Once upon a morning dreary,
On a wibbly-wobbly urban prairie,
I hit the road barely fearing -
As the fool who has no fearing -
And there came a car.


In a sudden, asked is it the end,
I'm not surprised, but how to pretend,
While I am always steering -
Just as badly as the driver's steering -
My emotions behind a striped bar.


Since the moment was so sneaky,
And the car's break creaked up creepy,
At least for the people seeing -
Hearing, if people were ever existing -
And not just imaginaire.


In that second's timeless land,
I had no social expression to send,
Signing to them that I'm living -
Lying to them I'm a human being -
So, I just stood bare.


And behind that timeless scene,
Angry drivers and people were seen,
With me standing there -
A guilty criminal sharing his despair -
A social monster without cover.

I dreamt a dream that some demons must have sent,
Feeling all the pains I underwent;
No pictures, no hues, just the feeling,
All my bruises and cuts without healing.


I dreamt a dream that was set as sent by Death,
But it did fit no reasoning, nor math;
No relief, nor aftermath, just the moaning,
Like a self-pity-full, endless night and morning.


I dreamt a dream that was meant to be my end,
A fearful damnation, not mend;
All the pain and immense sadness,
Making every deathwish sickeningly reckless.


I was sent a senseless dream with Death being mad,
Vengefully meaning me dead;
I felt blueishly cold and in dreadful purple,
Hiding in my last reckless prayers as a turtle.


I was meant to dream a dream that was chance or warning,
Putting up the black phone calling;
With every evidence Death's hands hang,
I wished not dreaming that dream while it just rang, rang, rang...

Oh God, I'm happy in this morning,
Being free of problem solving,
Living loving the road I'm hitting,
The misery I'm passing through.


Oh, how I would be free to suffer
Other mornings and another,
Filled with oh-such charming pattern,
Being happy after all.


Oh happy! Seeing all gifts that matter,
A marrow and a loving mother,
Ever radiating on the darker-darker
Sight that I'm still having though.


Oh, the obscure morrow and yester -
All those possible disaster
Are enlightened and farther- farther
Now.


Oh God, I'm happy in the now-happening;
I wish this moment pending padding,
I would leave all those doubtful setting'
And resting for ever in a now.

As in villages as in big cities,
As in classrooms as in societies,
I'm alone with my strange personalities.


The eyes, the smiles, the frowns, the clowns,
The hardships and their ups and downs
Have no affect on my daily rounds.


Even the precious words are empty,
No mean defences, no more acting gently;
No more need to fake my misery intelligently.

Like a frozen stone
Without a glance being blown,
I got thrown away.


I was flying in silence,
Then, I moaned up without resilience
On a brick.


Through an eaves,
I fell into the stream's waves,
Unheard, unhurt.


Frozen imprisonment
Where the jailer is the detachment,
Not somewhat cold.


The spring is sobbing,
Its tears are smoothly rushing,
Pushing to a land.


Among stones standing,
Patience is suffocating, ending,
Drying crying.


Smooth hands,
Promising their hold never ends,
They disbanded.


In a new stream,
Me and solitude in a team,
But it's all fine.


Sleeping is the only way,
Not seeing when we're thrown away,
Again, again.

About Costumes and Customs


Wear, wear whatever you dare,
Tho, the global locality has no morality...


Animals with human customs,
Humans with animal costumes
Form the world into a modest mode-


In which the smartest ones are silent
While the mass dress in rumbling drunkness,
In happy hues of the humbling violent,
Of the primitive ****-geniuses.


Does ****** equal with the human nature?
Which? Human as savage or creature?
Born or grown?
While sensations design human customs,
Is predestination more than a fake costume?


Does the world hold anything divine?
While we follow an immoral aurora-
Its warming colours in a frozen desert,
That implies no divine unseen scenes?


Questions are colorless, unseen but existing,
Alike to God's infinite fineness-
Probing our customs if they are probed.


Methink costumes as a colorful ocean,
Mesee customs as the change of the world.


We sink in the dying world's dying ocean.

The world could remain gas and fume,
The woe could remain lonely doom,
The words could avoid the plume,
The wilt could avoid the bloom;
If the womb could be my tomb.

