Is this nostalgically sentimental or sentimentally nostalgic that I believe that the trees which laid their kind shadow on us are our only mutual friends in real world?
Whisper the answer in nocturnal silence of your house. I would hear that. I would...for sure.
Cell phone inbox is full,
I type your SMSes in a file,
As tears circle in my eyes.
For eight years and two weeks,
I escaped death,
escaped to see today,
escaped to see her at a red table,
under the dull yellow light of a placstic-wrapped sun.
for eight years and two weeks,
I escaped.
Sure,
I would, to see another day like this,
Sure.
One by one,
Their bones fracture,
Their bodies give in to pure pain,
And the ears get used to cries of agony raising,
Then,
Their long-time departed souls,
Reach out from depths of aeons,
Leave the mist on me,
While the cement hardens.
The big crystal cup fell,
Broke,
Wounded my hand,
There,
Between the thumb and the index,
Lied the yawning wound,
Deep and bloodless.
People swarmed around,
Trying to help.
"I'm exhausted…"
I said,
"…please let me sleep",
I said and fainted.
The city is metal cozy,
Streets are blacktop clean,
People are Fluoxetine sane,
Sleep well,
Asphalt buried, in the middle of the highway,
Rests my childhood playground.
When snow falls,
The world gets clean,
The sidewalks less cruel.
The child inside wants to play.
Let him play.
Let her play.
It's all passing
But the wishes remain,
May mercury stay ever-falling.
Our seas are rough,
Days numbered,
Miles stoned,
Bricks fitted.
What else to wait for?
Let's count;
Days, miles, bricks…
Just count,
And never ever look back.
The essence was within
The perplexed geometry of hope.
You've cut,
But,
No blood
Pineapples falling.
Darkness poured on the paper
The rage was already started.
You are not enough for yourself.
You've wanted it fancied.
You've fancied it wanted.
You are not enough for yourslef.
You like to hide me?
like a stolen apple from Eden?
like a tomato for a president?
like something to be enjoyed alone?
no complaints!
only warnings!
Be ware,
the price is good,
the cost is high.
Mornings, mine.
evenings, him.
oh! Burn the hours!
burn the calendars!
the Hijries
the Solars
the Gregorians
burn it all!
I have a black-hole inside.
Amnesia overdrive
Near the paraphilia ride
For a surf over the depression tide
Fool!
Leave your pervert rhyme
Your homosapiens is overthrown
So
Get drowned!
Get dawned!
Get sheltered in books
Within the lines and binds
Oh! Blessed is the mother of words,
Holy and heathen,
Who in her shadows
We call our demons.
It's 26th
inside the train
reseed the sorrow grain
Dreamt of offlines
where the steel scatters moan
all the night it would burn
It's 28th
beside the digi-lover
you look all the dust over
See the offlines you've dreamt of
you were rubbed by the psycho
and your soul are not yours anymore
"I amar prestar aen..."*
That is what I've learnt from the eyes
A voice can always tell lies
Wheter in moans, whispers and cries
No chance
Close your eyes when the aeon myst glows
Let the reality slip from fake embraces and empty smiles.
You were like a billboard; sexy and steel cold, with all the colorful
majesty, all the highness and elegance, Busy with the lights on-lights off
business. Everybody knows that a billboard doesn't need an admirer by
nature, and sorrowfully naturally I was one.
Talking of motion,
bizarreness is the orchestration
Trio, the perversion
And duet, the shared loneliness
But thou,
The unreal posthuman angel!
You keep the solo going
As the burning in me growing
So your rise and falls
Saw my wounds ever-bleeding...