The apples she rolls,
the carrots she throws—
decadence in motion.
Her ponderousness,
soothing, agonising, soothing again.
How can it be that I love her, but she does not love me?
A rapid smile without a gaze,
not even addressed to anyone.
It’s only us in this moment;
the cue is forgotten.
How can it be that I want her so deeply to feel me?
There is simply no stress.
A world of what could be,
when hungover from sleeping pills,
forever.
Long nails clacking on a plastic screen.
"With card?", she asks.
"Yes, with card please", I unmask.
If she knew about these lines,
almost out the door and regretting my crimes,
I would vanish into myself.
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 11:20 AM UTC
Those were the times.
Noone was remotely disturbed at the sight
of pretty much anything anymore. That in itself was disturbing.
A young boy looking out of what once was called a window,
a rectangular hole, no glass, partially clad with corrugated iron.
Outside, gray ashes falling from a pitch-black sky.
The town‘s inhabitants have forgotten what the sun looked like.
All accounts, all illustrations of it were burned in The Purges of winter '26.
Forgetting the sun was mandated by law, as were many other things.
Flakes of ash landing on a small, reaching hand.
How can something so light be so heavy on the heart?
In what world are children made to feel unseen?
The boy kept roaming his thoughts, and something else came to mind.
The rare sighting of a horse in the outlands, one of the last remaining.
The boy had to get supplies for his family, his moms and sisters.
Kind interactions weren’t just out of the ordinary; they were banned, too.
Small hands outstretched to the snorting nostrils,
big as humans' eyes. Two foreheads touching gently,
as the horse was bowing down to the boy.
There was love between the boy and the horse.
A dragon passes the skies above, interrupting this memory.
A mythical creature that was once a flying lizard, such tender part of nature.
Those were the times. Even a creature like this had to leave its soft origins behind, beguiled by dark contemporary witchery, transforming by force to survive.
The boy wasn‘t ducking down as one might expect. Quite the contrary,
his neck and face turned towards the spewing flames, eyes closed.
Heat like no other, this kind of burn is known only to the people of those times.
This was his sun.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 3:43 PM UTC
My dove was right:
A dove’s blood
had to be spilled at the open window.
Your stiffened body,
a memory treasured for what it was.
Cracking of a spine,
a last deep breath out of your little lungs,
tongue dried up.
I was pulling his tongue for weeks now,
for you to interrupt,
holding onto his trench coat
and the smell of lentil soup.
"Please like me", I yelled,
and his silence yelled back
at me.
And if it had been up to you,
it would have been less
of a mess, and I thank you for that, my dove.
A life for a life:
My dove was right.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 3:33 PM UTC
I had to bury a dove once;
I didn’t know before,
bringing death to my windowsill
and a prophecy of more.
Shattered glass, broken neck,
and sunflower seeds
—What did it try to tell me?
Why now it needs?
Like a tarot reading,
unrequested, sour, and on point,
a milky layer around its black pupils,
guts spilling.
I’m wondering if another dove is mourning its loss;
I read once they can mourn their lost ones for months on end.
It’s autumn now, and my dove is dead.
It rains,
and the leaves are falling, as they should.
Cold air smells like snow; it hasn’t snowed yet.
Lungs dry, a stinging breath—
my dove is dead.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 3:31 PM UTC
I’ve been stalking my own soul,
drawing again and again out of this muddy puddle
that is my own private soul swamp.
You're squeezing my shoulder a little too tightly,
and I don’t say a word whilst being pushed to prayer.
The terrace door wide open, a wild garden grimacing behind.
It takes an uncomfortably wide step for us to get out.
Outside, awaiting us is the red amaranth high like a Gothic cathedral,
swaying next to the winter-hardy spinach and wild carrots
freckled in white, yellow, and orange. A scenery reminiscent
of flickering light through church windows.
A few steps further, we find old zucchini sorts
with skin as hard as a pumpkin's,
ancient seeds with old names, lost to us for centuries.
Beets and roots and pictures of ancestors collected—
what could we ask? What would they tell?
My hand is touching yours, on my shoulder still,
your grip finally loosened, and I think to myself
that I’ll consider your offer.
A story you told, a heartfelt wish:
one third for Mother Nature, one third for the thieves,
and one third will be for us.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 9:02 AM UTC
Small prophets awaiting everywhere,
silver compass spinning in prayer.
