unseasonable weather

"and in the end, wise men/ incline, often, to Beauty"

2012-01-06T14:03:00.007+02:00

„there's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. what is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don't live up until their death. they don't honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. they shit them away. dumb fuckers. they concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. their minds are full of cotton. they swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. their brains are stuffed with cotton. they look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. play them the great music of the centuries and they can't hear it. most people's deaths are a sham. there's nothing left to die.”(B)

ps: H

“I will always and forever hold you in my heart and mind”

2012-01-04T20:37:00.010+02:00

„it is clear that we must embrace struggle. every living thing conforms to it. everything in nature grows and struggles in its own way, establishing its own identity, insisting on it at all cost, against all resistance. we can be sure of very little, but the need to court struggle is a surety that will not leave us. it is good to be lonely, for being alone is not easy. the fact that something is difficult must be one more reason to do it.

to love is also good, for love is difficult. for one human being to love another is perhaps the most difficult task of all, the epitome, the ultimate test. it is that striving for which all other striving is merely preparation. love is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world for himself for another's sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things”(R)

[+++]

six months of feast and six months of famine

2011-12-23T14:04:00.012+02:00

I had been starving myself for a year when I fell for the tart taste of my blackest bid: the four seeds that bound me to the underworld. my teeth were red and my arms weakened with regret for thousands of men confined to live on an earth plagued by barrenness. he said he wanted me there and was capable of terrible wrath for whoever tried to spite the passing of worlds. my undertaking of love and devotion was to have the curses of men set upon the deceased. the flowers were gone in Enna but I would have women turned into mint and white poplar.

they made a compromise eventually: to bring lavishness and beauty out of sterile grounds, one must spend half of his time in the underworld. the rule of Fates is fair enough. those who've tried to break it, they've had their limbs tied to stone seats for more than a lifetime.

otherness zones

2011-12-16T13:53:00.004+02:00

I remember your words,

you told me about the darkest of nights,

the longest of winters and how we will arise brilliantly,

winding softly sharpened lines, ten times more beautiful.

inside out presence, my knees are warmed by the reminiscence of hell,

the smell of embers, I hold it in me like a rare possession,

it curves the lines of my lips because I know more than them.

it’s past midnight now, the passing of death, lush dawning,

funny how the whole city lives in our mouths,

faintly a matter of space for one who has seen the other side,

dissolving vanquished by the unlikeliness of our worlds.

...in time you learn the state of breakage comes with velvety perfumes,

in time you learn the vastest part of life takes place in rooms of absence.

new roses

2011-11-19T19:54:00.002+02:00

olanzapine tastes sweet
melting on absent tongues.

...sour air. beneath the skin
there is immense room for doubt.

the haziness of a half-formed

comfort zone, of a half-formed

glance of not aware.

wholesome dispatch, a promise of

white space, illiterate warmth.

a lifetime to learn

not to care for what is
on the other side of sleep.

beauty only exists within contours of defeat

2011-11-18T13:21:00.003+02:00

we might have lived centuries of sleep ago
as forlorn hallowers of a damned descent,
defenders of beautifully bleak cities of wreckage,
an army of sullenness.
the inside of our fabric is written in melancholy,
a dictate from Saturn,
to swim relentlessly through spastic dark waters,
drifting into liquid-eyed, blood-eyed, hollow-eyed creatures,
just to find out we are not any larger than
the trembling space between our thin, tired lids.
to shield a delicate canvas for narcissistic decay,
probably the reason we were manufactured in silent undoing,
our eternity hanging by emaciated fingers,
an unfinished projection,
earthen, disturbing dream of opium skies.
the only wisdom is to love the iridescence of ruin,
for there is nothing worthier or lavisher
than the charge of impossibility.

love song

2011-11-12T20:38:00.001+02:00

do you remember it? …the arcades
breaking down with the
flood of petrified voices,
the splitting ground breathing
vengeance in immaculate spirals,
the vestal black sky…
and us, for the first time,
we didn’t have a single question to ask.
as I clearly recall it, we were walking
lightheartedly like enamoured ghosts,
hand-in-hand through the millions of shards,
laughing at the burning buildings
with our heads thrown back.
sweet velvet dream.

streamside

2011-10-31T20:48:00.018+02:00

shut your eyes,
let me close them with mine,
lightly as we
exchange skin we
exchange confusion.
silence is our drug
and we serve it remarcably well,
the perfect pieces
in the irony of contours -
you slipping fragments of reason and I
not finding it unusal at all
that someday these entwining sillhouettes
will pass each other in streets and subways
like perfect strangers.
...and now you've already begun
swimming towards the cutting void
in intact darkness,
unaware that we, my dear,
we could never really meet
anywhere.
and I smile at the thought
that you could so easily be my feast of vanity,
lovely undernourished body,
that you could carry me wherever you'd linger,
like a stifling and bitter anchor,
while I could engage in the task of killing time,
cutting pieces of you
from my remote distance
with the gentlest of hands.

"une ballade allemande dit que les morts vont vite, mais les vivants aussi"

2011-09-16T12:09:00.005+03:00

an incision into the girl writing here and you will find:
+low calorie heart nourishments
+synthetic chemical compounds
+stories of hospitals sealed up in lace
+too much love for words for their own good
+waste routine
+sickening evidence of absence of absence
+many, many piles of shards

*if you feel like talking about anything, you can always find me here: lelia.1807@yahoo.com

to live unceasingly in those instants before drowning

2011-09-10T21:35:00.009+03:00

people are often told motion can be consuming,
but most of them die from the lack of it.

such a horrible irony,
to be ripped to pieces
by the silent, the indifferent, the nonpresent.

such a strange paradox,
that nothing moves more violently inside one
than what one has lost.

into undoing

2011-08-27T14:14:00.006+03:00

to each his own choice of mind,
to each his own state of drift.

disintegration begins
at one's warmest point.

...incongruous urge
to possess undividely,
to posess exhaustively,
dismantled limbs,
minds pumping blood.

- raw petals of dialogue
will slit heart peels,
will rearrange grounds.

I know less of me with each day.

ennui

2011-08-26T13:13:00.000+03:00

I shamelessly avail myself of a mask of insecurity to conceal a distance that has been stretching onto me for years, fastened to my longing like a jealous siamese. I prefer them to believe I'm afraid to talk to them, not that I've never felt the urge to.

I draw on black, blue and gray to screen listless, weary, disheartened eyelids and I cover my wrists with velvet and lace.

I've spent countless nights in dainty music and lights, surrounded by persons whose lines were gradually erasing, dreaming of forgetfulness.

I drift each and every day in streets, passages and skin, in search of a pair of white hands who once told me reality is too inane and pointless to be real.

the only thing I could ever love was solitude and when I encountered it in someone else I clinched to its minute comfort with the obstinacy of a long-time wanderer jolting himself into one first and last drop of water. I later reasoned that one drop is enough to drown in.

I'm not afraid of walking alone at night, but I'm terrified by the coarse dryness of mornings.

I've always found it strange that I wasn't born in october. I find comfort in heavy rain and the feeling of hunger.

I only feel I've actually known people who've lived for years close to me when they lose their grip or forget to finish their lines. those instants of uneasiness, they appear coherent and warm.

I can't find anything more dishonest than color photography.

when I think of beauty, I envision collapsing buildings.

I've figured out long time ago that the only people for me are the unhappy ones.

one of us cannot be wrong

2011-08-25T14:25:00.013+03:00

I see you've gone and changed your name again. and just when I climbed this whole mountainside, to wash my eyelids in the rain, I'm standing on a ledge and your fine spider web is fastening my ankle to a stone. and they're handing down my sentence now and I know that I must do another mile of silence.

(you thought that it could never happen to all the people that you became, your body lost in legend, the beast so very tame. shouldering your loneliness like a gun that you will not learn to aim, you stumble into this movie house, then you climb, you climb into the frame. let’s sing another song, this one has grown old and bitter.)

well I lived with a child of snow when I was a soldier, I came so far for beauty, I left so much behind, I thought I'd be rewarded for such a lonely choice. forsaken, almost human. and when we fell together all our flesh was like a veil that I had to draw aside to see the serpent eat its tail. you covered up that place I could not master, it wasn't dark enough to shut my eyes.

