Category Archives: Poetry

Asperger’s, the desperately beautiful trap of my soul…

I feel again and again, like my soul is trapped in a desperately, beautiful way in this song…

According to the “world”, I live with Asperger’s; the world with which I feel like communicating the way this transcendent performance does, in a desperate attempt to make myself understood without being hurt, again and again, silently attempting to contort my hand-branches into what I can’t ever say, but I would so much want “the world” to understand…

All the small greatness of a perpetual child, condemned to never grow older than the sap flowing behind the skin-bark “the world” can see.

If I have ever had a mirrored image, it’s this…

Defiantly refusing to hate my soul’s small room, never willing to leave the silent perfection of my perfect loneliness, cleansing nevertheless every day the window meant for anyone to look through, hoping that one day someone shall notice my waving branches and the small fruit growing atop my roots…

Please, if anyone enters, sit silently on my bed and dream my thoughts together with me, touch me not beyond your eyes, as I’ve left myself nearly naked hoping you’d understand what I can’t say.

And when you leave, cover me; don’t let ageing leaves ever scratch the silent story my bare skin would dream with you tomorrow, if you might return…

I’m forever grateful to Idan Raichel, for bringing together “me”, with my “self” in this performance, so I can ‘feel’ at least sometimes, myself


Where clouds merge…

Mad-Max-Fury-Road-Trailer-2-22-1280x532 (2)

Too late to paint the shades of darkness;

it’s after midnight, don’t you know?

So many wounds, and so much harshness,

of deaths outrunning lives too slow…


Do we remember our own image mirrored,

the smell of revenge on edges of time,

of tenderness scarred and hopes littered,

of poems unworthy of paper and rhyme?


Is this the end of all our beginnings?

Impossible lyrics to unwritten songs;

factual statements for obvious meanings,

no rights in the graveyards of all our wrongs…

Shelves to nowhere…



I need one more day to remember tomorrow,

a page underneath old volumes of pain,

stolen perhaps from where’s nothing to borrow,

oblivious libraries of not much to gain…


Pacing intrigued through shelves to nowhere,

wars of empires coveting gold,

buried beneath my belonging to somewhere,

echoes and voices of stories untold…


Stay where you are, impossible dancer,

blind choreography of a footless shoe,

growing a handful of hopes like a cancer,

a mirror between your image and you…


Tired and selfish at nobody’s table,

condemned to repeat your only dream,

able to live, to die unable,

vanished crescendo of a voiceless scream…

A metric analysis of impossible rhymes…

Flaming sword Eugène_Ferdinand_Victor_Delacroix

Life’s like a lobotomised impression
inside a golden skull;
too cheap to bury,
too expensive to keep.
A Stradivari of motionless complexities,
all sailing south, monstrosities,
as forbidden banners of condemned rebellions…
Tied to the mast of someone else’s travels,
on sleepless waves of no more dreams to catch,
blinded lighthouses
towering over shipwrecked carcasses
still flickering inside
the cheapest postcard of a better world,
conscripts of chemical genocides
fought over ivory ashes
of forbidden rattles
echoing impractical Edens.

The flaming sword is still there,
a metric analysis,
of impossible times…

Amazing traces…

Please watch before reading, and listen while you read:

The Idan Raichel Project – Hakol Over (Everything passes)

Idan Raichel clip 2

I need you to dream the colour of spaces,
the time between midnight, tomorrow and trees,
I beg you to fathom amazing traces,
layers of clouds returning to seas…

I dare you to picture small shells of forgiveness,
buried within improbable fields,
requiems sold to merchants of stillness,
swordless battles of useless shields…

I want us to marry in a destitute chapel,
by ministers chanting untimely hymns,
with broken pieces of soft marble,
exchanging a lifetime of broken dreams…

Abandoned eagles…


A flow of matter,
crossing bridges
paved with idle rivers,
of constant wars between no sides,
for kings and kingdoms rather old…
How bitter all the odds,
when knights die young
and simply for no reason,
alone with horses
mourning by their sides,
while all the humble flowers
of each season,
spell intricate mementoes
on their hides…

How strange each morning,
when misty eyes set memories
on fragile pages of honesty.
Uprooted trees of good
and bad, and life and evils,
abandoned eagles,
nesting in my chest…

Rejoice my queen,
you’ve got no symptoms
of anything to give you rest;
I’ve got some tea, you bring the branches
of something better,
never best…

To my autistic diary…


When its motion stopped,
I realised that my circle of life
became an insignificant spot,
desperate, frightened, alone,
like a tired fire juggler
abandoned by an audience
too dull to notice
the beauty of the single detail
constructing their illusion…

“How odd” he said,
“In vitro, every now and then
becomes a schism
embedded deep between
what’s left, and yet to be…”

Streets become discontinued cobbles,
trees become ungerminated seeds,
all birds remain abandoned egg shells,
and every life’s a single heart’s
unfinished tapestry of beats…