I'm rarely dreaming.
Waking from a rarely dreaming,
I'm always screaming.
Only in my head, without a single sound,
But it's still far too loud.


Realities are deceiving.
I'm never sure of when I'm dreaming;
I'm always waiting for awaking.
The thoughts and doubts form a crowd;
I cannot look around.


I'm barely sleeping.
I'm afraid I will wake up in the evening,
And it's still the evening.
Being alone, in the deep night drowned,
Dreams or deeds astound.


It's a funny feeling.
The morning should be relieving,
Even if it's without meaning.
At least, I could be sure of the ground,
Not just being without a bound.


Am I dreaming?
I have no landmarks steering;
I might be sleeping.
Dream in a dream in a dream sowed;
In a mind that may be underground.

Like sprinkling dust on the paper,
Moulding itself into mud;
Sound the words of the pauper,
Forming his tears into flood.


His need is not a bigger pocket,
Or a fam of a good blood;
His thirst made him a bitter poet,
Being lost in the flood.


Flood of a baby's first cry to the world,
Seeing everything newly indifferent;
He wishes for a straight world unwhirled,
Wishing not being so different.


Dirting the paper with stolen words,
From sloppy worlds of others;
The pauper gets deeper in his thirst,
And goner in others'.


Sodden paper-pieces in the mud,
Like flood-brought thrashes;
But they didn't came with the flood,
Just from a former poet's ashes.

Where's the hug I've needed in the hard moments?
Only verses embrace my mental instability.
I would wish some super escape ability,
But I've lost even the power to wish...

No hope for the Bohemian...
What meaning does this phrase hold?
My lone madness has finally driven me mad,
Every line is sad, mad, bad that ever I had had, "had".

Ambiguous doubts assure my hopeless future goals.
Every step of mine has fallen in pity pit-holes,
But a writer easily accepts what is written...
What is waiting for the Bohemian?

Ain't say more...
I won't listen anymore;
Every plasma inside me burning
Screams up in one word: "ENOUGH".


Ain't say more...
None of the livings listened
When I tried to articulate: I'm different,
Now, my tries outpour in one world: enough.


Ain't say more...
It's the end, listen to me;
My presence has been a torment to me,
As for all of us, then, end listening: enough.


Ain't say more...
Just listen to my absence;
It has no sound, nothing all at once,
Then, believe in my nonexistence: it's enough.


Ain't say more...
The memory is horrible,
Maybe, just as I was, only a bad riddle
That a child enjoys, but the others scream up on it: ENOUGH.

I would cry for help,
                                    but nobody cares.
The one who cares
                                   shares with me no affairs.


Like a naughty boy
                                  who's forbidden from any good,
I'm playing sullen
                                 without any mood.

North African English teachers
Are so rare in Peru;
However, I was sent right there
By the Erasmus - EU.


My adventures didn't even start
When I felt strong unease;
As if I was followed by some,
Some dark and unseen breeze.


My first day was ruined by a bite
Happened in the toilet;
I saw a shade in the mirror,
Then, some tooth and eyelet.


                    ---


On my first day I got injured
That was badly enough;
However, the first day kept me
A night just alike tough.


Knock-knock-knock I heard on my door,
The darkness was shallow;
Knock-knock without answer,
My guest was Diablo.


I'd been never superstitious,
Though, I believed in Jinns;
Just as I was a believer
Of many other things.


                    ---


Knock-knock-knock - for a hundred times,
As if my head was' door;
My fear' fulfilled with angriness,
I faced the corridor.


I got the door slowly ajar,
A black claw might me seize;
I snapped its hand and bring Quran,
"It's time to Exorcise!"


The demon tore the door crying,
Of Quranic verses;
The North African welcoming
Has no demon versus.

A colorless, eye-shaped smoke in the sky is my eyes,
That, instead of seeing, creates new skies,
New ground, and on it a new population.


None can be sure about my subjective realisation,
But what I see is more like a simplification
Of a horribly bad-mad world.


I myself am not sure how the colours are whirled;
The colours of dream- and under-world
As clothes in a washing machine.


Myself is supposed to whirl inside that machine,
Among the instinctive desires and unclean,
Inherited demands.