(we met when we were almost young deep in the green lilac park. you held on to me like I was a crucifix, as we went kneeling through the dark… but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie, please understand, I never had a secret chart to get me to the heart of this or any other matter. we weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all right.)

I hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert you're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record.

...well, I've been waiting, I was sure we'd meet between the trains we're waiting for but now it’s time to board another. elsewhere is your feast of love, it's light enough to let it go. I'm just a station on your way, I know I'm not your lover.

(I cannot follow you, my love, you cannot follow me. I am not life, I am not death, I am not slave or free. I am the distance you put between all of the moments that we will be.)

you who's been travelling so long, yes you who must leave everything that you cannot control, you left when I told you I was curious. I never said that I was brave. I know that kind of man it's hard to hold the hand of anyone as though it was the burden of some other.

(ah you hate to see another tired man lay down his hand like he was giving up the holy game of poker. and while he talks his dreams to sleep you notice there's a highway that is curling up like smoke above his shoulder. he was starving in some deep mystery like a man who is sure what is true.)

the stories of the street are mine. the cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the poison gas, and I lean from my window sill in this old hotel I chose, yes one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose and one eye filled with blueprints, one eye filled with night. who is it whom I address, who takes down what I confess?

(are you a teacher of the heart?

yes, but not for thee.)

…we were so small between the stars, so large against the sky, and lost among the subway crowds I tried to catch your eye…

(well you know that I’d love to live with you, but you make me forget so very much. and maybe I had miles to drive and promises to keep, I saw there were no oceans left for scavengers like me. and they struck my heart with a deadly force, and they said << this heart, it is not yours >>)

no, the words you sang were wrong. but you stand there so nice, in your blizzard of ice, oh please let me come into the storm. the windows are small and the walls almost bare, there's only one bed and there's only one prayer; I listen all night for your step on the stair. I have begun to long for you, I who have no greed; I have begun to ask for you, I who have no need.

(you were the promise at dawn, i was the morning after. leave it all and like a man, come back to nothing special, such as waiting rooms and ticket lines, silver bullet suicides, and messianic ocean tides, and racial roller-coaster rides and other forms of boredom advertised as poetry.)

like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free. I lit a thin green candle, to make you jealous of me. but the room just filled up with mosquitos, they heard that my body was free. then I took the dust of a long sleepless night and I put it in your little shoe. I heard of a saint who had loved you, so I studied all night in his school. he taught that the duty of lovers is to tarnish the golden rule. and just when I was sure that his teachings were pure he drowned himself in the pool. his body is gone but back here on the lawn his spirit continues to drool.

(I have changed my name so often. like a baby, stillborn, like a beast with his horn I have torn everyone who reached out for me. I choose the rooms that I live in with care, I am the one who loves changing from nothing to one. when it all comes down to dust, I will help you if I must, I will kill you if I can.)

I journey down the hundred steps, but the street is still the very same. it's four in the morning, the end of december. and the skylight is like skin for a drum I'll never mend.

(it's you, my love, you who are the stranger.)

I know you had to lie to me, I know you had to cheat, you learned it on your father's knee and at your mother's feet. but did you have to fight your way across the burning street when all our vital interests lay a thousand kisses deep?

(how come the night is long? the crumbs of love that you offer me, they're the crumbs I've left behind. now it’s come to distances and both of us must try, your eyes are soft with sorrow. that's a funeral in the mirror and it's stopping at your face.)

you defied your solitude, I came through alone. you got away, i never once heard you say, I need you, I don't need you, I need you, I don't need you and all of that jiving around. your vision is right, my vision is wrong, I'm sorry for smudging the air with my song.

(confined to sex, we pressed against the limits of the sea. now I am too thin and your love is too vast. no, it wasn't any good, there's no reason why you should remember me. I told you, when I came I was a stranger.)

I know you need your sleep now, I know your life's been hard. but many men are falling, where you promised to stand guard. and you say you've been humbled in love, cut down in your love, forced to kneel in the mud next to me? then read me the list of the crimes that are mine, I will ask for the mercy that you love to decline.

(…and summoned now to deal with your invincible defeat, you ditch it all to stay alive, a thousand kisses deep.)

I’m good at hate, I’m good at love, it’s in between I freeze. been working out, but it’s too late, it’s been to late for years. my mirrored twin, my next of kin, I’d know you in my sleep and who but you would take me in, a thousand kisses deep.

(are you a teacher of the heart?

we teach old hearts to break.)

.....

*not my words, obviously.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2XkfBWSmcs

accurately haunted

2011-08-23T12:27:00.001+03:00

most unyielding one,

long before your sharp departure, I had been having these icy flashes of something one could call daylight inquietude. still, the more I was sinking in everything that has been, the more unnatural it seemed to reckon that I won’t be expelled from perhaps the most unwarranted thing in life, that for each minute of warmth, one must walk miles of anguish. yet I don’t give in. to come to terms with a wreckage, one must make a deal with his ghosts. as for me, the sole possible choice was backwards, to live inside the open wound instead of bearing the upsetting scar.

you see, things have become so much different these last years. it happened imperceivably, in slow, yet irreversible cuts – the more we got closer, everyone around started to get smaller, turning into shattery, irrelevant lines. do you sense it? the world is meager, it’s us who’ve grown much larger than it, overwhelming ghosts.

I’m haunted by an image. It’s not the one that kept following me last year, the inert body, face down in the water, the dream of forgetfulness - one who’s been to hell will not come back. this time, my dream is one of stillness, hazily drawn yet somehow very similar to the softening, disentangled chills of a never ending night time taxi ride. of course, some days are harder. the hollow faces in the streets, the irksome hands in subways, they still scare me, but soon they will cease to. control will avenge from what still and fully lives within, be it entire possession.

I’ve been feeling it for a long time, now I’m sure of it, you and I live in the very same body. your wintry torments, they impel a harsh weight on me, sometimes in the form of a strange noose. days like these, I forget to eat. as the steps inside become louder, my eyelids turn red and sore, heavy hands press on my chest, my collar bones ache, my body feels unbearably tight. with all disarrangement of things, I, for one, stand still. one who has but one moment to live no longer has anything to dissimulate.

screened

2011-07-16T21:28:00.000+03:00

hesitant reminders of present,
threads of light permeate the sleep-ensnared room,
embracing diffident street noise
in slow melting of all leftovers of night.

I'm lying in bed at the brink of black & white,
life-disjoined and space-severed,
contemplating the minute quivers of our lurking bodies,
freezing the flashes.

the blurry one

2011-06-26T15:09:00.007+03:00

chasing a safe passage in a downpour of anxiety,

I couldn't evade meeting the uneasiness in you.

to all appearances the outside world had overpassed us -

the walls were whiter than ever,

the room unhandleably motionless

and yet a disturbing buzz was creeping under our skin,

fumbling the bitterness of the not entirely said.

the instant of lost control was achingly bound to happen.

following the distress of your glance,

I knew that shift in self-composure

had washed away all possible exit doors

and right there, in the midst of the subsequent pause,

the echo of the wavering speech

was feeding the inbetween space on wholesale emotion.

it was withal a strange release,

as if in a lifetime of stasis

on the tangible ground a heart was thrown.

we will meet again, every dusk and dawn

2011-06-15T17:59:00.021+03:00

nothing is more present in us
than the past.
knotted to its blurriness,
we suffocate piece by piece
in thicker and sorer textures,
weaving and tearing up
constant deaths of
self and -
every once in a while,
as if acceded to
an ever-granted possession,
it cleaves another scratch
on our insecure inner walls,
pulling us away from our canvas
to remind us jealously
that we are merely its faint
discontinuous dream.

cryptocardiac

2011-04-17T11:37:00.002+03:00

she steps into the chamber senses seeping, eyes half-open,
miles of unforbearing flashes mounting up her veins.
like verging needles, tight languish pulses demand
an inward unlocking for a feast of words.
alone in her atrium of embers,
she starves for the ripple of black on white.
she speaks ventricular language.

dialogue dust

2011-04-14T23:35:00.025+03:00

I told you, let's take a seat here and forget,
tonight we'll have an entire cinema of sweet disregard.

