Chicken, turkey's enemy for life
decided to make up, before he dies.
Said to the turkey: "Let's be a friends,
as we will have same, bitter end.

Not far from now till Christmas time
when they will **** us, stuff and dine.
Life is too short to live at war,
let's spend the last months of life in joy..."

But turkey replied: No way, you dirt!
You stupid chicken, go away!
Don't even try to talk to me,
you cheeky *******, ******, ****!

When Christmas came, they caught them both,
and it the same pan put to boil.
And turkey said to chicken, crying:
"You were right, man, we both now dying!

My hatred, anger were in vain,
I spent my whole life in chicken hate.
I want to make a peace, at last
and give you, buddy, friendly hug."

They hugged each other, in the pan,
then boiling water took their lifes.

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.

The hand
which plucked the flower,
will wilt too.

My neighbourhood
hungry pigeons,
small supermarket,
Turkish kebab shop.

People with faces
of a lonely ghosts,
dull cars, loud airplanes
bugging their own noise.

Fake beggars, cafe
full of strangers' talk,
grey skies above me,
ex-paradise lost.

My neighbourhood,
weekend market's stalls,
park, always empty,
closed down gospell hall.

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.

Said rat to the rat:
"I wanna be cat,
I'm fed up with being a rat,
I am more than that".
But rat replied:
You better shut
up, you nut.

On the tube,
on the Jub-
ilee line,
feeling fine.
Almost fine.
Out of ten - nine,
or maybe eight,
if not seven.
Tube ain't heaven
more like hell,
feeling unwell
actually,
I'd give it six
out of ten,
no, five, man,
four, or less,
three, it's a mess
fresh-airless,
crowdy, jeez,
two I'd give,
one, oh, no,
getting worse,
can't breath now,
zero out
of ten, ouch,
let me out,
let me out!

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.

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.

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.

Getting thinner and thinner
and skinner and *****
and gloomier and weaker,
unhappier and paler,
depressed more and crazier
and messed, death-obsessed
and stripped to the ribs 
and scarer and thinner
and lighter and paler,
less pretty, enslaved and
less happy, not happy,
Auschwitz-like, so horrid
self-killing, deploring,
and faker, unhappier
and skinner and broken
and scarer and scarer
and thinner and thinner
and thinner and thinner
and ghostler,
and death-like,
fibre-glassed,
dead thin,
dead,
inside and out.

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.

I think about God,
and more I think about Him,
I know him less.

I sold my intimacy
for sake of publicity,
*** sells in democracy,
Lord Dollar, please set me free!

I see now - hipocrisy
takes over things I believed.

I'm naked, they look at me,
they buy me, they make me free,
but Freedom is what I seek.

Oh, Freedom is all I need
in times of Great Slavery,
when each day's a robbery.
I'm poorer than younger me,
I'm richer than older me.

I sold my intimacy
for sake of modernity
and shameless society
without any dignity.

My body's all they can see,
my body is all they need
to make them happy and free,

but, they, in reality
unhappy are, slaved for keeps,
so am I, and I can see
mistakes I've done, idiot me,
for sake of publicity,
I worship idiocracy,
****-riding pussocracy,
like war with Intimacy.

Half-naked girls in the street
and women ****** on the screen
by dumb masculinity.
Life-saving *******,
no, *******, you can't save me.

Where is my intimacy?
I've sold it, oh stupid me,
for sake of publicity,
*** sells in democracy.

This is the road I used to walk to school,
here's a shop, where I used to buy sweets,
and in this house, here, lived a girl I secretly loved.

This is my favourite cherry tree,
this is my house, my home,
and this is my mum, my dad,
my brother and my sister, happy times.  

I'm not in the picture, no, I'm not.
Why? Let's say because I... I was taking this shot.

When
meat meets
meat, magic is
born.

That's
how this world
carries us on.

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.

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?

People who shout deserve no sympathy,
shouting is stupid, callous, rude, and cheap.
Nothing good can come out of it, but bad,
it made those shouted ones scared, frightened, stressed.
Honestly, shouting's the worst thing, I guess.

