Tag Archives: thoughts

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…

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…



It’s not important to remember days, and wonder
why has our time become so slow;
it doesn’t matter anymore if there’s no thunder,
after the rain, before the bow…

It matters not why in our backyard’s desert,
there are no camels and the Bedouins have left;
what truly matters is a sense of water,
illusion wildly clenching to my chest…

Tired, alone and ravaged by disasters,
battled by winds having no taste of sea,
sold by myself to unforgiving masters,
too thin to die, too obvious to see…

In no-man’s land they’re selling cheap allotments,
graveyards to be, or not to be;
some weird biochemical arrangements,
for my abandoned christmas tree…

memento mori…

As time goes by,
slowly becomes
eternity’s pathetic

Orwellian 1


It came
as an unexpected shock for many,
the Plenty minister’s decree:
no ordinary party member
shall wear neither boots nor socks
the production of tables
shall be replaced by the production
of floors.
It came
as an unexpected shock for few,
the Love minister’s decree:
all ordinary party members
shall have a pair of opposite toes
severed upon everyday entrance to places of work;
medical assistance shall be provided
for supervising inner party members’
It came
as an expected shock for all,
the falling always forward
upon fifth arrival at places of work.
It came
as usual,
the Care minister’s decree:
all crawling party members
are forbidden of using
their teeth for on-floor advancement;
it may cause unnecessary damages to floors
and party uniforms.
It came
as an unmerited privilege,
the Education minister’s decree:
ordinary party members
are expected to participate in
The Party’s Got Talent;
winners shall be honoured starring in
the Newfilm version of
“Chariots of Fire”…

Post-non-apocalyptic, psychoanalyric therapy session…

ATTENTION: The shown image and text are NOT an invitation to action! Please read responsibly, at your own risk!

It’s 2013, following the End of the World/Year, with hoards of zombie-like survivors hangovering wind-blown, empty streets, littered with the scattered remains of what was once The Great Late Year 2012…
Only the prepared ones seem to have escaped the horrible, judgement-like display of fire(work)s falling from the skies, by taking shelter under shadowy living room tables, looking for what has been once, their complete cutlery…

Nothing’s functioning properly anymore, only mobile phones seem to heroically stand against longer and longer episodes of silence…
Television sets stare back blank at disillusioned bloodthirsty ps3 players holding in their motion-control shaped hands what were once games, bearing grandpa’s horrible false-teeth’s bite marks, all because “they” refused to “f*****g play ub40″…

No kitchen’s gonna ever be what’s been before, safe harbour for biological fugitives, on their last, oven-through way to, roast with winter veg silence of the lambs…

Not even the little ones have escaped… Gummy bears, gingerbread tiny little ones embraced in a last attempt to escape grinding raspberry, apple, cranberry and bramble soaked teeth…

Forever stuck in a half-dry puddle of regurgitated red wine on the doorstep between the living and the bathroom a sandal, eternal memento for all those whose inner peace failed on the short distance between the porcelain white of their teeth, and that of the toilet seat’s…

Because only on the bent backs of others we do learn the intricate, sparkling design narrowly stretching between our bleeding foreheads and the bathroom wall’s tiles…

Ars Poetica …


it’s so hard
to live like a cube
when the square
hasn’t been invented yet…