(seems like centuries ago we first arrived here,
ourselves a flashing sequence of this exhausting air,
inhaling its burden as itself was inhaling ours,
what they call existence pounding on our matter,
dragging us with its senseless turmoil
like heavy clutters of impurity)

like a compulsory eyesore,
this suffocating silly joke,
like years ago we'd fallen asleep on bad television.

I told you, it's dreadful how tiring breathing can be,
how heavily we stick life on us like excessive clothing.

...you said you found it strange
how I could close my eyes to them without a bother
or how rashly I dared to quitclaim myself,
another player of the unavoidable,
for a bleak seat in the insolent audience.

(to care less and less as in a rearward blanking of lines,
to dispatch them all in the other room -
these ridiculous makings of blood and pulses -
as things too paltry to even bother mentioning,
like cheap cigarettes or bad poetry,
to leave them for the others)

I'd say what's even stranger is
how you and I can merge in the same barren space,
mine being an evening of forgetfulness,
while yours - a wreckage of rooms filled
with that of me I keep letting go.

and perhaps equally odd, this frantic presence of yours
and how you're always drifting towards some deserted bottom
while all I'm left is this abiding departure
to draw a blank on you being there and still there,
running for trains you contend to be real,
thrusting yourself towards this voidness of mine
so fiercely it sometimes hurts.

absenseizure

2011-03-25T12:03:00.016+02:00

indeterminately
there’s been another winter and another fall
of a sometime-subsequent self and another
pursuit of nothing-nothingness mind.

behind the clusters of dust - our dainty grant of exile,
so deferred and still so ill-defined,
not yet fractiously handled,
not yet weighty and grinning.

before there was fog I remember rushing -
hand-in-hand with us, a flood of thoughts
and strangely ours, a dissidence of unequalled warmth.
it used to be words that anticipated us,
they fed with time frames and deftly with their lines
questions of space emerged to what was us.

hereinafter non-existence is a matter of delay
and I feel milestones of sleep might have been consuming me,
blank to the their ends, weaving several trails of walking
alongside with dusk and dawns of forgetfulness
in circuits of beauty that dwindles in the dark
and is not beauty.

...

do you ever feel
delayed,
months and years behindhand of yourself,
heedlessly dispatching sequence and sequence of mind?

contradiction

2011-02-22T15:57:00.004+02:00

obverse and reverse
yielding defiant clearance
to accidental confluence.

so swiftly a sequence of space
can jolt us into
the mathematics of fragmentary creatures.

as futile as a quest for the withheld,
to think that I could candidly touch
the ironic abyss
between our fleeting diametric pulse rates,
where we begin our untenable exemption -

consenters to a short life
of inane deconstruction,
idle, forgetful actors,
volatile assailants.

the charge of our skin warmth,
my most privileged of foes,
what incoherent coherence.

to an entomologist

2010-06-20T11:45:00.003+03:00

so, tell me,
what unknown vibes run through your nimble veins,
what delphic flavors sneak at the tip of your tongue
when you know that someone loves you?
is it a sheer feeling of self-reward
at the light thought of your features as an ever-present torture
deep down the inmost rooms of someone's mind,
an abiding intruder lingering on her like a sunk birthmark
or a deepening ink stain marching heedlessly
towards complete subjugation?
do you experience the satisfaction of a puppet master
at the mere idea of having your own feeble marionette,
your funny little schizoid dreamer
and owning the deadalian strings that so sharply direct her impulses,
growing her into an opposite number,
making her loathe and dismiss anyone except you,
you and your sociopathic ways,
you and your terrible words
that fall around her like long sharp scalpels,
advancing on her skin like a criminal's slow tease?
or perhaps love is a mere thing of abduction and possession,
another past page in an entomologist's dusty album,
that contracts one to the brittle size of a dispatched insect,
forgetting him inside blanked out, muted and stripped of wings.

eraser

2010-06-19T09:36:00.011+03:00

please don't follow
where my footfalls sink.
don't linger on the limbs of my words,
my voice dies out
with the drift of hour hands.
I'm a heedless collector -
I rip off the wings of my quarry.
january dweller,
enfant terrible,
amaurotic drifter
framing walls before yearning images.

cast an iron shade upon my retention -
I was born with a dozen of white hands,
cutting off the legs of the wandering souls
creeping inside the depths of my winter.

Arachne

2010-06-19T08:44:00.004+03:00

I once knew a girl
of a long weaver breed
once damned for defeating the goddess of wisdom.
and she used to have four pairs of legs,
weaving tangled webs around strangers
callously tearing them up,
burning and growing back anew.

like a torture-enamoured Sisyphus
she was drawn to her murdering hands,
dying of them once more with each evening,
outstretching herself more fervidly after each defeat,
tying herself to their incessant venom,
selling her soul to them.

lotuses

2010-06-18T22:17:00.008+03:00

never touch another skin,
sleep
in the arms of unvoiced eagerness,
leaning your insecurity
on the caress of fading fingerprints.

a mayhem of senses
abjuring to the cruelty
of elapsed sequences.

that unflinching image,
that self-depleting
condition of inanity
you say
you don't quite understand.

how strange of some creatures,
you utter,
how thoughtless this obstinacy
to resentfully undress of synthetic materials
and age in sullen silence,
cleaving with teeth
to that most absurd of human conditions
called devotion.

defrauding

2010-06-18T20:50:00.008+03:00

walk with me to the end of december.
I say,
take my hand tonight, my name is discomposure.

I uphold your rage,
winter marauder,
your silhouette belongs to the vandals
sleeping at the turn of my nightfalls.

look around, the streets are crammed with numb stooges,
knee-jerk puppets peeled of the ardor of our nonsense.
see how old their faces look?
vacuous, bleak, emptied of crimson.
see their hands?
they're tied up to walls and nothingness.

I swear it once more -
I will not die an understudy.

...we were born nameless, dear,
two wrathful thieves
fervidly feasting upon
the warmth of each other's abyss
on the edge of one touch.

opposite number

2010-06-13T23:48:00.010+03:00

today I turned another century older.
urge my eyes and they'll strip of lids
with the distress of casting off a languid armor.
watch me disperse to atoms - my skin is a feeble map
where time dies in the mouth of its own despiteful weight.
don't measure me, I've lost left and right decades ago.

I have come out, an oddly-shaped repentance
punctured by armies of wrinkles,
long, sharp, deepening wrinkles,
drawn of manifold sleepless nights and mute undoings.

turn around -
I'm your wandering foe,
inhaling your fading words,
swallowing your departing steps,
absorbing your languish shadow,
aguing in the distance
with the most monstrous thirst.

coup de grâce

2010-06-07T22:39:00.000+03:00

closing time
for jokers, jesters and farceurs.
insane laughters of pantomimists
drowning the smoke-filled stage.
a torn fan,
a lipstick-stained handkerchief,
broken legs of wooden puppets
leaving wisecracker epilogues.

too aged to play a droll,
too tired for a mime of dismalness.
absorbed in the lines of your new play,
you think you've just heard a ventriloquist cry.
close your eyes -
somewhere, behind the blood-red curtains,
a soubrette is burning her gloves with the last matches.
...

impersonator of loss,
how unwillingly and without a mere act
you can play the main part
in my self-consuming penumbra drama...

transgressions of Chronus

2010-06-01T21:10:00.003+03:00

no epic authority,
no august deity,
no father of Zeus.
no rectitude, no integrity.
time is a hideous jerk,
tearing skins apart,
turning lovers into strangers,
weaving indifference
and forgetfulness.
bastard.

siamese

2010-05-29T18:44:00.007+03:00

she lives door to door to my disquietude,
she is the sullen child of my insecure twilights,
a making of low pulse and delphic colors,
sinking to fog those hours we're apart.

