The gallery is closing soon,
hurry up,
don't say you will come
another time.

I bet you want to see "Sunflowers".
You say you can wait.

You can? Okay, but
what if they can't?

If I married Lady Middleton
king's court would be my new home,
and Fame would be my new name.
To serve her would be my new job,
I'd spent my days on trying hard
to satisfy her heart,
counting on single touch or kiss,
dreaming of anything more than that,
trying to melt her coldest heart. Paying clowns
to entertain me, make me forget about
sorrow and pain and solitude.
Letting my servant wipe my tears,
playing chess with myself,
talking to dogs and monkeys, not listened by her.
My hair would go gray, my eyes'd get hollowed,
My wallet would be thick and I'd be a royal like,
a married to the lady from the upper class,
but I wouldn't know what's love, what's joy,
I'd kiss the pillow, sleep alone.
No, I won't marry Lady Middleton, no way.

I will marry the fisherman's daughter Belle,
simple but very beautiful girl,
she won't lead me on, or play mind games,
she'll be my sea, I'll be her fisherman.
I'll live with her in a dock town house,
enjoying simple - though sometimes hard - life.
Kissing her, cuddling, caressing,
and when the night comes, *******
and having time of our life in bed.
With a smile on my face, happiness in my heart,
never in sorrow, in pain.

I've made my decision, I'll marry
the fisherman's daughter Belle.

As long as you
play dead,
you'll be alive.

Who needs another saint?
Not ***** Holly, she's doing okay
without them. Her ***** is home to many men,
her ******* brought thousands dead to life,
Her mouth and her ***
do miracles! And she always says: I should be saint!
I deserved it, for ******' sake!

Who needs another saint?
Not Jake, a murderer,
no one and nothing can help him.
And he can't help himself. He tried twice,
but he failed. The rope wasn't strong enough.
He hates saints. He says it's them
who make him a sinner. A murderer. He says
they tapped the rope.
Who needs another saint then?

Pope.

The sun is out, the sky is blue,
but Summer, Summer, oh, where are you?

Girls are wearing light dresses, they are see-through,
in a busy gardens flowers shine and bloom,
but Summer, Summer, oh, where are you?

Elderly men are sitting in the park,
secretly watching women walking by,
drinking their coffees, so ready to die.

Children are enjoying sunshine,
jumping and dancing in the square,
but Summer, Summer, oh where are you,
where?

Unknown error has occurred,
unknown things started to happen,
unknown windows opened up
by an unknown applications.

Unknown pictures and descriptions,
from which unknown files emerged,
they got multiplied so quickly
in the very unknown way.

Unknown error has occurred
in a strangely unknown way.
If you need help press OK
if you wanna leave - press ESCAPE.

If you see black screen - please wait.

Oh, Princess,
I missed you like crazy,
dying of Winter cold,
graving.
I turned into shadow.

With your lips made of light
kiss me back to life,
save me.

How beautiful you are,
how bright green are your eyes,
and how sparkling are diamonds
in your tiara.
And your floral dress again
drives me
crazy.

Turn me
into cherry blossom tree.
Skylark me, robin me into the song,
iris me, moisten my stalk.
Breastfeed me day and night,
like a new born baby -
I am one.

Spring me, May me
one more time. Make me
young and free.

I asked my dead friend:
'Have you been to Heaven?'
Of course! - he exclaimed!
Many times. And you? 'Never...'

'How was it?' Nothing special 
 - he was quick to admit.
Overpriced, tourists trap.
I prefer it here, where I live.  

I asked: 'Are you serious?!'
He replied: Yes, my friend.

Then we went for a coffee.
It was a beautiful day.

They call me
a man,
a poet, a tree,
a river, a flower, a bird,
a stone. Rain
and sun.
But none of these names
is mine.

My name is Noname.
I was named after nothing
and no one.

Hello Sir,
how are you today?
We can offer you
a contract for life,
it's called
Pay As You Die.