While my true existence that no one understands
Is beyond those dark-coloured commands,
Just dwelling for observation.

Where's the home of the stranger if not in a nameless grave,
Providing him with peace and silence;
His gravestone seems blank, but it tells thousands of untold stories
About his damnation and condemnation;
Living among people without feeling anything what runs that nation
Is painful in life, and even afterlife
When he knows it right that that name on the grave is quite unwanted,
And won't be visited, only haunted;
Haunted by thoughts and doubts of the self's unsaid words,
And the surrounding world's empty words
That had been waited by the stranger so eagerly to utter something;
The empty words should have uttered something,
Something that a stranger never could utter correctly:
Home.

My head's so heavy,
                                    it would tremble the ground
after a gracious swish
                                         of a guillotine.


Not a grass stills steady,
                                            not an ear stays uncovered
from the epidemic noise
                                             leaving my head.


Only god knows the loss,
                                             the caused damage
by my freeing thoughts
                                          escaping the unworldly world.


No one could count
                                    all that good I could bring
all that bad I absorbed
                                         while living.


Now, with my head low,
                                           my thoughts may find peace
on glorious gadgets
                                     far from my macabre mind.

Not a horseman, nor a coach,
The horses are down the high pitched coast;
Only a weak whip-like reproach
Made the horses run from their own ghost.


Down the hill, the horses flying
Into the deep like doomed pegasuses' *****;
The neighs and waves are crying,
Replying the peaceful song of a fiendish siren.


Before the dark water turns to scarlet,
It paints a mad reflection of them horror haunted;
A demerited dark life-span mindset
That vanishes in the wild waves delighted.

How many times I betrayed myself for two pennies of loneliness?
The act is so old, and after time, poverty is the best teacher,
But there are evergrey examples that never change;
I am one of them, for ever strange.


Did Judas' tinkling silvers burn brands into my hands?
Or by any chance, I am himself, suffering through centuries,
Living my own betrayal against myself and fans;
Just as I sold the prophet for the centuries?


Is there any chance that this world were real, all the happenings?
I truly suffered through histories and left behind all blessings,
Tormented by living and imagining;
I forgot everything about me.

I've watched the movies of my ages,
Even those that were before,
I've read books of teenage feelings,
I've read about leprechauns.

The world has become an endless series,
The scenes repeat in every lore,
There's no book that could surprise me,
The same stories in every store.

My eyes are saying they are full of seeing,
They are replete of colours,
Even my mouth is fed of disagreeing,
They both wish to remain closed.

While my eyelids are feignedly sleeping,
While my lips are firmly closed,
The darkness is calling and appealing,
But the movie colours shout.

The films keep shooting everywhere,
Like an ever writing Molière,
But do the plays interest me more,
Or not seeing them anymore?

Extern and intern
From the prowling death itself
(like an afeard mouse into the hole)

Still heating,
You will be to a woman escaping,
For protection at her arms, laps and knees.

Not just the fire,
That calls with ease, not just the desire,
But you are also pushed there by the must -

For this, you'd hug,
If you were on her drug,
Hugging her till the whiteness of the mouth.

A double burden,
'n double treasure is the must to love.
For the one who cannot find a simple mate,

So homeless,
As so suportless
As the wild animal doing excrete.

There's nowhere to hide
No resort; even you get a knife
And as a brave, you aim at your mother!

See now, it happened
A woman who understand'
These words, but she pushed you away.

I have no place,
In this way, among livings. Pains,
In my head' to flourish my troubles;

Like a toddler,
Rattling the rattler
If he is left all alone.

What to do
Being contra or pro?
I have no shame to find out,

Since gets castaway
Even the poor who is a prey
Of the sun's and night's nightmares.

The culture's
Falling of me like costumes
While from others, they fall in big love -

But where it is written,
To be tossed by death hither-thither
In fact of that I'm suffering all alone?

The baby
Is also in pain, being born by the lady,
Since the shared pain is eased by humbleness.

But for me
My painful chants bring money
Enjoined with disgrace and more sorrow.

Help me, guys!
You, little boys, let your eyes,
Let them burst where this woman goes.