I knock at her door in wintry evenings,
she takes my hand through tunnels and troubled sleep,
eyes, ears, fingers, she is pins and needles -
through air, ice, warmth, she is my drowsy mouth.

she's built of your words sealed in northern skin,
bruising black and blue each time you leave
to your tongue-tied, screened, january places
and I turn to her as a dreary siamese -

she is my master yet your so fickle playground.

Lethe

2010-05-27T14:36:00.001+03:00

beast
of relic sores
and decrepit bones
of what's left unsaid
and unrequitedly undone,
oblivion
does not absolve,
nor abide
neither of us,
his eyeless pawns.
oblivion is a clown
with dreadful teeth,
laughing at lovers.

in the distance

2010-05-26T17:58:00.003+03:00

your silhouette, unshaping grey,
open hand of my disquietude.

trains

2010-05-23T15:12:00.012+03:00

it rained a lot these days. a ceaseless, savage rain, untired and unrelenting. back in the days, I remember I used to sneak out and let the water soak my pretty clothes until my mom would find me and scold me for my wet hair and dirty shoes. later, when the rain would stop and there was just me and my icy skin and cold feet, I had this strange feeling of loss as if some warm part of me had been ripped out by long, irksome hands. I kept that feeling deep and alive like a ripple of fear or a child's secret alphabet, so when you left I had the exact same grasp of a thousand phantoms kissing me with wintry, ugly mouths. that night, it rained more than ever. and I remember lying awake, watching the water wash down all our feeble security and waiting, waiting for something, a message from you as I used to know you or some stranger's pale hand to erase all those dreary lines and carry me backwards, in that park under a spring night sky, in one of last year's white mid-december evenings or way back to my old house and to what used to be myself, a child with wet feet unaware of many words.

disquisition

2010-05-19T11:24:00.008+03:00

to be the favorite person of somebody,
to possess the daintiest perfume that someone recalls,
to impel the voice that stirs another like a daylight ghost,
to play the beautiful demigod of your own fickle puppet,
to wander heedlessly through his inmost rooms
of weakness, fear and insecurity,
to move oceans and storms
with a single modulation of voice
or slip of hand,
to be the midnight visitor of someone's winter dwelling.
...
I want to write a poem
that will nonchalantly erase
all your burdensome composure.
I want to write a poem
that will make you fall in love with me.

occurrence

2010-05-17T22:03:00.006+03:00

your arms were trembling so strangely
that, for a moment, I believed
that if I stepped closer
they would break into pieces
and collapse
like a thin wooden doll's,
finger by finger, wrists, elbows...
and I could only light a cigarette
and step behind
as you were sullenly swimming
towards your inmost bottom.
you and your fickle irrationality...

languor

2010-05-16T14:41:00.003+03:00

quietus.
2 a.m. lullabies for
wet feet touching the bathroom floor.
faint drops of water dripping
mildly on tired skins
until they become
another past occurrence.
one, two, three, four...
shadows descending on cinereal walls
in their very own uninvited apathy.
dirty mirrors facing you
like strangers in a dirty subway.
remember, you were 12 or 20, who cared?
...by this time he could be 8 or 58...
dead eyes of dead dolls as your night sisters.
inhale.
by 4 a.m. we'll all be mute.
ill-shaped fingers
slipping through your wet hair
as you unrequitedly cling
to the remote axis
of the invisible hands that
play you like a puppet.

lapse and collapse

2010-05-14T11:17:00.027+03:00

she said
I'll lift my eyes and
time will convulse
at the very tip of my lashes.
tomorrow all those black on white words will sink
under the ripple of my reversed bare steps.
because tomorrow I'll wake up in a far-forgotten place
where chimeras walk backwards,
backwards in voices,
backwards in beauty.

she said
I'll twitch my fingers and
silence will collapse
with the storm of a shattered chandelier.
tomorrow I'll wake up and this nightmare will be over.
space will dissolve into tiny particles
and the sky will explode under our shadowy presence,
consenting to the volatility of the past.

she said,
tomorrow we'll be phantoms
reshaping everted gods.

about you, like everything else

2010-05-11T16:30:00.004+03:00

I once wrote a poem about an onlooker of mayhem and the iciness of one september night, I once caught my breath to ink the cruelty of last year's april. if I am here, skin, bones, blood, pulse and ten frantic fingers writing this shit about forgetfulness, then why might not I just as well be back a few months ago, one cozy winter night, in your candle-lit living room, braced between my nonsense and your sweet intemperance?
like everything else, this is about you. about you as you acquaint yourself and about you how you may have never met you, about what you left unsaid and may never say, about my long silences and your unflinching turned head. and about my millions of nights of lying awake contemplating the skin at the back of your neck, of your damn beautiful white neck, while laying your dark hair on the morning pillow, you aging an hour, me aging centuries, centuries of sleepless nights measuring the space between my aching hands and your beautiful distance...
and I fear oblivion like a chaperon of death.

in dreams

2010-05-03T16:34:00.004+03:00

there is a city,
a city of ghosts and fog,
a city beneath the fleets
of our sweet unreality,
where we walk barefoot in dreams,
playing kings, harlequins, beggars,
unintelligible, quiet, strangely-drawn,
abided to a ceaseless circular orbit.

like madmen we run and run and drink each other,
surprised by each second of our tangled undoing
and scared to death we might have to face
the strange, pointless creatures
we call us.

ghost poem

2010-02-14T21:11:00.016+02:00

you conceal your specters in tiny particles of fog,
you measure me with uncertainty and vantage.
and like a thirsty monster I pursue you
through ruins of theatres, lighthouses, volcanoes -
hauling my urge to consume you drop by drop,
with all your accidents and broken bones -
I uphold
my requisition to play your figurehead,
my demand for one more night of november.

I am mute and unyielding,
I stand before you open and disarmed.
and you, you unfold and unfold
your november eidolons,
dusk by dusk,
in breaths of fleeting relics -

I dreamt of heavy rain last night.

hypothesis

2010-01-12T12:56:00.004+02:00

considering a basic diagrammatic projection of the universe as an integrated series of congruences, we can easily admit that the criterion of its reasonable course consists in the ability of its components to make simple, fast associations. but let's now consider its small quantum of exceptions, the discordant figures that fall under no geometrical classification. for such an individual case, the only way to reach structural equilibrium would be by merging its irregular axis with that of a particular complementary divergence. but such combinations are rare and lie beyond the principles of common mathematics. so, if you hadn't been real, I would have had to invent you.[mood: smitten]

shuteye schisms and new shades

2009-10-29T20:32:00.017+02:00

I’d fallen asleep in a theatre hall, it might have been an hour or a month. the seats had been left vacant and weighty crumbs of smoke exhausted the cinerous air. I knew the room well, for it began within me, asunder and shielded, from the red of the curtains to the penumbra dramas. their warmth emerged somewhere at the midpoint my cells, as a binding sequence of exit. yet that night it was vacuous and drained of crimson, as if its very shades had wearied out their hemic performance and abjured diseased to the bleakness of crumbled paper.
my eyes, drowsed with sleep, could hardly tell the nature of the play unfolding before them. rambling, ear-splitting monologues encircled the room in unfathomable pounds, thrashing deepening cracks on walls and ascending up my body in the shape of fever. I felt my feet dragged forcibly from the ardor of my anchorage to some bleak, recondite ground whose contingence I refused to adjoin. till there was nothing but utmost silence, a silence too inordinate for the inflection of my breaths. it was as if the actors consented to quitclaim the unyieldingness of their acts: some left the stage, some remained deadpan, some sat down with their hands covering their faces, some motionlessly looked the other way.
I laid my head on my arm and watched them as, one by one, they stepped back and began to gradually turn to paper... and, as the swelling fever was marching on my eyelids, I could only ask myself which of them would be the first to shatter and turn to ashes.

