Above the Ferns

I´ll embrace my little light

That is, the shadow of a good man

It is fractal it is broken

But it never tells you lies

The very truth of my existence

is written in the web of time

Now I’m hanging from an oak branch

As I’ve lost what’s really mine

Poor Little Spirit

Can you hear the constant buzzing?

It is the buzzing of the bees.

I’ve become a golden cloud

inside the droplets of the breeze

I am minimal yet omnipresent

I am many yet I am one

I am seeking for my lover

I am looking for the sun.

The Reverse Year

I want to lose my sense of self.

I am dead below you and alive above you

But I’m never with you.

No, I have never met you,

Nor do I expect that to happen soon. If ever.

But aren’t you beautiful?

The impersonation of a summer sky?

The incarnation of the intoxicated sleepiness

of the season of blooms?

You are the ice cold beauty of winter,

BENEATH MY FEET, under the frozen surface,

Always watching, always spying on me.

Or you might be hidden in your lair,

In your burrow, in the trunk of a tree,

Sleeping amongst the fallen autumn foliage

Changing colours constantly.

Angel Lord

I am drifting to sleep

like a cat, in the lap

of my angel lord

He towers above mortals

I’m just a child in his arms

I feed of his everlasting life force.

His beauty quenches my thirst.

His gaze nurtures my soul

I have fallen asleep.

Little Nocturnal Verses

I don't hold a grudge against you

But still, art cannot satisfy my current needs.

                      ***

The keys are pressed

But it’s all in my head

It’s getting closer.

I stumbled upon one last trace.

                      ***

Are you the storm, the wind, the hurricane?

Are you the whistling through the stone,

or deep in the underground caverns?

Where can I find you?

In the leaves, the woods, the hill tops?

                      ***

Good morning, you’re looking good today.

But can we survive the sunrise?

Can properly I translate my feelings into words?

Will I grow into a young man before I wither and die?

Will I ever stop being this sad pathetic excuse of a poet?

                      ***

Yeah, follow the wave. The wave is real.

The tide has arrived, and it is guaranteed

that I won’t be misled by the underwater stream.

                      ***

The distant love that I never had

is not responsible.

I am responsible for being

The dry husk that I am.

                     ***

Dig a hole into the beach

And make sure it’s five feet deep

Bury me beneath the sand

Save for once this troubled land

But beforehand, hold me.

Hold me like you never did before,

Because that is all I ever longed for,

For eternity.

Goodbye.

Termitary

It takes 12 months to make a ‘person’

The procedure is very simple

But the inception can be relatively dangerous.

The only thing that was left of me was a nail

And some bones, from the spine.

They were carefully placed each in its own special part

of a so called complicated metallic device

And then, a hologram was projected around them.

Imagine, I had been living in such a body for quite a while.

Now I am upgraded. I am more, even though I still suffer

 from lack of short term memory.

Next time I notice someone trapping such beautiful colours

In a plastic glass cage,

I swear, I am going to blow up this ugly building.

They insist that I have to compromise,

Even though I am the most patient thing in the world.

Because in the meanwhile I have grown.

I am not mindless. I am beyond understanding; I am inconceivable.

Those termites are unable to lift me.

They want to carry me to their tower,

Because I am too large to fit in their underground tunnels.

And the words that they are mumbling in my face

are in the wrong tongue; I never spoke proper human.

I don’t bother anymore.

Beware Of...

Be wise.

Do not attempt to invade the realm of the loser.

His claws are sharp, his poison instant. Not.

He is a cat, the king of procrastinators.

Because he cannot take any more of your sh*t.

Clad in faded blue paper, he seems worn out.

He is focusing on the words dancing in the air, before his eyes.

It is the only available entertainment.

He cannot eat the flies. Nobody does that in his town.

Occasionally he writes, to prevent feeling useless, a waste of resources.

But his friends are his secret rivals.

He feels 5.

The greatest fear lurks under his bed,

He cannot let them show that they’re better.

