsome guy walking her way with a coffee cup in each hand was her very own dog-man. She smiled.

“I was just about to leave,” Katie said.

“Oh, no. You would’ve missed the best part!”

“Which is?”

“Here you go, Kitty.” He grinned.

“Oh, well, thanks Ja… Come on! That’s not half as funny.”

“So, what are you up to?” He made himself more comfortable on the bench by creating a pillow out of the dog’s head. He pushed it a bit further, but not too much, so as to make her sit closer. She didn’t bite.

“Now or…?”

“In life.”

“Not much. I’m studying for a chef. And running. Lots of running. Have to stay healthy if I want to eat all of that delicious food.”

“You look great.” When he said it he immediately wondered if it was too soon.

“Thanks.” She smiled and took a sip of her coffee.

“You know” she added, “when I saw you approaching, I thought, well who is that handsome, elegant, professional man” she barely finished the sentence, unable to stop herself from laughing.

He liked her laugh, it was gentle, warm, it didn’t sound mean, just a tease, a little melodic burst of energy.

“I came prepared, my lady. These shorts didn’t iron themselves, no, no.”

They talked and laughed until there was no more coffee to drink, and a bit after. But she had to go to class, and he had a job to be fired from. So they parted ways.

“I hope to ask you for the time soon.”

“And I hope to run into you.” She winked, excessively hard and long. He smiled.

“I would ask you for your phone number, but I’m sure I won’t remember it. Do you happen to have a pen and paper?”

“Aren’t you the art major?”

“Yeah. Haven’t drawn in years, it seems. Anyway, let’s be pathetic. Give me your number, and if I remember it, it is meant to be, if not, well…”

“Oh, you mean cliché? Sure. It’s easy to remember.” And she gave him the number.

They hugged. It was brief. But for them, at that moment, anything was.


“So, you’ve sent her the text?” said a bald, burly man.

“Yeah. Here.”

John showed to a burly, bald man his phone and on it a message that read:


“Dang. You know, let her go. It was two weeks ago. Forget it. Move on.” He took a big gulp of a sparkling golden drink. While he was doing it he looked through the bottom of the glass at his friend. He could make his face longer, and his forehead huge, wide, so he looked like an alien, or he could widen his chin and mouth, so he seemed like a giant. That made him laugh. That always made him laugh.

“Alien?” said John, taking a sip himself.

“Nah. Giant!”

They both giggled and drank some more beer.

“Hey,” bald, burly man said after they’ve finished the glass and John was pouring them more. “Why didn’t you ask for her name?”

John frowned. “I did. It’s Kitty.”

“No, no. Her entire name. So you could facebook her.”

John’s eyebrows raised. “Oh. Damn. Could’ve done that. Should have.”

This time, he took a long toothful of the cold, bitter drink.

Doctor’s office

Laughing doctors meme


It was a month ago,

and I wasn’t feeling well.

My head started burning,

and I had mild chest pain.

I decided not to care,

but my anxiety was stronger,

so I turned to Google,

couldn’t take it any longer!


I tried not to panic,

but I typed WebMD

and there, clear and simple,

said: “You have 99 hits!”

My diagnosis:

“You moron,

go see a doctor,

here you can’t find help!”


“You have to go to this MD.”


“Please, go there.”


“We need your blood.”



Come on!


Hollow metal pin

made me frown.

Yet again the velvety blue

spreads under my skin.

Cold, metal stethoscope

Rubs against my chest.

I’m naked from the waist up

in a sterile room;

and they all say the same,

but really mean:

“We don’t know what is wrong

But surely something is.

So go visit my colleagues,

who will then diminish

everything others said.”

Fuck that.

But I went nonetheless…


And here I sit now,

writing this poem,

not knowing still

if I’m really ill.

The Mechanism of Creation

Universe: Horse Nebula

Hi, everyone. This is something new from me. It’s prose!
“But, where is your poetry?” you ask frightened, uncertain. It’s safe, no one stole it. It’s fine. This is another part of my writing, the other side of the moon, if you will. Unlike the moon’s other side, this one isn’t dark. It’s bright and funny (I guess… it’s funny to me) and cheerful… but, it can be ironic, sarcastic and with just a hint of dark. Don’t let that perturb you, just keep reading, just keep reading… (that Dory is always finding her way into my mind! *holding my fists up in protest*).
So, yeah, this is how it looks like, more or less. If you liked this short intro — well then, thanks, keep on reading, if not — read anyway, the rest is much better, it’s about artists! 😉

Artists are a special bunch of people who have something others don’t.
That something is called a Mechanism of Creation.

Everyone is able to create something, of course. But, this mechanism is a vast network of interconnected elements: thoughts, dreams, experiences (life and reading), imagination, and that little thing called “something”. And in the middle of all of that is a Spark.

No, not the imagination one! Spark of Creativity!

That means:

  • it’s creative (duh);
  • it’s created;
  • it’s alive.

The third one is the most important feature. It means it is susceptible to change. And so It does. So many, many times… until finally It is taken from the center, pushed through the smallest of particles of writer’s soul, concentrating into one tiny dot which then expands into a line, a light, a bolt, a rush through the body… and BAM!… Well actually, it isn’t a “bam” (unless you are a very loud writer), it’s more of a click-clack sound, or if you are old-timey it’s a pshh-hshh-kshh sound. Who knows what kind of sounds other artists make! Well, they do. They know. Ask them.
This Mechanism can be used to explain how all artists work. And that is why we are such a weird bunch, we are not human!

No, of course we are. This is just one of the ways I like to explain how I experience the sensations that happen while I’m coming up with something and writing stuff.