onlooker of mayhem [sociopath's love poem]

2009-09-17T22:04:00.034+03:00

by the time the performers grow tired of this silly diversion
you'll be deludedly heaved in your flustering uproar
while I'll resign composed in my observant position,
irked and disenthralled by this madcap auditorium,
by their turmoil and futile dramatics.

they're all drunk, my dear, I tell you,
how obsolete this language they speak,
irrationally, backwards, plethorically,
how unreasonable their temperature and gestures.

see, one by one, they slide in currents and drink their downfalls,
so unaware of the nature of their entrapment...
and you, well, you quietly and absurdly drink your own,
in your mute innermost twilights
when you run fore and backwards on hazardous bridges
from illusory night skies to nightmarish blood-red dawn.

and I can only immovably measure the vacancy of this desert,
in my cold, divided hall of mirrors,
while we humor ourselves in this heedless actor status,
in the microscopic simulacrum of existence
between those two minute, cut off extensions
where you begin and end on my resolute orbit.

so strange that you spread yourself in this draining convulsion,
because I can merely assume to grasp the unhinged nonsense
of an alphabet I've forgotten how to speak
somewhere ahead of time, ahead of sense and axioms,
of a certain slip of hand and uptight voice tone,
of humans and their fickle absurdities.

how derisory, Image, how pointless and strange...

eosophobia

2009-09-05T10:10:00.007+03:00

I'm an unflinching wintry wall,
you're some eluding wanderer.
don't fade away, Image.

theatre-in-the-round

2009-09-01T17:29:00.029+03:00

I have been recurrently dining with death
ever since I adjudged to enclose the
alphabet of silence. my chaperon
is of a ventriloquist breed,
heirs and assigns,
and with each dice she throws
a soubrette faints in a theatre hall.
at hours like these
another prison muttered dialogue
slides through my sleeve,
departing on hazard currents
to the cast aside maze of relic cities.
in my dreams we sit on rooftops
and watch the world collapse.

theme for a blackout

2009-08-29T17:38:00.021+03:00

a lighthouse burned today.
noosed in the breaths of the life-absorbed night, a wandering ship sunk to imminent blackened bottom.
in the strange inertia of petrified hands covering eyes, the drowning seconds surged in crippled flows and tiny explosions, clashing on the board with the deluge of a shattered chandelier. opaque sequences of space consumed themselves before the passengers' surprised eye grips. some clenched their hands into each other, others cried, others laughed like madmen.
somewhere in the midst of the death-inhaled screams, the wearied arms of a last survivor cleaved the charcoaled waves, angling on the needlelike thread between his unwieldy entrapment and tight limbs of inexistence. the fading terminus of the last burning lamp cast his spectacle with the delusion of flames on black waters.
he died by dawn, as I feared.

soirée

2009-08-26T08:14:00.010+03:00

tonight, as the droning city abjures defeated
to the subduing silence of nightfall screen,
dim the lights in your room to arcane movements of shadows.
then thinly denude you of irksome hefts of words
and dispel the ado of stale voices
like immaculate ink absorbing scrawled paper.
does each pore of your skin seem to vibrate
its very own, self-decreed reality
as you leniently dangle your fingers in muted air?
and do you feel your breath yielding a remote cadency,
disjoined from the earthly pattern of hour hands?

so, as you lean your arms by the icy margins of your sink,
in the tongue-tied reclusion of your drearily-lit bathroom,
relent the faint quivers of your eyelids
to the musing undulation of midnight hands.
do your cold feet resign enfeebled
to the depleting suction of the gritstone beneath them?
or could you swiftly dismiss all and abscond
to a separate, meandering existence,
like that very faint dash of water
dripping on the protruding vein
of your thin, drowsy wrist?
see?
we’re this close to it, dear.
this close.

floating erratically in between margins

2009-08-25T02:29:00.015+03:00

where I'm from is a distant, nebulous side
of spastic voices and cryptic ripples.
and day by day they lurk under my skin,
in atoms, drops and rainfalls,
immovably tangled in the vaults of my quiet presence
and nailing the seizure of their disruptive surge
in the black of my hair,
in the chasms between my ribs,
in the heavy shadows lingering on my eyelids.
they lynch the dawning of my unuttered words
when they're tightly sucking the inside of my throat,
they drag the fickle tremor of my shrinking gestures
and dim my pulse with their incongruous mouths.
they crave to steal me from this unavailing ground,
in mute suspension of space and time
and volatile rips of logic.
because my weary matter belongs to them,
in devout quantum entanglement,
dissevered from the coarse embodiment of surfaces,
like tenuous vapors absorbed in thin air,
like underwater creatures in their careless submerge.

noctambulism

2009-08-22T21:32:00.001+03:00

did you sense that?
the sky's laced with cleaving ink.
we're falling back into ourselves, dear.
it's the reprisal of the nesting dolls.

daguerreotype in nitrogen

2009-08-21T23:06:00.005+03:00

I draw my wandering
breathing modulation
from a far, mercurial impetus
of spectral saxophones.
my feet subsist
on the close-lipped seclusion
of screened, misty grounds
and I cling to my effrontery
with the stormiest
and most entangling
insolence.

23.5ºS

2009-08-16T08:52:00.009+03:00

it might have been that fickle temperature of your dreary being
or a yielding vision of wontedly-merging fragments
that stirred me to bewilder you and draw you towards my surface.
and I thought I could nimbly close my eyes before you
and fall asleep in mild threads of skin,
logical and discharged of my weighty chaos.

yet somewhere the pieces blacked out in discordance
and I quivered as if clashed by a mid-december nightmare
of a late night traveler madly knocking at the doors of my dwelling,
a dwelling I'd left a long time ago
for the shielded seclusion of my own winter.

I thought it might have been those three long nails
savagely thrust at the vertex of my spine,
burning to drag me down through erratic dark waters
to the inmost core of your silence
where hell begins
and we're stripped of skins and tongues.

but I had you there, weary and unshielded,
and thought a meager grip could cling me to your wrappings,
all succumbing, mouth, neck, skin and ribs,
dispossessed of that immersed something that entwines them
and weaves your cells in their fucked up logic.

yet it was the very angle of your eyelids
as if death itself was drifting through your lashes
that cleaved the warmth of my skin and its coherent ways,
fixing me deep down a concealed chamber
and I could only back away in defense
from you and your nervy december limbo.

intermission

2009-08-14T10:15:00.017+03:00

I said tonight I wanted to be air again,
the red has etched me to racking sections.
by dusk the assailants will be marching home
and long tired breaths will absorb the charcoaled radius,
where I will walk open through the wreckage,
backwards like a chimera in a deaden movie scene
contemplating its petrified avatars
strewn in dissevered quotas all across the compass,
interspersed,
plagued,
lacerated,
like blacked out chess pieces on a bloodstained board.
my eyes, vermilion and stripped of lids,
my mouth, corpselike and desert,
my throat, numb and wedged with embers.
a blood ingrained nail,
a severed arm,
an ear,
two,
three,
four,
my awareness, hardened to endemic edges,
my memory, punctured by arrays of scalpels,
my logic, consumed by its own weight,
my aims, naked and aguing.
I close the door and they dispel like luster.

in my dream I'll step into a vacant room,
denuded shadow with half-closed eyes.
the neon lights will have been long time shut,
all faces swallowed in muted penumbra,
and words will float around me somehow mangled
that they'll no longer impair my feet like glass.

there, next to an opaque window,
my monster and I will sit side by side,
like silhouettes in contre-jour,
disarmed to each other through distant gazes
and conjured in a mutual sealing silence.

my goodness, I haven't slept in months...