Those husbands yelling on their caring wives,
they don't deserve to be loved, should be banned
from getting married, making women cry.
Or fathers shouting on their kids. Oh no,
they don't deserve to see them, oh they don't!

Not only them, but anyone with voice
raised to the level of barbaric noise,
should have their shouty mouths zipped, forcefully,
if they don't want to calm down, quiet be.
It is a matter of human dignity.

People who shout should go to prison, yes,
punished for making other's lives a mess.
Look at dictators, they shout to terrorize
their own people, they are never nice,
most of them are just heartless psychopaths.

I don't hate anyone, for it's not fair,
but people clamouring - I can't stand them.
Shouting to do is a very shallow thing,
sign of pure lack of common decency,
barbaric, rude, inhuman, callous, cheap.

If you do shout, please keep away from me,
and I will keep away from you, I will,
for life's too short to live under the thumb
of shouting idiots, monsters, psychopaths,
barbaric, rude, inhuman, callous brats.

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.

He acted like Prince.
He knew that it doesn't take much
to have them on their knees,
blind.

People, when given a choice,
make always the easiest one.

Now he's dead,
they're crying for him.
I'm crying for
them.

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.

It was sad to see this city lights faded, believed to be neverfading.
It was sad to say goodbye to them, leaving the city,
darkness-blind, looking for roads and ways out.
Soon other cities and towns around got covered by black coat,
it was like a domino effect – everything just got shut down,
and there was no horizon to reach by eyes,
only moon and stars – their lights were dim too.

I stucked in the dark middle of nowhere,
I heard people’s voices in the far calling me out,
but I was beyond the reach and so did they.
I was waiting for a miracle, but soon realized
that miracles don't like us to just wait on them,
they need our help to happen.

After a while I started looking for a lighter.
I found one and lit it up, and I saw
other flickering lights in some distance from here – dispersed.

I decided to follow them and they started to follow each other,
tiny flames were getting closer each other – gathering,
til they created a big bright spot, it became bigger and brighter,
turning the city into a light again.

After work
I usually go home
to rest my body in a motionlessness.

I'm watching tv
and think how fortunate I am to not to be on the screen. And that this world
is a sad place to be, for you don't suffer yourself anymore,
and you don't suffer seeing others suffering,
doomed to emotionlessness of Twenty First Century.

After work
I'm watching ****. That is my way to bring my dead body to life,
like electric shock for someone who died.
Don't blame me for that.
We all have our own way to survive another day in "paradise".

I'm watching
bodies ******* bodies, and I forget for a while, that I am nobody,
and that body
is all what remained from soul,
and that *******
is all what remained from love.

And that all we've managed to save from the End
is naked certainty that there's no God left,
only us, only our bodies,
craving to be alive and copulate.

I hope that is what you wanted to hear.

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.

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 say:
"Get a different style every day".
They want you to become
a mannequin of the year.
They want you
to become one of them.
More they recruit, less sad they will feel
being mannequins.
More people join them,
better excuse they will have.

Don't listen to them,
it's mannequin talk,
it's a sad, fake life mannequin way.

Listen
to yourself.
Don't change.

It's supposed to be joyful tune,
why then it sounds so sad?
No happiness in it,
more like a funeral march.

Look at the bride,
she is so upset, so down.
Oh my God! She's crying!
Does anyone here know why?

Look at her husband-to-be,
his eyes and his whole face, so dim,
something is wrong
with him.

Something beautiful  should begin
with tying the knot.
But there's nothing to start,
more likely to stop.  

The bride was about to make
a great escape, run away.
But her man was faster than her.
And the vicar was faster then her man.

It's supposed to be joyful tune,
why then it sounds so sad?
No happiness in it,
more like a funeral march.

