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?

Full time poets
don't exist.
In this world
at least.

There is plenty of them
on the other side.
It’s only for us
it seems that they have died.

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?

I overheard this whisper,
this gentle, peaceful chat:
Look, happiness is easy,
it's them, who make it hard.

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.

I am in love with the country,
which doesn't exist anymore.
I am in love with its people,
for they have renounced the war.

I am in love with their women,
for in their modesty their beauty lies.
I am in love with their language,
for the alphabet of death never dies.

I am in love with the nation,
who didn’t **** in order to survive.
I remember that day very well.
It was love at last sight.

I can't tell my heart what to do,
it won't listen to me. It will do the opposite.
it will make me look like a fool.

Since the first time I met you, I knew
that we can't be just friends.
But my heart wasn't sad.

And I said to my heart: You are cruel!
and it smiled at me, it smiled at you.
And I looked so helpless that night,
and you looked so beautiful.

My heart knows best, it knows that I love you.
And it knows that I know that it knows.
Brain? Oh, brain. Brain has no say at all.

I didn't start the war.
I swear it wasn't me!
I was sitting in my bedroom
listening to music and drinking tea.

I have no reason to fight,
to **** or retaliate.
I despise violence.
And I also meditate.

I don't follow the news,
I'd say they rather follow me.
That is my only crime,
that I feel for the killed.

And yes, I cried when I saw
a woman holding her dead child,
her eyes were red from scream
to the silence of the sky.

Yes, I cried when I saw it,
I couldn't stop my tears.
That is my only crime,
that I feel for the killed.

If rain never comes,
I'll still love her.

If dream ends too fast,
I'll still love her.

If stars fall from the sky
sky above her.

If Love sadly dies,
I'll still love her.

I'm a poet,
I have nothing
except words.

I'm a poet,
I don't care about
the world.

Take your money,
take your cars
take your pearls.

I'm a poet,
I don't care about
the world.

Well, yeah, sometimes
I wish I was
someone else.

But I'm a poet,
poets can't escape
their Fate.

I talked with the stars yesterday,
I asked them are they scared to die.
They said that their death is my life.
And then I started to cry.

They asked me why am I being sad.
I said no, these are just tears of joy.
They asked me why am I lying,
like if they knew what I didn't know.

I talked with the stars yesterday,
and I couldn't resist the thought
that I wasn't talking to myself.
But today I know I was.

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.

We have finally arrived at our destination.
The area was thick with silence.
That was the only difference
from the loud places we have passed through
on our way.
We felt like we have escaped the worldly lives.

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"

They dragged my naked body all over the town,
in front of the manically  joyful crowd
of clapping morons.

But none of them has made me the horseman,
none of them has made me the knight -
none of them has given me the name
and the freedom.

So I didn’t feel any pain, any shame.

Knowing is death

and only learning how to forget
will let you shed the painful skins
and grow the last one,

which will be made of silent suede.

All we really need is on the other side.
Everything here is a clutter,
brought to us by a random tide.

We see this world
with strangers' eyes.

Everything here is in darkness,
but fear you not,
for every darkness turns into light.

We have no beginning,
and even if we had,
we would look for it
in vain.

And that knowledge saves us
from the impossible
pain.

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.

When you say life is too short,
you disrespect all butterflies,
and death too,
and life.
You also disrespect time,
and that is a big big crime!

When you say life is too short,
you ask for your tongue to be cut off
and thrown into a gutter,
or at least
be punished to an eternal stutter.

(By the way, don't you know
that longer we live,
less our lives matter?)

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.

Forgive yourself,
if you don't know what you're doing.
I'll forgive myself,
for I’m the way you are.

No, it's not my fault
that it’s dark and I’m crawling.
No, it's not you to blame,
for not seeing the light.  

I would like to stay strong
on my desperate journey.
I hope Lord will forgive me
and will give me some strength.

I would like to believe
that you too keep on searching.
And that one day we will meet
at the narrowest of the gates.

Luxury is something we don't need
and something what makes our life
not ours.

The World is giving us many clues
to find the meaning of life.
But we ignore them.

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.

Time to embark on another journey
through the islands of words, avoiding
dangerous pitfalls and **** the desire
to look back, knowing well what it means.
And no one wants to go back to the square
one, to auto-da-fe everything what has
made us. We strive for engagement with
the light—the mother of all lights. The source
of inspiration, the fuel, and the weapon
against the darkest nights spent waiting
for something, knowing that it will never
come. Knowing is evil.

Another day, a mission impossible to complete.
Whether the apple has been eaten, or no,
we would still be dripping this light
on our journey to the unknown.

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.

Let them drink this blood
from the river of your body.

This river is endless,
it's only you who is scared of drowning.

Let them **** the thirst,
don't you know how it feels to be thirsty?

Let them take what it's theirs,
don't be too ****** selfish.

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.

It was yet another damning ritual
of waking up to another ******,
looking for the evidence and the witnesses,
It will take another twenty four hours, at least. - someone said.

And then it all started again:
interrogation of the local drunkards, prostitutes
and ****** addicts.
No one dared to probe and torture the good men of this town,
like if they couldn't have done it.

If there is way out of this mess, 
we need to punish the murderers.
But first we have to find them,

while someone is trying to hide them.
Typical.

My coffee
is never sweet enough.
Even if I put five sugars,
it still tastes awfully.

I once tried ten,
and it didn't work.
I wonder why.

My coffee
is never sweet enough.
I guess that's what happens
when you're fed up with life.

And my kingdom has fallen too,
though I tried hard to save its glory.
All the gods and the goddesses I served
they're upset with me. I'm so sorry.

I could easily raise above the ground,
if I only wanted - I was so strong.
But I've lost again what I had found,
They were right,  and I - I was wrong.

Look at us, we are running away
from the country that used to be our home.
Didn't think I could ever betray
my own land, my own people, my soul.

It's too late to sit and whine,
it's too late to seek any forgiveness.
Too late to turn back the hands of time.
I'm the killer, the victim - and the witness.

I could run, join them and disappear,
leaving cities of ruins behind.
But I'll stay here, that's all I can do
I'll stay here and admit my crime.

And I look every day in the mirror,
telling myself "What have you done?".
But I won't run away like others,
I'll stay here till the day I die.

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 shadow
it wants to be me,
it's jealous,
can't walk and can't sleep.

It thinks
that I'm living a dream -
it would do anything
to be me!

Be careful
what you wish for
- I keep telling him.

And he is surprised,
he doesn't understand.

One day
we will swap fates anyway.