Luxury
is something your life
would be miserable without.

Cold is the morning
and I don't feel like going back to this awful place
today.

Will anyone notice my absence?
Or maybe I am overthinking again.
Life is a waiting.

Poor kids, they built Heaven and Hell.
Now they are running away
to the safety.

They thought it was easy:
they tick the boxes
and we dissapear.
But it didn't work like this.
It never does.
They should have known it by now.

The problem is,
we aren't just boxes to tick.
If you **** your nightmares,
you will forfeit sweet dreams.

They hate everything what is different,
but on the surface
they are nice people,
who wouldn't hurt a fly.

Haven't we all got two personalities,
good and bad?
Heaven and Hell in one?
At time it makes us dizzy.

Some of us suddenly switch
way too easy.

You don't really need a car,
do you?

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.

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

and soul.

Falling,
falling has never been easier
than now.

Falling,
falling has never been more pleasing
than in this very moment of time.

Leaving
everything and everyone behind.
Getting rid of
this heavy burden of eyes.

The waves
crashing into rocks, I will let them die.

Falling,
falling has never been easier
than  now.

Prisoners
know more about freedom
than us.

Oh please stop swearing,
here is the coin,
put it under the tongue.
It should calm you down.

You were so quiet all your life,
and suddenly this.  

I know,
it must be hard -
missing the world,
the wound is still fresh.

But what about others?
Will you not let them to get some sleep
before the dawn?

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

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?

Have you ever made a cup of tea on a lazy afternoon,
sipping it and getting lighter almost like an air balloon?
Have your cold hand ever searched for another hand like for a glove?
Have you ever needed a shelter? Have you ever been in love?

Have you ever cried when Spring came and touched a death man's face,
and he opened his dead eyes, and the flowers grew from them?
Have you ever seen a seagull circling skies the sea above?
Have you ever watched a sunset? Have you ever been in love?

Have you ever crossed a river, knowing there is no return
to the places you have graced with your doubtful confidence?
Have you ever found the answer, when the steel push came to shove?
Have you ever thought you were nothing? Have you ever been in love?

Is there something you remember that keeps you awake at night?
Who is to blame for these tears? Maybe you just care  too much?
Is there someone you are missing, even if they are with you?
Oh, I know this awful feeling. I am missing someone too.

Have you forgiven them yet?

The moon,
for it gives you out no secrets.

The stars,
for their beauty
which often hurts your eyes.

The sun,
for it never dies, unlike us.

The dead,
for their silent smile.

Have you forgiven them yet?
I ask

myself.

The sky is blue,
the days are black.
No, it's not a song.
It's life.

The grass is greener
on the other side.
No, it's not just a saying.
It's a fact.

One day we'll die,
no matter what.
No, it's not a mourning.
It's hope.

I was travelling
in part by the river,
in part by the sea.

I wish I could say what I think,
without hesitation, second thoughts.

I know we have freedom of speech,
but something makes me bite my tongue.

Wise men say silence is golden,
but dead men say silence is gross.

I wish I could say what I think.
I wonder how some would react.

I wonder whose face would grow scarlet,
and who would laugh in my face.

How much do I have to lose?
Shall I just say it out loud?

Or wait until they tape my mouth
and cut my tongue, close the case.

Oh, then it will be too late.
It will be a bit too late, I'm afraid.

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"

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.

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.

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.

Don't waste your time
on things you don't need to be happy.

This life is a journey back home.
Every second of your life
brings you closer to yourself.

The gift you haven't asked for.
Sometimes can feel like unwanted.
Even if, it is still a gift.
Someone has made an effort to please you.

Sometimes you don't like it,
but you wouldn't sell it cheap,
let alone give it away for free.

Then every day makes you thinking more and more
about pulling the ribbons and see
what is inside.
And if it can save you.

This city never sleeps.
There are two cities in one.
I can show you both,
if you want to open your eyes.

Have you ever been to Heaven?
How about Hell?
I can show you devils,
just follow me there.

They are dressed like angels,
they have pretty smiles.
If you kiss their lips,
you will never die.

I can show you angels,
with big frightening horns.
If you bow in front of them,
the world will be yours.

Love isn't blind,
blind are those,
who never loved.

Meditation
is the process of removing
goals.

It's still cold outside,
so why are the birds singing
so joyfully and so loudly?

Still freezing out there,
so why are the flowers blooming?
I don’t understand.

The hope is still cursed,
so why am I writing this poem,
like it was my first?

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.

Go away, Misery,
don't make me feel so blue.
I was lost, so I've let you in.
It was nice not knowing you.

Go away, find someone else,
there are billions of people. Why me?
For I was the only one who opened the door?
Oh, to Hell with you, Misery!

I don't need friends anymore.
Leave me alone, Misery, please!
I got rid of the ones I had had,
for one day they turned enemies.

Go away, Misery,
don't make me feel so blue.

It is too late now, you are already in.
It was really nice not knowing you.

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.

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.

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.

She lives next door,
she never talks.
She never cooks.
She never has visitors.

She never comes out,
I only saw her once or twice,
not even sure if it was her.
Maybe she is hiding.
Maybe there is something I don't know.

She doesn't go to work,
I doubt she has a job.
How does she pay her rent?!
Or maybe there is something
I don't need to know.

She doesn't make any noise,
she never gets on anyone's nerves,
no one ever complains about her.
And still she makes everyone around
move out.

Or maybe there is something
I don't want to know.

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.

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.

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.

I'm sitting in my room,
writing,
believing that I can change the world,
knowing that I can't,

I'm sitting here, alone,
I'm thinking of those who are suffering,
those who've lost everything,
those, who will never feel like home.

I'm sad,
feeling like crying,
wishing to save the world,
knowing well that I won't,

but something tells me
to keep on trying.

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 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.

Diamonds, gas, and rope,
smallest glimpse of hope,
happiness and peace,
drugs and happy pills,
wild *** and fast cars,
Pepsi, chocolate bars,
whisky, *****, beer,
football on TV.

Want a paradise?
Well, you know the price.


Schools and therapists,
dentists, psychiatrists,
swimming pools and saunas,
It's all about "How much?".

Tanks, bombs, hospitals,
blood, guns, funerals,
Status, truth, and lies
"all exclusive" price.

Pay for stupid wars,
for the human corpse.
Pay for rent and food.
pay for "I feel good!"
pay for sleepless nights,
for your born-to-die.

Because nothing is for free,
even if it seems to be.

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.

It is not that hard
to ignore what you don't know.
Much harder is to ignore
what you know.

But it's worth it.

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!

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?

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

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.

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

Just him
and his pen
against the whole
world.

He'll lose many
battles,
but he'll win

the war.

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.