You simply pay
in days, weeks and months,
7 days per week
or up to 31 days per month.
Simple as that.

You can also pay in advance:
365 or 366 days per year,
that's not a lot
taking under consideration
amount of time
you'll need to prepare yourself to die.

Also we can, for free,
help you to speed the things up,
you can gain a lot!

Let me know, please
are you okay with this?

Why not?

Sometimes I feel that when I was born,
someone else has ended their life unfinished,
cut too short.

I tried to turn it back, but it's really hard,
impossible in fact, to round it up and let it end,
it's too late now.

Sometimes it bothers me, it calls from within,
the unfinished life of someone
before me.

Sometimes I wish
I was never born,
but, well,
I somehow was.
So help me out
and build me house,
if you wanna stay in yours.

One day it will erupt
and turn this city into grave - I say.

No one believes a fortune-teller,
no one wants to face the fate.
They won’t leave Pompeii,
nothing can make them go,
there's no place like this
in the whole Rome.

Nothing will make them leave,
only fools run away from paradise.
They are singing and drinking wine,
girls are dancing and music's playing.

I wish I didn't know how it will end,
I wish I was one of them.

I'll pour some wine into the glass
and down it as fast as I can,
and then I'll have another one,
and another one.
I'll be singing with them, dancing.
I'll kiss a girl and then I'll sleep with her,

I will be trying to forget it.

Life is fair,
when the day is dying,
and I can see pigs flying
over Trafalgar Square.

The fountain is singing,
the drunkard is drinking,
the homeless sparechanging
the night.

Sir Nelson is chilling.
The busker is screaming
and blind men are dreaming
about light.

The moon is starwatching.
The buskers Beatlesing.

Im trafalgarsquare'ing
my rounded dreams
Nothing is as real as it seems.

Pop *****.
Pop smells bad.
Pop stinks actually.
Stinks like
dead.

His stinge is loud,
his thumping smell
reverberating,
turning neighbours' life
into death.

And no one in town
is concerned.

Pop is dead,
Rest In ****,
**** you came from,
**** you believed.

They hold me tight,
they kiss my lips,
my eyes.

When it's time to wake up
they say: "Don't worry,
stay in bed.
Keep dreaming,
keep dreaming,
don't let anyone wake you up."

Many times I wanted to face my demons,
but they never really wanted me to face them,
saying they are too busy or feel sick,
or finding an excuse and putting it off.
I always understood their decisions, letting them
live unfaced.

I suffered from the pain of their disruptive existance,
as I believed they are stronger than me and pigeon-hole me all the time.
I accepted their supremacy without a word of protest.

Within time I became sure that they avoid my presence
and that they actually have no power over my mind,
that there’s something wrong with them,
as they seemed to struggle to cope with me.
And that it's me who they are scared of, not the opposite.
They simply lived scary lives under the brave name:
not even demons - just a bunch of cowards.
Since I had realised that, I have never heard from them again.
They vanished and so did my fright and pain.

Someone
has robbed me yesterday,
has stolen my dream
of living in a world
where nothing is fake.

And I can see him,
he is everywhere,
all over the papers,
on the Internet.

I recognize
his innocent face.

Desire to
desire less -
like fire,
which burns my flesh

and soul.

He is a labourer.
He fills the skip,
he sweeps and cleans the studio,
he moves the boxes,
he wraps and packs,
he loads and unloads truck.
Nothing annoys him,
nothing ****** him off,
with a big smile on his face
he does his job.

He is a great labourer,
a happy chap.

Before you turn,
think twice,
feel thrice,
for there's no come back
from that.

No more handshakes,
no white flags,
no Sunday prayers,
children smiles.

Before you do,
think twice,
feel thrice,
for there's no come back
from that.

No man can turn back
the hands of time.
No god can.

No smile can turn back
the tears once run.
Nothing can cure
once broken heart.
Like chalk it breaks,
for life.