O' innocents,
Scream under the boots of dissidents
And tell them, please: It hurts so much.

O' faithful dogs,
Get under cars' wheels and smogs,
Then bark to them: It hurts so much.

O' women with burden,
Abort your half-living *****,
Then cry painfully: It hurts so much.

O' healthy men,
Fall down and ******* then,
Just to mutter: It hurts so much.

O' men,
Fighting each other for a woman,
Don't keep it silent: It hurts so much.

O' horses and bulls,
For the yoke loosing your *****,
Don't miss a moo: It hurts so much.

O' dumb fish,
Getting a hook to become dish,
Gawp and articulate: It hurts so much.

All who's alive,
Join the life-long strife,
Let burn the forest, the house, the hutch.

And then, at his bed,
Mortified, slumber-near, almost dead,
Gibber with me for last: It hurts so much.

So, she can hear while alive.
This is what she denied, if worthwhile.
She did restrict it by her own pleasure

Extern and intern
Escaping from living itself
That was his last resort.

Still life may be silent, may be violent,
May be a green sight, may be a street light,
May be the nature's scent, or maybe it's cement,
May be moving, or maybe it's never evolving,
May be repeating, may be remaining,
Or maybe what's still is just an idyll
And life is not meant to feel,
Just to fill, fill, fill...
Until life's still.

Sometimes, I'm walking with Jinns in my head;
I hear clear things that haven't even been said,
I see ideas that yet nobody has had.


Sometimes, I'm walking with Jinns in my head;
I bear the colour before people see it as red,
I feel by what people have been led.


Sometimes, I'm walking with Jinns in my head;
I steer my steps as the thoughts have me led,
I peer the ways that they said.


Sometimes, I'm walking with Jinns in my head;
Sometimes, I feel they have made me grad,
Sometimes, I fear they make me bad.


Sometimes, I'm walking with Jinns in my head;
For understanding, sometimes, I'm so glad,
But sometimes, I'm just sad and mad.

I'm just a pocket poet -
No great ballad, no any sonnet,
I'm just a poet.


If it hurts I write -
Asking none if I'm right,
I just write.


I'm writing a stupid story -
That's running on another storey,
Away from everybody.


If it's hurt I hide
My words in my pockets' slide,
I just write.


When I'll stop this hobby,
People may find my pocket on a storey,
Maybe, I will have a story.

Before my deoxyribonucleic code has been sent
To my mother by a male parent,
I was on his land of sand,
As barely apparent.


(spermicide)


2. Then, I was finally sent
Into my female parent,
On another land,
Barely planned.


A couple of months went that I spent
In my mother's abdomen rent
On that green land,
Barely planned.


Then, my rentee went to that land,
Flying to the land of crescent
Where I was to be meant
For a big moment.


(embryonic)


5. The event happened, the end of the rent,
Under the flag with the red crescent;
I was by a Jewish name penned,
On the fifth May after Lent.


Falling into my mother's hand,
Still without any dent,
Back, I was re-sent
To motherland.


On that land, red in discontent,
White until the Lent's end,
And green at Lent,
I had one parent.


I had no knowledge when he went,
But I was without a male parent,
With only two women, a grand-
And an abnormal parent.


His furious leaving left an advent
As my mother madwomaned
With a schizophrenic scent,
To madhouse "never" sent.


The balance keeping us under tent
Was our draconian grandparent
With an infinite financial grant
That let us live on that land.


For alms, we walked to granny frequent',
And I loved her as my parent
For that little attachment
I barely experienced.


The further notions I experienced:
I was sent and sent and sent;
Nursed, schooled, churched,
And kindergartened.


But even before my childhood could end,
I found myself hard to befriend;
Playing the play of a dement
With an unmatched brand.


A playful kid, maybe too vehement,
Among others, a crazy element,
I was, but inside silent,
Over-vigilant.


I liked to observe others' comportment;
What was that I have been meant,
What made me outstand
Like an alien, mutant.


Step by step, I wished the end
Of flying dishes and plant'
At my domicile rent,
End of the torment.


(pubescent)


17. I wished to vanish from the torment
Of social-antisocial banishment,
But I saw no escape slant,
Only in my poetic lament.


