I've taken a walk
Outside of the words written in water
A hint of beer
Not in the smell
But in the sweat
The lack of beards
Is it a coincidence
Or is it a sign
A search for meanings
Is but a game of an idle mind
Eastern motives
Subtle and exquisit
Western irony
Is all that too
But even more to me
Is there any irony in water?
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 7:24 AM UTC
Cage of chambers:
Lark of sparks.
Morning bears
Shore that layered.
Eat up the whole plate,
Kick back the bored chair.
Sick is the core layer.
Crack, crack - it is inside you.
"Man is noise" - clickclacks the mechanism
That is beyond the wall and eats it's wheels.
Stap back, not through the door.
Open the window, crawl to the floor,
Sneak into a crate.
Eat at the skin slate.
Kick in the core layer.
Dive in the bored chair.
Abrupt angels
Drowning in black bacon,
Tattered crucifix
In a sea of marmalade.
Ricochet sounds the ricochet
Of flying lead
And it's echo
From bronzen metal
Plate
Of my clean skate.
The starlessness of night
Is born within a brooding mother.
And grieving is the father
For himself. As that is not
The sun he want-
ed.
Fed.
Bitten is the core layer.
Bitter is the mouth's tedder.
I am amused by the bored chair.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 7:20 AM UTC
I woke up to find myself
Among a constellation
Of needles
Transparent
Sharp, reflecting
Directed towards me
With their points,
Their slowly-paced
Pulsing stars
And there was nothing but
Watery mist and them
Seems like I awoke too late
Or too early
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
Diagonal ribbs of stone
Sharp
Steep
Sparkling
Gleaming
Though dry
Winds take care of that
They fill the grooves of the solid
Where reflections and shadows
Perform their dances
That they've learned from falling leaves
This is a pedestal for night
This lump was begotten by it
Night has swallowed the moon
So smooth and round and white
And spit this rough rock at earth
So I could sit before its wall
And watch the swing
As fires eat wood
There's plenty of it around
In this starless dark
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 4:22 PM UTC
He has coffee in his blood,
He dances with brown camels.
White wide paths of knives
Are curved deep among the mountain passes
Of ribs wrapped in soft desert of skin.
A tongue athlet and a sound alchemist,
A reluctant nomad with wheat hair,
Who's driven by his crazy-grooving heart
So rarely though so far.
Sometimes a train, sometimes a net,
Sometimes a piece of paper
Will take him.
But most often he is joining with genies
In their bottles. And spirits take him
To the caves, the deep blood-vessels.
He's silent mostly and his back is bent
Though he is tall.
He walks all cloaked in weary clothes
And idle anger both.
As it dictates him his prideful eagle's nose.
He bears also marks of roots,
Of runes, of flame, of anchors,
Dancers.
His bones look at you in their clutches
From beneath the skin
Of his thin fingers.
He builds the towers shaky,
Weak. And so, they're almost living,
Breathing.
He've found a cat in a banana
And lets it live inside his elbow.
The grey in northern sky is his.
He reached his fine hands
And left it there. He touched the sun
And then again. He put it in his lighter
With his fingertips.
So he occasionally has a light from the sun.
He prays to metal and walks two roads at once.
He tolls the tree from which he hails.
He hangs from a branch.
Or does he just stand
Downwords and his back is lying on
The branch on which he stands?
He buried his gold and digs it out only
For fire and jokes, for bitter and smoke.
A cow of three eyes and a bee on his blazen
Are joing in drawing.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 6:59 AM UTC
A handful of blood
And a goodbye kiss,
Midday, September
And a warm though last summer breeze.
She puts hands on his cheeks,
Wind caresses their hair.
He has a ****** chin,
Farewell-full lips and her last glare.
His hands slip from a pat,
Sun ignites her curlstack.
She bears his last glance at
The ribbed jugate shields of her near-fluid back.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC
Seven knights ride out to planes
Out of castles made of blades
They ride out at dawn in sunlight
From the towerbearing walls
From the corners midst the mountains
To the sleeping town of old
Their spears ****** the skyroof
Their flags, they clap like thunder
Their swords strike at their hips
Their steeds rip air asunder
One is playing the guitar
Like a brook he's spilling sounds
One's a boy that's dressed a shepard
Shepard's staff's his fragile weapon
Chosen cautiously to suit
His humble role - to play a flute
One bears trumpets full of noise
Each as heavy as a rock
Though he carries all of those
On his narrow skinny back
One is striking at his chest
With both hands to prove the others
That of them he fits the bets
For the role of battle drummy
One of them is singing bare:
"Nothing holy heard a prayer"
Other wields a violin
Disharmonic chords cross strings
And the tension and the fever
The discord, the primal fear -
His inhuman melody
Spreads around and makes birds flee
From the rare darkbarked trees
One is riding solemnly
When they meet before the town
When they reach the sleeping town
Then they'll wake the sleeping town
Then they'll show the sleeping town
That before it lies a desert
That has eyes that you can never
Count. "Can you keep sleeping now?"
Silent Knight will ask the town.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 8:27 AM UTC
I think you still got lightning in you
Since the storm of the black beacon sound
Punishing winds can be heared in your breaths
And you surely still have a flooded heart
High tides rise in you
The salt spray of waves
Goes over your eyelids
There's much to rebuild
But the harvest of your soil
I believe shall be abundant
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
Does it help that life is music if you happen to be a drum?
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
I breathe in
From the demon lung
And it's crumbling
With mechanical clanking sound
Air like fire
Filled with sulphur and copper
Dances on my tongue
A plastic and metal cat is purring
A giant one
I can feel vibrations entering my skull
And the heat surrounds me
Sticky, hazy, dull
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 1:23 PM UTC