Before you turn,
press your right hand
to chest - left side,
and hear the beat.

The perfect sound.

Don't watch the clouds;
watch the sky.
I give this advice
to myself.

Rain, rain, rain and more rain,
my prayers were all in vain.
Maybe gods drink too much wine,
which then turns into water,
and then we curse the wet weather.
Some kind of anti-miracle.
It will never get hotter.

You won't understand
how it feels
to love.

You never loved,
you only calculate,
you only think.
You are never
on the brink. You never feel.

You won't understand how it is,
how man turns blind and then
how blind man turns man who can see.
You never felt this way,
you only think, and look
and calculate

what is good for you,
what is bad,
what is to remember,
what is to forget.

I hate you
for hating me,
I hope one day you will learn
and you will feel
how it is like
to love. One day
you will shed a tear, I hope. I bet.
Then you will speak to me,
you will look at me differently,
you will remember my name.

I'm sorry for you sometimes,
it must be sad
to separate the light from shadow
and shadow from the light
with one simple cut, one look
of the cold eyes.

You are never sorry for me,
but
I'm sorry for you sometimes.

Turn off the radio, listen carefully
what rain is trying to tell you.
Psst, focus now, don't breath,
rain is whispering you something.
But you have to be all ears
to hear it. Now, it's almost clear.
Rain is telling you its secret away.
Psst, it is whispering, letter by letter,
try to catch them and put them together
in a sound. It's clinking now quite loud,
now is your chance, or never.
If you don't get it now, it will be lost
forever.
Hang on,
and?
Oh, you've missed it out
now it's gone. But don't worry.
Not only you.

Try next time.
That's all you can do.

Two homeless in Dyatt Street
they asked me for money,
I said Sorry and wanted to leave,
but they stood in front of me,
I said: I don't know you. And they asked:
So who do you know?
I said nothing. I knew that might be it.

And I wanted to leave, I wanted them to let me go.
But I wasn't scared, no, I wasn't scared,
and they felt it, like dogs feel human's fear.

It was a one of a dark, narrow London streets,
evening, September 26th,
somehow no one was around.
They cornered me, and they could have done with me
anything they wanted. I heard them saying to each other:
Shall we **** this boy?

But they let me go,
they somehow let me go. Strange.
Maybe 'cause I wasn't scared of death,
'cause I was, kinda, one of them,
homeless, in a way,
someone who went through life's hell,
but not showing it, staying strong, brave,
hiding my secrets deep inside.
Maybe they realised
that I am one of them.

They let me go, ashamed.

The body I temporarily own,
I cherish and I adore -
it'll be taken from me,
I will become
free.

The eternity I crave,
my nothingness I try to escape -
she will offer the shelter for them.

To the mystery of life
she will find the clue,
and the child who will die in me,
in her belly will move.

I always open my mouth
in a wrong time,
in a wrong place.

It is:
All the time. Everywhere.

Not because I say outrageous things,
but because it's so easy to offend someone
nowadays.

Table for one, but it's okay,
I'm used to talk long hours with myself,
and many problems we solved, believe me or not,
many lives we saved, many wars we stopped.
Definitely more than those sitting by the table for two or for four.

Table for one, well,
It wasn't that hard like it might seem to be.
I acted so humble and he was understanding,
no shouting, no fights, no arguments,
no waste of time, no braging off and no proving
who's better. Just relaxed discussion, quiet eye in eye
- no eye for an eye, like barbarians do.
No unconditional hatred and no blood,
just silence, with short breaks for an open talk.
A monologue turning softly into dialogue.

I couldn't hurt him for he was myself,
like my best friend, my mother, son,
or even more than that!

Table for one,
now many want to join
to sit by and discuss the world's issues,
how to live in Peace with each other, and stuff.

Table for one, it's completely fine.
I'm used to sit at it and eat and read and sleep and cry.
Since the day I was born, that was entirely choice of mine.
I'm not saying I will save the world,
but I will try our best, I mean we will try.

