My Twitter

Status

boringweetbird


So, for some reason I’ve decided to make a Twitter account, even though I have no idea how that platform works, and I really don’t have the time or the nerves to read about that. There are simply more important things to read about.

That is why I’ve decided to make an account and just write some stuff there. See what happens. Mostly really bad jokes. So if you are interested and/or like bad jokes, please visit: https://twitter.com/loretnamm

Doctor’s office

Laughing doctors meme


I

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!

II

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!”

III

“You have to go to this MD.”

Alright.

“Please, go there.”

Okay.

“We need your blood.”

Fine.

“More!”

Come on!

VI

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…

V

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.

THREE

the_glass_desert_by_noahbradley

The Glass Desert by Noah Bradley.


Here is another poem from Oblivion Corpus.

*

You walk about your desert
Always trying hard to avert
Afraid to stay in one place
To disrupt your wicked dance.


Refusing to completely cease
You do traverse the sill
However you leave behind
All your hopes and true mind.


The suffering is deep within
You’re not letting anyone in
To do what you long for and miss
And then say you do not wish

To let yourself off your leash.

September

15541409_376768759326070_7825553307591737798_n

Here is a poem featured in CalendArt by the Balkan Writers Project. They also organized the Belgrade Poetography Exhibition last year, which I’ve already mentioned here. And, as last year, the promotion was fun and creative, a great experience!


Rustles — feverish, sore
Whistling — chronically loud
Eyes closed,  September strides
overtaking what came before.

Weeps — rainy sweat
Whines — stormy breath
Embraced by nature rushes forth.
Who knows where it wants to go.

In a raincoat, looking at the sky,
I’m wondering: Will it arrive?

 

ONE

IMG_3016

Mom’s dandelions.

This poem is oppening to Oblivion Corpus I wrote a while back.


We were strange dandelions
Little, yellow and extraneous
Wind blew followed by a ray of sun
So we became merged as one.

Cursed be that whiffing
Destiny’s thread is pulling
When nature goes on spree
And completely eradicates thee.

In your turmoil you’re not vain
Although in lack of that ochre mane
For I was just about to bourgeon
To me the world wasn’t a burden.

The roots interweave
From confinement no relief
Did what you thought was right
To cut down before we start

My part.