Today he bought cold coffee, and tomorrow he will do the same.

But by whom was the wallpaper torn?

He is still trying to expand his vocabulary.

Will they come? If yes, when? Everything has disappeared.

THE BLACK HOLE IS A CREATURE OF FLESH AND BLOOD.

It feeds on things. It feeds on you. 

No time for delay. SCREAM god dammit, SCREAM

We Dwell in Forever

It is not just because you make me feel valuable.

I love you for you are the host.

They all depend on you even though they are afraid to admit it.

I am caught in the web of the spider.

My pleading is genuine.

Please, do not abandon me.

The first visitor

Good Morning,

Congratulations, you are the first visitor.
My doorstep is filled with sunlight, and I am bathing in bliss.
But I just had a false awakening. How ironic.
These lines are getting disturbing.
The light is sharp, the air is clean, the sound is that of crystal.
The doorbell rang. I hope this time for is to be real.
Surprise. Here is the first visitor.
Before he utters the slightest sound, I find myself in bed.
The sheets look miserably white.
One day I hope to get visited by an animal.
I run down the stairs filled with hope, from head to toe.
Oh here you are. The first visitor. Noise.
I was wrong. Another sound from the basement.
There is no basement.
Analyzing is sad. I am stuck in a loop.
I just had three false awakenings,
and I am not a loner by choice.

My name is Ghost.

Tonight I’m very exited. My hair is greasy and my feet are cold. I even pretend that there’s a star looking down on me. The sky is reversed, yes, the colours are right. My clothes are tight. Tonight I’m also amused. The music’s piercing through my head, too long, too loud, too fast. Too familiar. I'm in the middle of a battle and I keep avoiding to fight.
 I’m just plain old fucking tired. Poetry makes facts sound more interesting than they really are. Let’s just throw it into the trash. That’s where it all belongs. It is pretentious, just like the rest.
It is preposterous. All hope is preposterous. Today, I am as fake as I can be.

At least nothing can stop me from roaming in the cyberspace. See, I’ve become part of it. I’m a dot. My real name is written in 0s and 1s. And do not bitch about the past my friend. You weren’t even born then. On the contrary I live then. There is no way of finishing this. Don’t dare try. I was made an invisible presence, a ghost.. I am always irrelevant. You will be disappointed.

....N00b pencil artwork....

This is my own hidden garbage.

I am a muse

I am a mutant

I am the child who pretends he doesn't care

The overcast sky, seems threatening today

But I enjoy dancing in the rain--, ok, not really.

Sometimes the world seems to be a big dull dream

and it feels like I'm the only one who's real

to deal with all the paradoxes messing with my brain.

I will gain nothing.

Might be insane

As he laid they made some gore

There is nothing now to know

Pull the trigger, shoot some brains,

but first ask him the right things

The contemporary child

took some steps into the wild

like a locked freak in a cage

he resembles something strange

as he doesn't feel the shame

there's a chance he might be insane

as he lies he feels so sure

that they will reap what they've sown

He changed his views 'cause he has known

that he never liked the show

Not necesserily bad

that we're naturally so mad

Changed his views and broke their law

there is nothing now to know

shaking body trembling hands

they wouldn't even understand

01# Death In the Desert

 

 

The land is empty, except for the vultures: they are having a feast.
There is a figure in the edge of perception, unseen, watching the scene.

Cristobal's body is an empty shell. His personality is no more. He is dead, forever gone. Some might say that he was taken far away by the sun god, now roaming in inaccessible realms.

Johan is waiting for the crops to grow. He has created an imaginary Eden in the middle of the desert. He lets himself believe that he is right to be worried. Because if the crops die, the black feathered monsters will come to him very soon; he is terrified of them.

The big black bird tears one last piece from the rather fresh flesh of the tired carcass. There has never been time for decay.
His carrion eating brothers are landing on the quiet heat of the desert sand. The earth is boiling silently. The sand is humming incoherent, inarticulate chants but all living limbs are deaf to its unworldly euphony.