They have children,
they have homes,
they have money,
they have jobs,
they have good cars,
and many more things they want to have.

I have paper and pen,
I have my poems,
that's enough.

I'm God,
I blow on the edges of world,
in the forgotten graveyards,
on deep and dangerous seas.
I travel across wide open fields, feeling free.

I create tornadoes and sandstorms,
and I'm proud of myself,
happiness fulfills my soul.
I'm a Lord of the world. I am God.

But when I meet a barrier,
when I bump into the rocks,
I am defeated.
Caught in the walls, embarrassed,
I blunder in disgrace.

They call him wild, untamed.
He doesn't belong to their world.
Too quiet
to be one of them.

He doesn't fit,
so they call him stranger,
someone who is a danger,
devilish, barbaric seed.
But he wouldn't **** a fly,
he is too shy to be
one of them.
Too shy to be.

They are scared of him,
because he doesn't fit
to their - barbaric - world.

No one cared
that there was an unattended bag on the train.
Staring at their phones, not looking around
what's going on,
raising heads only to see if it's their stop,
busy with Facebook notifications,
Instagram posts and youtube sensations,
commuting to work
from A to B,
half-******, half-asleep.
At 7am it's hard to be happy,
when you are going to work,
it's hard
to be something more
than a dumb, silent slave of the modern times.

No one cares about the unattended bag.
It's hard to give a ****,
when no one gives a ****.
You wanna talk to the driver? Good luck.

Someone noticed the bag, got a bit suspicious,
he looked around, and it was hard
to produce a word, to open his mouth,
to make all heads turn to him, all their eyes
have them fixed on you, when you are trying to explain
what's your concern.

There's no members of staff on the train anyway,
you don't wanna be late for work,
because of the stupid bag.

It's much easier to carry on
with staring at your phone,
not thinking of anything,
not getting paranoid about stuff.
It will spare you troubles in life.

This life feels like a prison,
but everything happens for a reason,
at least that is what they say.
All I can do is swallow my pride
and obey.

Until the guard will come to me one day,
and shout: Hey, you! You've done your time!
And now we have to take you away!
Okay?!

Okay.

There's a country where live
people who don't have their own place.
They travelled the world and never reached
their destination.

They were exiled, misplaced, not admitted
anywhere, drowned in their tiny boats,
shot by steel hearted guards.

There's a country, no one knows about,
like an island somewhere
in the middle of ocean,
yet never found.

Nothing is strange about this country,
except that it exists.

We all one day will arrive there,
it's the matter of time.

You say they're killing, they're drilling,
they're willing to steal it,
they're ******, they're blanking,
they're laughing, they're faking,
they're making a fool out of you and of me.

Are you saint then? You say that the satan has changed them
and you cast them with stones and you break their bones,
for they are digging graves, and they smile, laugh and they
when they're burying them alive and listening to their cry,
as it turns into howl and then turns into silence
and when the job is done, they're spitting on heir graves.
But you, are you saint then? Are you better than them,
would you be the one who would say no when asked
to say yes?

Would you hold your head high and be happy to die
for the truth and the freedom and justice?

Are you saint then? Why now
you won't blame anyone? Taking back what you've said,
chickening out.

At night,
when all sounds of life disperse
in universe of silence, in the distance I can hear
arising, painful scream of the earth,
like a howl of a pregnant woman
whose baby is being cut from her womb.
Unbearable howl.

It gradually dies
with the first ray of the morning light,
with an airplane engine through the sky,
with noise of cars, people's rushing steps in the street,
happily singing birds, and pop music
from a window.

My time has come before I haven't had. So I sat in Oxford Circus
and watched men without home as they were passing by,
taking pictures of big screen above us,
where Katie Hopkins smiles.

My time has come and I didn't ask why I haven't come yet.
Who is to ask? Who is to blame, when no one knows the name of the game,
they just want to play, play, plaaaay.

