Tomic Riter

Tag: poetry

  • A morning beginning.

    Poem by Tomic Riter.
    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

    Just a little poem I wrote on instagram this morning. If you are there, I would love to connect.

    Click here to visit my Instagram account.

  • Only losers come to bars on thursdays.

    only losers come to bars on thursdays

    losers we

    no waiting for friday night

    or saturday evening

    I occupy my favorite cabin

    cabin number 26

    and order a frozen bottle

    of Budweiser Magnum

    What a liquid!

    What a mood I am in!

    volcanic,

    close to eruption

    outside the cabin, men sitting

    on chairs and shouting

    at the television that is turned off

    LOSERS

    WE

    each one of us sitting here

    right now,

    trying to calm down

    or gear up and burst.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Don’t hear the godmen singing.

    In deep night, godmen are singing hymns, shouting verses. God must be a deaf creature. But what to tell these men? You can tell God something, but you can’t tell these men. It’s so ridiculous to even think about telling them anything. You say a word to them and it’s already a joke, a waste of time. You only wish that they stopped shouting. I wish only that as of now. I can’t even tell where they are sitting. Everything is just so dark and chilled at this hour of night. Chilled is fine. I do not wish for a sun. I would rather wish for snow and plane crash. That would be something worth watching here – a jet coming down from sky right into my bungalow, putting me on fire first and then everything else, and while that happens, a snowfall to melt away my blood and tissues and make for a clean, fresh space.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Moonrising.

    idly rotating along with everything

    how beautiful – moon rising

    nobody else watching

    nights like these won’t be coming

    from deep red to orange

    to the final golden

    the sound of water dripping from a pipe

    cool breeze accompanying

    I imagine your body over mine,

    crawling.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • That evening or whatever that was.

    Not even an hour passed since I fell in bed. Unbelievable! I woke up too early. But it was evening outside. It won’t be less a couple of hours before I started feeling the need to leave my home and go out to somewhere; to where, I couldn’t know. That would have killed the fun. In fact, why know anything beforehand? No fun in knowing. Let there be an accident or something at some random time. Let me break down at some odd hour. I would have understood that easily, I would have even laughed at it but knowing something beforehand would instantly turn me off. I never believed in fate. I didn’t believe in anything. That was me, trying to kill choices. That evening or whatever that was, I got up from bed, took a leak, and remembered the time when I was smoking cigarettes. That is not to say that I had given up smoking. I give up nothing. Only I didn’t feel the need to smoke. But that evening, while taking a leak, I must have felt the need of something terrible happening, otherwise the thought of smoking a cigarette wouldn’t have crossed my mind. I walked back to my bed, opened the window, looked at my garden. How beautiful it was, how dry, deteriorating. I was wearing nothing, didn’t feel the need to wear anything, and I was typing words after words and that felt good.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • On my upcoming debut novel.

    Crossed 7000 words in my first novel’s draft. I have wasted a lot of days by not writing enough. But then , what is enough? How much will be enough? How to define the word ‘enough’ when it comes to writing. I have no idea and I got no will to define it. Sometimes, writing happens a lot. Sometimes, it doesn’t happen a lot. I guess that’s it. That’s how I can put it.

    Also, I renewed my wordpress account today. That means I have completed a year here with this website. It has been great! Met some really good writers. I thought all the good ones have died, I was convinced of it. But no, few are still out there doing a great work. I really thank you for it.

    On my novel, I guess it would be genre-less. I write on life and I write as I live. I am not a great story teller but I can surely tell a hell lot of lies. I guess that’s what it would take to finish the first draft.

    Wherever you are, have a good time!

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • I had a dream.

    I had a dream. Well, fuck it. It’s been a long time. I have been drunk so much since then. One bottle after another. One night after another. One song and then another. Nothing ends. Everything is on repeat. The food, the people, the bars, the cities, the roads, the beer cans. Everything. How would you like a table next to mine? You might like it. But were you here, you wouldn’t have a choice but to hate it. It’s like that. Life without choice. Zero from birth to death, from death to rebirth, from rebirth to another cycle of bondage and torment. How would you like that? You wouldn’t, I guess. It’s like that. You liking this and disliking that and in the end, you die. I am dead anyways and still drunk.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • From my red room.

    From my red room. Dirty as hell and unattended. The only light before my midnight. The only songful haven in this goddamn graveyard where not a grass grows. This is my red room and I come alive here and fall dead here almost every day. My disgraceful coffin inside which I lie and I lust for you and twist and turn in your absence. You light me on fire and run away to your video conference or an interview. I wait for you and your errands to end. I wait for you. I kiss you a million times inside my head. I kiss you here and then I kiss you there and in no time, I am kissing you everywhere. My red room keeps glowing brighter. It is open for you all days of the year, all hours of the day, all years of my life.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • All 700 days of my life.

    It’s the same road, only more damaged. I am heading on the same route and coming back via the same route. It’s the same dust rising and settling down and, the next morning, rising again. It’s the same people greeting me in the noon, the same tea in the evening, the same foolishness all day. The same men occupying the same chairs, breaking the same desks, laughing at the same jokes. The same people asking for silly favours, the same people farting egos, the same people screaming for nothing worthwhile. The same sky with nothing but clouds and a handful of rain. All the seven hundred of my life and I cannot differentiate any one from any other.

  • Not so late.

    We could make love right now, right here. Right here and now in this little den of mine wherever nobody ever comes and only I am the one leaving. We could make love right here and now, only if your were here and I weren’t alone under the stars, staring right up, waiting for the sky to tear up like a whore and all the rotten cum to spurt out and run down and out of my sight and out of this world. We could make love right now in my chair but you aren’t here. You are buried under files, or you are losing your shit somewhere or battling another headache on your own. I wish I were there but I am here, wishing you here instead. I look around. Not a man. Not a dog. It’s so quiet. Utterly quiet. We could make love right here and now and break this quietness.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.