The dusk
Villains of the summer night
leave their places
and roam the streets of town.
Beautiful chaos and freedom
Dressed in leather,
Swirling Raven's feather,
Sweet black night

God of plains is not the same
As god of desert, or gods of jungle.
How is our god?

Sirens moaning, Bach's adorning,
What a waste,
Will we ever be granted the help
                we deserve?
Rain falls calmly on the city,
           Fragile candles dying.
What a waste.
     What a waste it is! I quit,
                                      Farewell.

Sitting with a mug and a pen
Looking for a shape of me,
For myself and you to see.
How can one drown in the depths of madness
and bring back fishes?
Jesus, can you help me?
How can one go down the rabbit hole
and bring back real items; souvenirs?
In this speck of time,
I strive to know.

‌  ‌
Being put down
Into dark hole
The soil shall hiss
And steam

To make the stone
Move
Oh, the pavement
It flows
It flows
Flows
Right under our
feet
It feels so right
‌  ‌

‌
Two brown plates
Mirroring
In two truest
Fake sides of mountain
Pierce past, now
Meet the lions

‌  ‌
  The dagger to ******
The Slowness
Crafted from exotic metals

It takes years
To prepare
For this
Ceremony


The fat, tricky body
of the Slowness is taken
  and put
on stone altar.
  Ripped - the blood runs out
Forms streams on stone
Then it is left
      to dry.

The Shamans scrape it off
-it is dark, crumbling and wet-
drumming & chanting
they put it in pipes
and inhale the fumes
to complete
the Ceremony


The spirits are freed.

‌  ‌
When we have all the stripes
Collected
We'll buy a horse, and make a zebra.

     I wish I were a pigeon
   Dwelling on these roofs

Morning sunlight
& Fresh air

Berry wine

    ~dining with flies~

and i fell a long, dreamless
                           sleep

Insane old man! Insane old man!
Sitting near the sea, in a small town.
Sunset's light and white buildings, empty streets.
Tell your children and your friends that
       There is no Secret
   but only the waves, flowing calmly in the Great Sea,
Cold, dark, silent waters and the
swollen orange Sun above them.

        -The Big Rest is here for us. Finish your chores,
          take a look at the Sun and the village, feel
          the soft evening's wind, do some small things and
                              go to the Sea

                -The old man in a hat, sitting on a chair with
                  a staff in his hand, smiled and said:
                       "There's no Secret, but only
                             waves
                                and the Great Sea."

‌  ‌
I really like neons, but their light
gives some kind of melancholic feeling
that I find hard to describe
‌  ‌

Sitting beside methane sea
Gazing at the Saturn
I wonder why Beethoven
  Sounds so good in space,
     In a place so far away from home,
        full of cold and loneliness?
         Yes, sounds of piano definetly
          fit the silence and beauty of the Cosmos.

So, so far away from home,
in cold and quiet
beside the methane seas
On my own - I find my peace.

Could it be, that we have to
feast in hurry,
And that the lake is
Frozen?

Clumsy, shy hard metal brain.
Anyway, I'm not worried,
And I have lots of good feelings.

Need of being appreciated, and liked and loved
Is the most destructive feeling in my life.
I'm glad I can shape myself with writing.

I have precious things to give,
Conversations and memories
that dwell in the future.
I want them to be
Taken as a gift
Before I leave.
And want to be remembered
With a kind word
a smile, and a warm thought.

These abstractional pieces of modern
artists remove the bridge, the bond
between the external world and core
reality. They don't use symbols.
You stare at the core itself. There are
rumors about a man, that took a look
at one of some abstract paintings
and lost his mind.

The poet's eyes
have a certain
dark depth and abyss
to them

Books at market, sold at night.
Misc items sold at day
Once i read
These words
Casted on white walls
In chamber
Echoed in there

The true artist
A sensitive sponge
Some risk in that

‌  ‌
I like art that sacrifices a part of its
technical aspects in exchange for
crude expression
of raw, animal-like emotion
that break the bonds of the form. The
result may seem even ugly for some,
but in fact, it reaches entirely new
qualities.
‌  ‌

‌  ‌
  ‌
A coin
Is like the Moon
A circle
Loses its value
In the night
***** hands
weighting
***** nails
A world
In a hand
  ‌

Dog breeds
God breeds

So let the storm
Swallow the sun.

And we're only praying
For rain

My words are forming
       a vibrating green line
       that cuts across the dark
                  curtain of iron.

Golden clouds were drawn
towards a raging crimson hut
under their sleeping stormy sisters,
like a flesh of stars
is torn and ******
into black hole's
silent mouth.

Wet pavement,
Clear, light air
Special sunsets.
No, you can't mistake that
for anything else.

To be wounded
by meteorite

A kid is fascinated
And tries to mimic the nonchalance
Of adult's signature.

Chemical asylum
Illusionary sanctuary
Of tricky nature
Lure you
Then your dark angels
With changing faces
Fly around ceilings

A man walking thru
Bridge over the road
Is the same as Alexander
the Great
-brain rapidly revolving-
**** all the awoken

_

And i fall to bed embraces
And sink into seas
These
I create with
My own eyes

**** me
The navel of the world
Many things have been
Stumbled on upon too
On a search for that
Home of land
An island treaty
Many things, magic,
a witchcraft, stabbings
(That is stabbing an décéde
Deceased already)
Wet cracks,


My el shové
You are like
      an ether
Both,
And as a soil
To me
You still (are like a)
Ground me
& Forever will be
_

My life is life
Of itaka's philosophy
Go repeat "carpe diem"
A semantic satiation
Till it slips
Lips numb
Salvatore
Bite dry wine
Till You realize
it's vapors become
A drifted memory

Fogged mirrors and dust
In which roads are seen
and wet stars


Words
be like pawns
in psyche
Playin' dazed
for days
Checkmate, Soulmate


_

Just walk around 'n
Trying to break peoples'
    Secrets

Break life's secrets
Break in
Through eyes
I found Your hair on me
But
I've no broken mine
My fingers been
Runnin' out
Of dye


and don't know yet, whether
i trust these gypsy hag
street prophets or not
S he ' s s h o t
Here's shot
Flip the finger

_

I see You in bottles,
Each one of a different scent
-colorful, glowing vapors
  in shapes of smoke
I know You.

_
"A-639"


   How does it (feel) to
     Hide the pictures
  Under pillow
                          head or shelf
  I know how, to frame
  That feel

              ☪

For now on black,
Back in closed flow
Good to feel them
Again,
Shiver on our inner skin
it clears, sky of dark
And the stars show
are really nice

   Take her hand
         Roll
     a dice

In dream cave
There is a bleak
Memory of
Wine's taste
Italian hunter soul
But as shown they
all may be faded,
Still there though

Vibrate in mellow glow
One reaps things
He once sow

It's high time for
Bizzare prophecies that
Are not mine but may
Be seized & be mine

I translate them blindly
from shivers and vibrations.


   Them ******' adlibs.

__


There's this thing with hope,
When it lives, everything may live,
But when it dies everything must die.
Everything but that distinct sensation of freedom, like a dawn sneaking in a clever way.
That, especially coupled with love settling down, it feels like a drug fading, wearing off, like a soap foam coming off ones eyes.
Hope dying felt really like pup dying on Your lap.

Fly high ~
Each one of us individuals
Is a single point of sight
An island of mind
That reflects only one fraction,
Only singular angle
Of existence
And we can switch, and transform too, did You know?
In fluid mosaic of perspectives
The movie flows on