I headed down the Regent Street
where hundreds in store and out store mannequins
were making a fuss. And man on the bus I looked at,
he looked at me but it was more like a glance.
Don't you wanna look at, or look inside? It's waste of time?
OK, so bye. Enjoy your ride. You're not from here, I know. How?
I know it, right?

I'll better go back under Katie Hopkins's smile,
where high and dry and where I can wait me never coming,
watching like broken mirrors shine.

If there's no heaven, then fine, cause I've found mine.

Maybe it wasn't him,
who was making decisions,
maybe he was just filling the orders
of his supervisors.
What if there was bigger God above him?

Maybe he didn't know about anything,
nobody briefed him
on what was going on down here.

Wha if he is innocent
and can't take the responsibility
for injustice and pain?

What if he never had the right
to an advocate?

Running away from the barbaric land,
where eye-for-an-eye is the only law.
Running awayfrom the blind hatred of its people,
from my own home, which has been besieged.

Fleeing the wars and heartless bombs,
hollowed eyes and kidnapped souls.
Runnig away from prophets and preachers.
From life after life and death before death.

It's like discovering a ****** island,
inhabited by people who you thought never exist.
It's like finding a city buried by time,
hidden away from present tense.

A busker in front of the Abbey sings
"There must be some way outta here",
and every step I take along the glorious church,
every breath of a air I taste standing on Pulteney Bridge,
every second of the peaceful silence my soul fills up with
tells me
that there's no way out of here.

*28.08.2016

In a mirror, we always look older
and we believe that it lies.
We blame it for every wrinkle:
Okay then, you lie, but why?!

How rude of mirror to do so,
like literally in the face!?
We give it so much attention
and what in return? Disgrace!

Or perhaps we do look older
indeed, and it doesn't lie.
Perhaps we lie to ourselves
and maybe we know well why.

How can the king help you,
if he doesn't even know
that you exist?

I'd like to be
a nightingale.

Nightingales sing
the beauty of the night,
the moon, the stars,
and the starry light.

Unlike a man.
Man sleeps at night,
only snores to the stars,
only gasps to the moon,
hate its bright light.

He needs to wake up at dawn
and wash his face
and hurry up,
and chase the bus,
do things he hates.

That's why
I want to be a nightingale.
In fact, I am.

They are falling on us
from the blue sky.

It doesn't matter
how many of us will get killed.
They say too many, but that means to them
not enough.
They have their own language,
which produces its own facts.

They are constantly hoarding us
to have an easier target,
and to predict more sufficiently
the final outcome.

The bombing continues.
We have no shelter, no food.
We have forgotten our names, lost our minds.
Human beings
reduced to breathing flesh.  

Being dead
is a luxury.

More you want,
less you get.
More you try to remember,
more you forget.

More you try to be happy,
more sad you feel.
Less time you have left,
more time you ****.

The wiser you are,
the less you know.
The more you desire,
the less you own.

Good Morning!
It's quarter past five.
How are you?
And why are you awake?
Early start?
Or something else?
Tell us everything
about yourself.
Tell us who you are
and where,
and most importantly, why.
You don't know?
Hahaha. Fun guy!
You are a star!
Have a lovely day.
Bye!

We clearly see the illusion of material things.
We simply choose to ignore it,
hoping for getting approval from above.

It doesn't matter how high we think of ourselves,
how high we hold our heads.
At the end of the day,
we are equally invisible to the night.

Everyone needs Peace,
but not everyone has the courage
to admit it.

You thought you were strong,
and look at you now,
lying on the floor,
yelling at the sky.

No one will come to help,
you kick them all out,
warned that you'd ****
if they dare to come back.

You laughed when they left,
now silence laughs at you,
and your body, like a shadow
in the empty room.

There's nobody to save you
nobody to help you out,
not even to pass you a rope,
a gun, a glass, or a knife.

You thought you were strong,
now you know your strenght,
lying on the floor,
waiting for - the end.