Johan is sitting on a large rock. As always, he is pondering. He will never leave here and the place wont leave him either. He is to be part of this place. How he got here, he cannot remember. There is not the slightest grain of memory left in him. There are no footprints left from ghostly past figures.

Most likely, he is alone. He does not have any knowledge of the future. But who does anyway? Perhaps there is no future. He will probably die.
In that case it is inevitable that the vultures will come to him. Everybody gets visited by the birds sometime in their lifetime. He is no exception.

Johan cannot lift his hands in the sky and pray to the sun, because he knows that he will be disappointed by the lack of response. The sun comes only to those who are ready to leave. To those who have reached the edge. Maybe Johan can survive for a few more days, because no one can harm him the way he is -silent and still as the environment that surrounds him, matching the rock he is sitting on at the moment. No one can harm something that is as non-living-yet alive- as him.

But he has the right to choose to believe that the crops will grow, that he will gather the harvest- although deep inside he knows that he never sowed any seeds in this barren earth. He can secretly understand that there is no running water in this desolate wasteland. The sprouts are incapable of dying, because they are not even there and they have never been.
Sooner or later the vultures will sense him. They will come to him. He knew it before. But he couldn't let himself believe it.

The Pine

I was born in the roots
with a tiny bright coil
and i made it through life
in the deep damp red soil

the root bark was thick
home to the insects
but it still was ok
almost safe for ten inches

But then i was sent up
when the world was to me new
and with cruel tenderness
i was told to continue

So i tried to climb up
I found things to hold on to
but the view was a bore
i kept only what i wanted to

Then we met in a square
in the heart of ten million
and we ran far away
to save ourseves from oblivion

We got fucked up by plagues
fighting with catterpillars
feasting on the green leaves
on a bed with no pillows

You got stuck with the rest
somewhere there in the middle
i got sick by the pests
figuring out the riddles

then i climbed up the stems
and i hang from the branches
and i gave you my hand
because we still had chances

and we sated our thirst
with the juice of the fruit
but THE ANGELS  were DEAD
and THE SERPENT WAS MUTE

At some point winter came
with the frosts all along
I was told to move on
but I didn't want to go

So they cut it all down
burned it 'til it became ashes
and they threw it all away because
they'd wasted all their matches

but i had kept a seed
and i buried it in the ground
just two inches deep
so that it could not be found

then a seedling was there
it was a little green sprout
but this time it was not the same
and i wasn't yet done

So i prayed and asked from God
that i may never be born again
because life was a rot
and i couldn't bear the shame

So i SHOUTED OH GOD
I don't want to live again!
because life is a rot!
and I can't bear the pain

HYPNAGOGIA

 

Loud talking crowd in a market 

The sound of a pentatonic melody.

''Ladies and gentlemen!

This is the amazing knokokodile''

Oh, that makes sense? Yes.

A choir of angelic voices singing

you forgot your body back on earth

Where is the flute so that I can pay the fishes?
They only cost three zundred moons.

Deep down the bottom of unconscious

A strange euphoria fills you up

A blue tornado of swirling motions

You fly in the ether

out of bounds.

The cook again! the sun has opened

A spouting fountain hits the sky

The golden Phoenix plays with motion

The King of stars plays tricks on your mind

In orbit of the old dimensions,

the mental sing song is alive

all vivid patterning complexions

and sounds of ages coming up

The realm of no time is emerging

all moons explode in cosmic blast

The dragon and the savage tiger

will walk in circles in the sky, 

                                          again.

The Mountain

The Mountain is waking
its breath black and heavy
I'm losing devotion
they 've killed my emotions
 I'm falling in the void
Here die all my visions
The longing for all joy
is meant to be destroyed
the mountain is screaming
and fire it's bleeding
collect your belongings
forget your old longings
we drown in the essence
of poison and madness
they fed all the liars
so i jumped in the fire
and your're still fighting in the other side...
why are you, fighting in the wrong side..