[sample]

2009-08-08T14:56:00.026+03:00

A. had a vague grip of that which had been haunting him with its unfamiliar antennae, but that very evening while hastily roaming the streets in his dusty coat the intoxicating savagery of late september air along with the magnetic promises of a lamp-lit seclusion came to him as deliciously interwoven accomplices. in a manner of speaking, A. was deprived of the average dexterity of per diem pleasantry: he had what some can grasp as an audacious rejection of downright gregariousness entwined with a frenetic attraction towards the abstruse edges. in his old furnished room a naked chaos of differently aged volumes would encircle him like bold lodgers awaiting deliberation, while amid the cluttered ashtray and the enduring ink stains lacerated papers would tensely demand the aftermath of their oblation from the lanky hands that still withheld the fickleness of a recently departed dim adolescence.

many other such nights of fervid pursuits, resting his forehead in his left hand, he would swiftly fall asleep amidst a heavy maelstrom of abnormally sized runes humming in his head like long-legged insects. yet, fleetly between departing the sweet incoherence of dreams and becoming aware of the mounts of papers surrounding him or the distressing position of his arm, he would remain dangled in some suspended dimension where shapes and shades would unfold before him in an unearthly euphony. that ambrosial state of non plus ultra was the nebulous aim of his quests. still, he envisioned a daedalian complexity. he fantasized the seducements of intricate geometry - the cutting precision of sharp angles entwined with the elevation of immaculate circles. nonetheless, that very image appeared to him as meager. laced with the arrogance of a deity, he craved for the birth of a biotic nucleus, an apparatus of veins and arteries breeding under a cryptic skin, that would live through itself, inhaling and exhaling. still, his desideratum subsisted in unhallowed grounds - to relieve the thirst of his mephistophelian ego, he would grant his homunculus with a piercing iris and sharp teeth...the chimera of an eerie, fervid force pulsating under delicate bones...cygne noir...the obscured silhouettes of his visions would whirl before his eyes like banshees.

...in a rash movement he grabbed his coat and descended the stairs. there was a particular music in the midnight air - the caress of some strange intimacy between him and the night meandering in spirals at the very tip of his cigarette. under his ardent steps, he sensed the aged boulevard pulsating to the tempest of his own rhyme.
out of a sudden, under a shadowy street lamp, he had the remote perception of a slender silhouette approaching and swiftly after grasping awareness of a faint arm touching his shoulder he found himself lying on a red vintage settee in a baroque lounge, in the company of a perky bald saxophonist, a refined 19th century-dressed middle-aged man curiously observing him through a monocle and a tallish redhead girl with sharp features in a cabaret-like outfit handing him a champagne glass while uttering something that unfurled in his ears like come as your lunacy...

december

2009-08-06T21:19:00.028+03:00

my closest friend is a covert hangman and I'm his favorite and beloved. he says if he spares a life I'd murder two and we're linked together in descending chains and reverse chronology.
rearwards with the misty orbit of a somnambulist I'm drawn to the white frost of mid-december.
my hands are of an ailing, hemophiliac condition - they etch like knife-cut on each thing I touch.

in starless nights we drift through the relics to watch the bodies decompose. chins-in-hands, shadowy faces drawn in straight, distant lines, we rest on the frosty ground and get high on draughts of embers.

by dawn I tremble in my sleep and make sure all my doors are locked.

...sometimes each room I step in feels heavier with the encumbrance of shadows lingering on hour hands. dim echoes and silhouettes link me to a name and a voice, but someone left the place a long time ago.

tangled lymph

2009-07-29T18:15:00.000+03:00

I believe I could live
in the intangible space
between two eye spasms,
in your dreams when you fall
and shudder like a foetus
at the other side of the uterus.

limbo

2009-07-29T15:54:00.008+03:00

where we cleave our bones
razor-sharp screams puncture the air
and hollow buildings collapse in ashen rows.
we are mute, fish-eyed creatures,
ghostly-stirred and drunk on hatred.

you and I, the lifeless, head-turned strangers
who gaze like sculptures through smudged windows,
while, drifting specters,
we meet under screened night skies
to jolt our chains in spasms of anguish
and scream from bleak, cutting depths,

depths that inhale and quiver
in those suspended seconds when I love you
for piercing glimpses in dirty-walled tunnels
and for the vibrant hell that breeds under your skin
and warms my knees when I drift like a shadow
in subways among wall-eyed mannequins
and gray sequences of voidness move down the lines of my lips

and depths that freeze like horrid caverns
when they're digging deep down my bones
and I savagely thrust my nails in your shoulders
just to watch you disperse like shattered glass
while deathly spasms suck the inside of my neck,
going down my spine with the cold breath of a frantic lover
and I sink, shudder and laugh like a madman

and depths that burn like stygian creeks
when, terrified I might turn bloodless,
I wander through the wreckage to recollect your fragments
and weave them into a life-form compulsion
so you can open up the scratches and let the blood flow,
while my hollow fiend creeps inside
and looks me in the face like a grim hangman.

one hell of a party

2009-07-22T16:45:00.008+03:00

somewhere between 4 a.m. and a rainless monday, luster flares and conversations were undoing lifelessly amid fractious edges. pale gleams would whirl a few seconds in small dusty circles then decayed sunk in the stretching wrinkles that had started to cover the guests' icy skins.
I felt the lounge get colder and colder, so I grabbed my sweater and went down the stairs to meet up with a silent siamese. she told me she feared she might be living alone soon.

epidermic issues

2009-07-22T10:12:00.055+03:00

our lady has bad teeth and mice that come out of her cleavage.
myoutsideismyoutsideandyourinsideisyourinside andmyoutsidecanbeyouroutsideandyouroutsidecanbemyoutside butyourinsidecantbemyinsideandmyinsidecantbeyourinside

impalpable connections between incorporeal mechanisms are outdated inventions for light entertainment of young audiences.

embrace your squamous cuboidal columnar pseudostratified keratinised transitional epithelium. tag it to multiple other skeletal muscular epidermal salival lymphatic mannequins. make fast selections according to precise organic criteria. detach and replay.accelerate hiatus. soon we'll all decay decay decay.

consider surface crosswise conjunctions as fictional phenomenons that lie at the naive impossibilities of atrias and ventricles. remember third eyes are morbid extensions developed by lunatics that disturb blood pressure and induce pyrexia and hemorrhagic conditions.

confine yourself to simple stratum corneum epidermidis contacts. then recoil in your hermetic chambers.
inorganic chambers no one will visit.

.no.
.one.
.will.
.visit.

our lady is short-sighed, jaunty and laughs with a full mouth.

...
an underwater creature died today.

horror vacui

2009-07-10T20:09:00.071+03:00

lately I've been fighting chemical maelstroms and unseasonable weather. my footsteps are electromagnetically sucked in backwards, huge vacuums are swallowing my words and the few fingerprints I've left on other hands seem to have diffused in blank air. there's a widening nothingness imposing its shadow on me - little by little, my lines are erased from people's minds, making room for brighter faces and jauntier voice tones. I feel my name is being impaired to abbreviations that might no longer occur in the alphabet. I may not even be present in photographs - I prick my fingers to make sure they're still there.
years ago, when voices became too coarse and shades too dreary, I used to close my eyes and submerge to my endless chambers, which I had minutely built and embelished inside me. there I could go any size and shape I wanted, swiftly dismiss notions like space and time, linger through infinite orchestras and fall asleep under dainty gleams. and I couldn't care less about eating or talking.
but lately I return just to find the walls barren and decaying, some muddy grey, others sickly white, others wearingly crespuscular. there are sharp glass pieces split all over the boards and the corridors are filled with horrid laughters, sneering marauders and wrinkled hands that touch you and decay. I run like mad then stop in some blank corner just to feel the floor shuddering under my feet. heavy arms are crushing my shoulders and I turn around just to meet that same nothingness, who's pierced through my bones and locked herself inside me. she steps on every inch of my limbs, she sneers at me from corners and shuts my doors with loud slams. and she says she's in love with me like no other. she whispers she's never insidious or forgetful. there's no more outside or inside now, dear... she wants to take me to the third door and with each morning she pulls harder.

neon lights

2009-07-10T12:35:00.015+03:00

it's funny how
at a neon lit rendezvous
that alluring fever that used to warm your veins
can so diametrically reveal
as nothing more or less
than a sharp disguise of that horror black hole
that's been hunting to suck you in for years
with its manifold avatars,
like ribald voices,
lifeless figures
and the filthiest and most insidious of all,
that of artful tongues and skin warmth.

un petit voyage

2009-07-07T22:21:00.034+03:00

.I say you should end it with her. she's a bad influence.