Francis is calling from Nigeria. Hi Francis.
Welcome to the show, thanks for getting in touch.
I've never been to Nigeria, but I've heard that
it's a beautiful country.
Yes, but...
Have you got
a safari in Nigeria?
Yes but a bit different...
That's cool! I'd love to see that! Francis, what are your
plans for tonight?
We are going to...
Let me guess -
to the party. That's awesome! Have a good time,
enjoy! You are young and free!
No we are going to
the local village, to bury bodies of few men,
they were killed...
Killed? Oh my God that's terrible,
tell us more! Were they killed by wild animals?
No, by...
Hello? Francis? Are you still there?
We've lost our listener, unfortunately. What a shame.

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.

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.

*** on the moon,
that would be fun,
sweet *** with you
on the yellow couch,
in a slow motion,
with a low gravity.
Without witnesses
and peeping eyes
of people and gods.
No hassle, no rush,
no stress, no worrying
about world outside,
but your eyes, your lips, you *******
and your arrow of light.

*** on the moon,
free of accusations
of sinful deeds,
free of observation.
Not tricked into religion
and society.
Not driven by money
and selfishness.
Not reduced to copulation,
not filmed by **** camera,
not watched by Big Brother,
not registered on CCTV,
not overheard by neighbours
or passerbyes,
superintimate moment
in an endless time.

You call me unhappy, but I'm happier than you,
my wallet is thicker than yours, therefore my smile
is wider.
I don't mind selling my body, we all are ****** in a way,
it just depends on what we do and how long it takes.
I couldn't be happier. No, it doesn't sound wrong.
Which God tells you that? Who taught you to judge?
And why you listen to someone else,
why you don't listen to yourself?

Are you a saint amongst the sinners? No,
You are a sinner, and I am a *****. And therefore
you are a ***** too. We are on the same boat,
going to an unknown land, where no one knows what awaits
and who will score the prize and who not.
The boat is sinking, God has forgotten about us all.
And no one knows how far is the shore.

Soon you'll come to me and ask for a job.

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.

Poet lives amongst people,
in the land of sadness and happiness, where they live,
he dresses up like them, speaks like them,
in their language he had to learn.
But when he is on his own, he speaks in own tongue
to not to forget it.
He speaks with the dead, he keeps in touch with them,
to make sure everything goes according to plan.

He is afraid to tell what he sees,
in case people put him down and disbelieve.
He forces himself to keep his mouth shut,
he knows the price. He can't just die,
he's on a mission. So carefully
he smuggles in the truth in his poetry.

I wanna do
unthinkable things with you,
all stuff that you
would never get down to.

Something exciting
like journey to the moon,
or like skydiving,
when sky is ocean blue.

Something we both
dream about quite a lot,
not brave enough
to turn it into thought.

I wanna do
unthinkable with you,
and I'm quite sure
you wanna do it too.

My gentle hands
are taking off your dress,
please, close your eyes
and let me do the rest.

Our zoo is not locked up at all,
and it doesn't look like a zoo.
It looks like there's no keeper in here,
but this is not true.

He does exist, he's watching us,
he doesn't let us escape before we die.

He makes us feel that zookeepers are us,
but it's not like that.

But I better shut up,
as he can overhear my words.
I better come back to my lair,
trying to hibernate.
And you better come back to your screeching,
your gibbering and neighing,
your whooping,
then the guard will be pleased,
he will love you.

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?

You can come to see me any time, even if
my waves don't whisper your name, don't call you,
be sure I think about you and remember,
for I am all thoughts and memories of you.  

My waters are always crystal clear for you,
ready for your coming, happily awaken,
I hear someone's footfall in the far,
even if not yours, I keep on flowing.

I flow constantly, even knowing that no wanderer
comes down to wash his face in my stream,
I spring, quietly awaiting for your dry lips.

I spill crystal clear water, not caring about the waste.
Believing, that one day you'll come and I'll refresh you.
That believe allows me to flow nights and days.

I've got a new friend, he is called... I forgot.
He told me the other day.
He said he's got many names. At least four.
He told me how is he called.
But I don't remember at all.
He said:
- Don't worry, maybe it's even better that you don't remember,
don't worry my friend. Just call me a friend.
Sometimes I forget my names myself. Who cares!