You know it, as you experienced bring
the birdsong to us every year spring.
The foxes running the streets at night,
escorting you out of the alley, into the light.
A stranger's perfume bitter-sweet,
turning your head for our gazes to meet.
Alchemic lore is what washed you ashore,
once named Felician, but not anymore.
Truthtellers and soothsayers awaiting everywhere,
silver compass spinning in prayer.
Everlasting birdsong.
Birdsong, everlasting.
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 3:43 AM UTC
Never worry alone. As in: lonesome worry may turn you into a broken biscuit—not because there is truly something broken about you, but because you are worrying yourself into crumbs.
The dream of a wholesome life is so easily corrupted.
Your gaze follows mine, and we nod in unison, swearing silently. Never worry alone. I didn’t quite know what I meant when I said it the first time, but I think I do now that we're sitting here together, the fire's flickering light licking our faces.
While you endure my explanations, these trains of thought derailed, you cling to the armrest of the chair you're sitting on, your hands pale, and frankly, in this moment, you look a bit sideways. Your nostrils flared, exhale heavy.
Please, please, please. Never worry alone.
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 4:00 PM UTC
What we spotted first was a trail of tangerine peels in the ice,
the orange forcing its gleefulness into our vision.
The air smelled of cocoa and rice;
nature’s deliciousness luring us further with precision.
Neither one of us had ever seen anything of the like.
The skies were white, the ground was white;
everything in sight was white.
A blanket of nettle cloth was thrown in a haste,
with an incomprehensible intention, this pattern of wrinkles,
this desert of snow; all pressed under its weight gone to waste.
As we progressed with brave steps,
the fields extended themselves into the unknown.
The mist, demanding in its stoicism and depths,
in invisibility, what will be shown?
Jan 25
Jan 25, 2026 at 4:57 AM UTC
It takes twenty-eight days to form a new habit.
Only a single February—what relief.
Twenty-eight days to get my weird back,
free, freed to let it all in.
I’ve succumbed to these unwritten and written rules;
they dulled my spirits in small, sinister ways, each and every day.
Even my outer lines began to fade.
Clinging to my contours for dear life,
against sharp winds, pulling the belt of my coat tight around my waist,
arms wrapped around my torso in a consoling hug.
I stepped down slick stone steps to conduct my inner fortune teller,
who, not always credible, admonished me that not much will remain.
“Soon,” they whispered cryptically, “so very soon.”
Understanding less than I did before,
in warm confusion, standing among the pieces of myself
that have been carved away.
Like a block of wood in a pile of its own shavings,
I look down at my naked, deformed body and wonder:
what will be left if I don’t change my ways?
Not much to cling to from here on. That much is certain.
Hollowed by woodworms, red biting ants, and sorrow,
by one ambition after another quietly suffocated.
If you wanted, you could push a finger through me,
from one side to the other.
And every once in a while, someone did—
eager to explore my pain
Enough! No more!
From now on, it’s gonna be what I demand!
It’s gonna be raw and vulnerable,
direct and ****** obscene,
**** and full of desire.
I’ll be standing like David,
towering nonchalantly in an iconic, faggy pose.
Queer, queer, and queer.
Unshakable.
Ambitious, craving, yearning for more.
Thriving for abundance,
licking my fingers after every meal,
licking my lips after every gulp of water.
Patched up by small acts of devotion to myself,
by a nibble of pride, each and every day.
Ravishing.
There’s gonna be sensuality, a lot of it,
with myself and others.
And friendship, the platonic love that transcends boundaries.
Family, long hugs and bright smiles, and belly laughs.
Petting dogs, petting dogs.
Equanimity,
welcoming every last unfiltered drop of feeling.
Extravagance and wholesomeness, full of life.
It's gonna be easy to let loose, profoundly calm, at ease.
You simply can’t beat it.
Give me these twenty-eight days.
I solemnly vow that I will devote myself
to all of it.
Jan 23
Jan 23, 2026 at 5:04 AM UTC
I see you, winter,
I get what you’re doing.
But this year, my dear,
I won’t just hand you the ruin.
**** them with kindness, they said,
so this year, my dear,
it’s full-on kindness mania, you bet.
Kisses and cuddles,
caressing to the bone.
This year, my dear,
I set the tone.
Dec 21, 2025
Dec 21, 2025 at 5:58 AM UTC