("...a nightmare of you of death in the pool...")
I don't know why, but no matter which time I go to bed at, I always wake up at the exact same hour with one hell of a headache.
("...dans la grande maison de vitres encore ruisselante, les enfants en deuil regardèrent les merveilleuses images...")
laptop!
compared to my languid room, the air outside is as organic as a henry miller character.
always think in numbers, dear.
("...soon it will rain blue landscapes, leading us to suffocation...")
.press delete.
.it's all in your head. such things just don't happen. people forget.

p
e
o
p
l
e

   f
   o
   r
g
   e
   t

"- what you're...pondering on...is it...uhm...constructive or destructive?"
plus, those people at the library always remember me!

I sometimes miss those cold 6 a.m. showers. and that boulevard in october evenings.
("...des sifflements de mort et des cercles de musique sourde font monter, s'élargir et trembler comme un spectre ce corps adoré; des blessures écarlates et noires éclatent dans les chairs superbes...")
- it's not like I'm going to get sick or anything. some people simply eat less.

- What's your name?
- Delusion. Yours?
- Image...

I think someone just wrote with lipstick on my mirror.
.never trust hands.
.and do away with those ridiculous sketches. fast.

around 6 p.m. the air between my blue-painted walls becomes so deathly stiff that I can feel it piercing through my skin and puncturing my bones.
- I'm sorry, I really promise I'll talk more to you later.
.what a waste.nothing good has or will ever come out of it.

[f.o.r. m.a.d.m.e.n. o.n.l.y.]

(“Do you know what a poem is, Esther?”
“No, what?”
“A piece of dust.”)
FUCK YOU!

...

around 4 a.m.I will find myself lying in my bed in an uncomfortable position with a distressing ache in my arm, a book at one side and my open laptop at the other. maybe that's why my head hurts.
...do I always have to remind you that people forget?...

("...if only I was sure that my head on the door was a dream...")

vindication appendix

2009-07-03T16:17:00.040+03:00

I have been found guilty of horrid infringements and some inarticulate form of witchcraft.
I have profoundly offended the council by wearing asymmetric eyes and growing lengthy nails.
I have been stigmatized of peering at harpies' banquets and secretly dining with absconders and lunatics,
of abjectly disregarding century-old garnishments
and working in dark rooms with vindictive potions.

*
honorable audience,
if I am not a quota of light and order's heteronomic equilibrum
and neither can my left hand emend my ink's vagrant undoing,
please consent to my malfeasance
and permit me to embrace
my onliest counterpart, chimera and defense,
in the assumption that maybe, just maybe,
far away, in some forgotten abyss,
some late night traveller
might for a second ascertain
a tangled drop of magic.
to each his own armor anyway.

M

2009-06-28T20:28:00.013+03:00

did you notice? the air is getting thicker,
it tastes like white walls and burnt hands.
('sing me a line from your favorite song...')
do you feel it? the ground's trembling under our feet,
it's stirring echoes that tangle in our synapses at night.
('hello, Image...')
do you miss a certain shadow on your forehead?
('help yourself, but tell me the words before you fade...')
a finger?
('take a step, you move in time, but it's always back...')
or a fingerprint?
('you reveal all the secrets to remember the end and escape...')

do you recall? some time ago I drew your lines out of blue ink and night air.
now promise me to cover my eyes when they light the last match.
...

flash projector

2009-06-25T08:26:00.021+03:00

silky purple flares
and febrile crimson red -
I encountered myself again last night,
in a smoke-filled lounge
and a neon lit bathroom.
dainty iciness of stranger skins -
how fast would the corridors totter and melt...
the air had decomposed into piercing chemicals.

...
yet I'm still here,
5 a.m.,
yet I still strive this headache in the same frantic hands.

...
I wonder if they'll ever paint other rooms in that febrile crimson red.

miscast

2009-06-24T10:21:00.006+03:00

maybe I'm merely a projection in a black & white cinema -
moved by concealed machinery I wade through manifold shades of gray,
dragged from frame to frame I dissolve in pixels and shadowplay,
unfolding in small beginnings and endings
before each evening's new listless audience.

and from my high-angle shots
I can tell the precise shades on their faces
or measure the seconds between their finger twitches,
as they distantly assess the semblance of my acting
or absently dwell upon their daily matters.

from time to time I try to spite the director's composition,
so I fix a face and attempt a subtle grimace,
hit my shoe to the floor
or alter my voice tone,
yet each time they remain aloof and disconnected,
tapping their feet,
holding other hands
or checking their watches,
while I'm rushed by lines and gestures which I have not chosen
or swiftly abscond dislodged by tour de force characters.

then, with each evening's denouement,
freeze-frame, I watch them grab their coats and leave their seats,
as, one by one, they dispatch my fleeting performance
to redeem thoughts of events, friends or lovers,
while I remain shut down behind the aged screen,
watching crumbs of ashes cover the empty seats
and waiting for some stranger's hand
to appear and trigger my machines
so I can begin and end one more evening.

bête noire

2009-06-22T16:39:00.043+03:00

[our bodies are ugly: they perturb our music and clench us in bad materials, they deform our vision and constrict us to trivial numbers, they abase our ideals and conceal us to narrow, organic lines. and they stick to us like a heavy, ironic conjunction, our only follower and foregoer, constantly there to shut our depths and connect us to a tedious, mechanical cycle.]

[our words are like dirty walls: they come from thick throats, plagued by erosive membranes, then crawl on ribald tongues and decompose in rotting air.]

I love bad weather more than anything: it disjoins long-stretched smiles, kills counterfeit conversations and tarnishes clean-cut dresses. it shuts up our meaningless routine and mocks our ridiculous hedonism. to me, there's nothing like heavy rain: it doesn't care nor explain, simply unfolds savagely, shattering colors elegantly and screaming from fragile depths. and it stands by itself and lives through its abstruse clarity, impetuous, raw and uncovered, in all lines that draw beauty: intricacy and violence. and we can only watch.

finger self-portrait on a dirty window

2009-05-29T10:40:00.004+03:00

I am the 13th floor elevator blues,
I am black & white television
and playgrounds on mute.

vignette

2009-05-29T10:26:00.017+03:00

last night you asked me why I like walking in the rain and I told you I'm more afraid when the rain stops. you didn't get to answer, as we arrived there sooner than expected. we took our usual seats and I suddenly noticed that the red paint on the walls had turned into that pale, dusty yellow that always disturbed me. the dim light drew our shadows: you stood there head-turned, calm and immovable. there was a heavy, uninvited presence in the air, my left lung knew it: your words would come scarcer and fainter, then crash loudly on the floor and disensemble to dust.
then I suddenly noticed that my shadow was turning blurrier and blurrier and gradually slipping, as if violently dragged out of the photograph, so I instantly grabbed a knife and cut an inch of one of my fingers, just to make sure it was still there. you didn't seem to notice. then came another and another...and I knew that by the time daylight crept in you'd have completely vanished and I'd still be there, slipping shadow, knife in hand, cutting my fingers inch by inch...you might say that's terribly thoughtless of me, but you see, I didn't have much choice - I told you I hate it when the rain stops.

hotel

2009-05-29T10:08:00.002+03:00

they said they'd closed it for the summer. yet, according to the last visitors, behind the red curtains in those rooms of unearthly temperature the air has become too thick to believe it can ever bear the weight of a human presence. and the parlour, it's now bleak and unrecognizable.as likely as not, its only life-form guests are those few mice wandering apathetically on the old dining sheets filled with dust and wine stains, the only remnants of the glory of the last banquet.
yet, curiously enough, between the first floor and the mezzanine you can sometimes still hear the same dirgy echoes of that disturbingly monotonous jazz orchestra...

do you feel a cold breath on your nape from time to time? I'm the ghost in your attic, I pull those invisible strings that sometimes leave your fingers suspended disjointedly in blank air...

