To.
Tag Archives: Fiction & Poetry
Metalhead
Red lights devour the earthly silence,
crushed bits of half scribbled lyrics
lie all over the floor consumed by the unseen darkness.
the smell of the warm untouched beer disappears
as I hear someone scream with an agony and a common distaste
for this sinking society, for wars, for people,
on my speakers.
It is a gift sometimes
when after a shitty tiring day
you don’t have to scream your lungs
out, you don’t have to thrash things,
you don’t have to think of death:
someone records and does it for you.
You just have to listen.
I believe there is no god,
just a few men and women
who show us the death, without the fear
tickling our spine through their dark
melodies and works.
I live another new day,
I hide another terrible scream,
I switch to the next song.
I am a Metal-Head.
Dostoevsky
This guy got me thinking,
through delirium and despair
with sprinkles of madness over
a flesh with a weak heart sewed
over layers of hope.
the ones who write about uncertainty,
death and creating hope out of it are the real writers that made me feel something.
Dostoevsky was the zenith of it.
The Rest writers nowadays are selling themselves, mushrooming like burger joints, using layers of cheesy love and regret to get noticed.
Ashes of the Asylum
Even the benevolent breeze
spares the scattered ashes
of what was once an asylum
for flesh and bones trapped
within wandering souls.
They told me in school
that red and green fuses to yellow
but all I can see are the dark ashes,
the remains of the magnificent tree.
The birds cannot rest,
the dogs are dying of heat
and I can’t write my poems,
for I was a patient of that asylum,
it caressed my sanity every evening.
My poems have nowhere to go,
they don’t hide in the branches as they used to,
now they hide within me
and I hide inside them.
Hershey’s
It is the death of light,
no one mourns.
artificial corpses
of plastic and white
reanimate the dead.
vapors of warm air
caress us.
Our souls
have returned back
through their
meaningless voyages.
We lie down, naked.
and entertain the ceiling fan.
Your breasts have a thousand
ways of loving me
yet they lie still,
We are drowned in unseen realities.
I spread Hershey’s all over you,
from lips to wondrous thighs.
I start from lips.
You tremble like a mutilated animal.
I kiss your cleavage.
You tempt me like the morning sun.
I lick your nipples.
You abhor the wait as grasses do for the warm rain.
Minutes grows to hours,
as you take my hands between your legs.
For you turn to God.
the one who abolishes time.
Revering the satanic touch
of the person who once disavowed
the warm body of yours.
At Last – Ballad.
The Mirrors tremble by the winds,
the beginning of the ends draw near,
with footsteps, she slithers in the mansion
lighting all the beautiful chandeliers.
A hymn echoes out of nowhere
and my bones now shiver with dread.
For I do not see even a shadow in sight
But I do smell her lips crome-red.
I pray to all the gods,
the very ones, I once disavowed.
For a death that would be a blessing,
for the heart that was once too proud.
Lightning pierces the dry bark of the trees,
the fire leaves the poor animals aghast,
She laughs at me finally in a veil of white terror,
and I meet her in this afterlife at last.
A 4 Euro Smile
I frantically search it
in the mirrors,
it isn’t there.
Dusted family albums
leaves no trace of it.
I remember well,
I did not leave it outside last night.
I wasn’t that drunk.
My dog cannot search it,
he stupidly barks.
The Beer does not bring it back
nor does the water,
neither does the chocolates
this light and the darkness,
the sun and the moons,
my entire childhood,
they have no answers,
no fucking clue.
But only one question for me.
Why don’t you just buy it again?
– Smile.
A Mask of Happiness.
A Breeze of Contentment.
A Light of Hope.
A Kiss of Success.
Just buy it.
Fake it.
Live it.
As you do it every other day.
Writings to Heaven 