My new friend comes from... I can't remember.
He said he was born in one country,
and raised in another, then moved somewhere else,
only to move yet somewhere else.
He told me all these countries names,
but I forgot. What a shame.
I said to him: My friend, I'm sorry, but I don't remember them,
the countries you were born and raised, and the countries
you lived before we met.
But he said:
- Don't worry, my friend, I don't take offence,
maybe it's even better that you forgot it,  mate.
It's fine. Let's forget the past. Let's say I'm from here, okay?
Okay. But...
- No, no but, mate. It's not a problem at all.
Sometimes even me I forget when I was born
and where I lived. Who cares! I don't care myself.
It doesn't matter anymore what's your name, where are you from.
It was never a big deal to me. Never something to be proud of, to brag,
more likely something to hide, to cry about.
I asked him: Why?
He replied:
- You wouldn't wanna know.
I said: I would.
He said:
- Nevermind.

What if death is a pretty girl
with long legs, beautiful curves
and shiny hair?

With eyes like milky way,
with the softest lips in the world,
with a smile you can't forget,
with two sweet fruits of *******,
and body, beautifully shaped,
much warmer than any of the living girls?

What if pleasing is the way she smells
and her moves are full of grace?
What if she waits for you
to make you a happy, not sad?

What if the medieval art bluffs,
saying that she is ugly, scary and without face,
and without eyes and lips,
without nose, smile and *******,
but the cold ***** skeleton?
And that she stinks and she limps,
foaming heaves at the mouth,
waiting for you at the end of the tunnel,
where no light,
to take you in her arms and to kiss you goodbye?

You won't know until you die,
but why not to imagine her
in the meantime, called - life.

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

They are holding
your pale wrists
tight.

Everyone,
everything
looks suspicious
to me.

Those poppy fields were lifeless,
but now they shine with light.
The war has made them bleeding,
the Peace has made them smile.

Each flower is a soldier,
who sacrificed his life,
who gave up his own future
to make our future count.

Each flower tells a story
of man and woman's fight,
you hear them in the glory
of petals shining bright.

Shhh, quiet, can you hear this?
The flowers -  making sound.

The unsung heroes singing
the song of joy - and life.

Sitting in Starbucks
drinking sweet coffee from Christmas red cap.
Not many people inside. Table for two, me and I,
music in background, quite nice,
at least I don't mind, but who does mind
anything,
when festive time has just arrived?

Enjoy your coffee, my friend,
but in the meantime, have a look outside
the window,
at rough sleepers and their hands,
open and empty.
This year
Christmas came early again.

I don't touch ****,
once touched, it stinks
way more.

I don't touch ****,
I flush it,
quick.
My world and worlds around my world
smell nicer then.

I read newspapers, watch tv
and think:
I won't touch ****. Oh no,
once touched it'll stink
way more and more. And more.

What have we done wrong?
Why us?
We didn't vote,
we didn't rule,
we didn't lie.

We live in a stable,
not in a palace.
We don't eat caviar,
only hay and grass.

We didn't riot,
we didn't shout,
we didn't say a word,
so why they killed us?

Because we live in a stable,
and because we don't lie.
Because we didn't say a word,
that's why.

------------------------------------------------

Poem inspired by the news that *"Six police horses were injured by anti-capitalist demonstrators at last night's Million Mask March"

It's easy to follow
a crowd,
much harder
to follow your
heart.

It's easy
to put a mask on
and be the one that you're not.
Way harder is
to show face,
while being something against.  

Fireworks
lit up bonfire night,
but morning
sees them burnt out.

So **** them all, let's build the wall,
call us *******, we are *******
without a choice. It's us or them,
so let's get it done, and then we can
talk about Peace and Love, and make
love with those we love, make friends
and make *** with those we know. That's why
we now should build this wall. So **** them all.
It's us or them, at the end of the day.

It's not the way, we know, we are aware
that they deserve to breath and live and work
like we deserve. But I'm afraid, we can't
do anything. Sorry to say.