[missive]

2009-05-29T10:07:00.030+03:00

my darling,
do you remember that quaintly-painted day
when we decided to join their side,
them the disdainful and the alienated?

how arrogant of us, dear one,
to laugh in the face of the inventors of limits,
to applaud the architects of chaos,
to develop our own language,
to reconstruct senses and humour
and exalt the science of delusion.

back then we didn't know
that they would ensnare us with their gross fingers
from the depths of our silent submerge,
that they would tie our legs to the atrocities of routine and void
and spitefully stir us from the warmth of our abyss,
leaving us barefoot in cold chambers.

how absurd of us, the delirious strangers,
to turn into midday ghosts with loaded guns on their shoulders ,
to exhaust our heads with suffocation and claustrophobia,
yet continue to dementedly return to our self-induced captivity
of iron, noise, collapse and disruption.

and maybe we should give them some credit
and start worrying more
that our minds are becoming
feeble playgrounds of explosions and wars,
but believe me, my darling, we'd be dreadfully bored otherwise...

the devil

2009-05-29T10:05:00.008+03:00

this gentleman with peculiar manners visits me from time to time. in fact, he's always been a frequent guest, either form he chose to make his appearance: that of a magician, that of an uninvited foe or that of a secret lover. he's a whimsical one, this gentleman: sometimes he greets me gallantly with his joker smile, offers me red wine or invites me to dance, other times he simply dismays me with some of his ill manners, like sudden spurts of vulgarity, certain obnoxious remarks or his delight to guide me by the hand through repelling vacant corridors and disappear when least expected. in fact, I've always quite questioned his sense of humour. the strangest thing is that, either mad or enchanted, frightened or seduced, I know that if I turn around I'll always find him right there behind me, curiously observing me while lighting his cigarette. somehow, he's my most faithful of lovers...

troubled sleep

2009-05-29T10:01:00.007+03:00

I think there's someone living under my eyelids,
drawing red scratches inside with long nails,
a fractious friend and a delusion-linked stranger,
of those night encounters that just spite your armour.
and these red scratches,
they're the needles that stumble in my steps
and dishevel my gestures.
and I'm forgotten dismantled in darkened corridors
while they loosely drag my body
through hours, days and weeks.
and so shapes forget their purpose
and syllables crumble heavily around me
while I lurk ghostly through damp photographs,
wearing my eyes half-open,
languid and unarmored,
never fully able to grasp the sharp lines of reality
nor the dainty curves of sleep,
always incoherent, weary, awaiting,
numbering each and each step and clock beat
or staring blankly at my wet traces on the bathroom floor.
and one might say, such a covetous urge,
to have your poignant playground, you, an uninvited guest,
but I know about his disquieted nights
and his very own drops of agony that he drinks,
for I've met him once or twice,
skating in circles on the very same thin ice,
unsettled by the strain of his own heavy eyelids,
scratched by other long fingers,
tired, sore and frantic
in their very own
troubled sleep.

a friend

2009-05-29T10:00:00.006+03:00

my friend,
she's drawn in black ink and high contrasts
and speaks a dreadful alphabet.
she writes in blood on worn out paper,
then bites her lips and burns her fingers.

my friend,
she forgets names and faces
and draws atrocities on dirty mirrors.
she never looks into my eyes,
but sticks her hand in mine in mute intrusion
always forgetting to let it go.

my friend,
she never asks, nor answers,
nor offers, nor demands,
she only sticks her fingers deeper and deeper,
one by one, five needles in my palm,
never really understood why...

[an encounter]

2009-05-29T09:59:00.022+03:00

you jounced into me on the stairs again,
I missed the train and scratched a knee,
but I resided fixed in your unearthly gaze,
your strange warmth pierced through my skin.

I shut my eyes and dismissed everything,
as it was all fractious and meaningless.

yet you forgot me there again
and I denied you once more.

and so emerged another morning suicide
and I envisioned the many more gray boulevards
where I'd hunt for your semblance and you'd repel me with insolence
or you'd utter my name and I'd return a sardonic sneer.

but I fucking swear,
one day I will drink all of your colors,
one day I will possess you and lock you inside me.

april, 3

2009-05-29T09:58:00.000+03:00

I dreamt of you again last night. this time, you asked me to stay awhile longer, you said on an eerie night like this it's a pity to return so early between my blue painted walls. we watched the shadowplay once more and there I found myself again, shivering in my small bones, trying to drain every drop of the warmth of your strange unfamiliarity from the cold top of your long fingers. so violently you were substracting me in your pieces of disquieting revery, while I, I wanted to gradually dissolve in tiny fragments and silently succumb through every pore of your skin of that unsettling pale, as unearthly and lightly as midnight air. and maybe you'd have stayed for one more number, hadn't we only existed between seconds and eyelids.

[lesson of the day]

2009-05-29T09:57:00.005+03:00

you're not the slightest bit
human
until you've found yourself
rashly exposed
to the fierce vulgarity
of certain mornings.

more moths, more void mornings

2009-05-29T09:52:00.008+03:00

I'll remember you.

(...the mild, unblemished equilibrum of your deftly-entwined pieces, your presence so light and winsome that for a second I believe I can swallow it with my inky eyelids like a warm flicker in my discordant molecules, but in a blink of an eye I watch it crash and loudly disensemble into millions of sharp meshes, like a puny glass piece thrown from an unbearable height, somewhere in the grey, foggy space between myself and my body.)

there's embers in your lobby

2009-05-29T09:51:00.011+03:00

let me tell you about dust before you shoot me down. these days get the taste of white spaces and burnt fingers. it's nobody's fault, we don't get to choose our place in the chain and you know it just as well. and so you drew a line from the beginning to the end without the mere awareness that a single door scratch could be a morning car crash, a papercut apocalypse for one who's only tasted silence.
have you ever been down here? leave the words outside, there's just more pieces of the puzzle vanishing before you as you try to catch a faint trail of that strangely sweet moment when all the sequences would fit, blindly holding to one last second of lying to yourself it was your story this time.
...and when it's 2 a.m and you're lying on the floor with that same song flooding from your headphones to every inch of your tired veins, that's because you don't want to go back there, at least not tonight, at least not tomorrow morning...
and so I know, right now if I step outside, there's just more dust and walls and madness.
it's just that, mind-linked stranger, days like these get so fucking cold...

apathy and elevators

2009-05-29T09:51:00.010+03:00

I swear I'm seeing spots between the gray and the yellow, like those dark summers of infant madness when we drown in stale air.
...the girl's a strange machine, she wears her brain between her collar bones, silently succumbing to dust in those long sequences of apathy and elevators...
I've got a yellow string and an atom bomb in my throat. it's one of those overorganic days of dancing disease, someone must have placed the knife in the wrong position...and those electric flies, they've been drowning there for days, humming around that one point where the spirals collide...
...just before the machine stops and I lose it once more...

at close quarters

2009-05-29T09:50:00.025+03:00

"...on the tenth floor, down the back stairs..."

I could never precisely recall the place or moment when I became aware of the unfamiliar presence that lived and breathed underneath, the little arsonist trapped behind the iron bars of my own prison. he was a little liar, my arsonist, and found a dissolute delight in dangling me by strings and directing my impulses with a sharp precision. an acquired taste, just like me.

but sometimes we spent hours together, drinking our small cups of black tea, secretly fantasizing sweet drops of freedom. for we understood each other, the arsonist and me, two liars with the purest intentions. and what is more, we both knew there was no need or reason to make sense. the lights were on, but the curtains were always pulled shut. never let a stranger inside your head.

...but then it came back to me, the raw piercing of a sudden burn, and I knew it was him, my arsonist, for I could hear him screaming, driven by rage under the oppression of his remote captivity, the covetous victim who got a matchbox for his birthday...