Though, before those sad lament,
I tried to see my life and mend
My heart with compliment,
Some failed love event.


Minutes, days, months and years went,
A lot of school skills that I learnt,
But the best one in my hand
Was the ability to pretend.


Even if I swam well in crosscurrent,
I wished to end, leave that land;
Searched by my male parent,
I planned to visit his land.


Then, my mother went to madhouse mend,
For what, I was by my university banned
To work that went well, but I meant
To start or end a life in sand.


(twentified)


22. So, as my twenty-first birthday present
Finally, I Africanly citizened
To know my descent
And the crescent.


Beyond the French and Arabic accent,
I manned myself on that land
Where I was landed and
It's not yet ended.


Changing the cross to crescent,
I could be happy and...
But people prevent
Every event.


I'd been married as I planned,
But my fam is an accident
As my birth in an extent,
In this actual land.


What to do, socially I try to pretend
That I am indeed an element,
But my DNA was meant
To disappointment.


(at present)


27. Seen these verses, it's abhorrent
As well as writing a lament,
But as a birthday present,
I wish a Happy - End.

It comes with big fireworks of happiness
Like an extra life that revives you at the final battle,
Like a compliment that makes believe in yourself,
Like an advent of a person with radiating hope.


Euphoria - what it's called - catches your moments,
Paints everything with eternal-like vivid hues,
Triumphs your whole past in a meaningful-like song,
Brings you a goal that has never existed.


Then, it just stops the time around you,
Lets you see the grey cloud of the present,
Hear the empty vacuum of the past,
Get dizzied by the blur of the future.


It holes your soul with the deepest pit
That eats up all the hopes remained or desired,
All the energy left leaving only fatigue,
All the senses that might make the soul living.


The Mark of Death spreads its curse all over the body,
Including the soul that just sits, lays inside,
Letting the whole world behind half-living,
Accepting death already by my side.

Now on a silent summer night
Caught me the melancholy.


I was walking, wandering,
Wondering 'where am I going'
On an empty dusty road
That my legs solidly followed.


Through the shaky street lamps' light,
Just one single word was brought out
By the blackguard of an endless see
Intruded from the deepest embassy.


'Élet', that was the foreign word,
Whose meaning ensnared the world:
La vie, Leben or any Life or birth,
Still just concepts holding little worth.


'Élet' I echoed by laughing,
And passed the road embarrassing
Myself by thinking of that notion
Which had never given me emotion.


A word which filled me with filthy void,
And made me unable to avoid
Falling into a senseless sorrow,
Lowering me lower and more low.


I got to be hardly stressed;
Why this mysterious word pressed
On me so cruelly the wrong,
Making me depressed a life time along.


Even if I should have cried for resort,
I was still walking sine a sort
In my mind that's not a garden of Eden,
Or just I was, by myself, mistaken.


In some or other fairy way,
My road was riding further away;
Just as in Don Quixote's battle of glory,
I was walking against Melancholy.

O' you, who's been taken to mouths as hot honey,
As with great frequency as with sweet ploy -
Playing with the temperature of the air as kids' toy,
With joy that no child could easily accompany.


With the inner peace of an empty, blue lagoon -
While on the same token of an inhabited island -
With white-hot lava rolling along from the highland,
Narcotising even the highest creatures by swoon.


Might the oxygene pass its place to ecstasy,
Might the redundancy of other chemicals -
While you play with wild colours charming musicals,
So easily understandable, yet so complex, so fussy.


More of that rolling lava you fulfilled my veins with!
More of that turquoise peace in my mind!
You may try to hide your treasure, but I will find -
In any entity, any city, reality or a myth...


Please, rise me up from the greyness of the days,
Even when your greatness passed over my worldly says yet.

Was it a divine sign amongst the creation –
A revelation so lightsome and pregnant –
That a blanching feather’s unforeseen descent  
Made my poetic soul blench for evocation?

Surely, t’was from some celestial spheres, –
Angelic wings of cherubs and seraphim –
So long been soaking in firmamental affairs
That human mental senses but morphine.

A feather if eatable, a matter of addiction –
Plucking and plucking without satiety –
If been drinkable, a matter of intoxication
Leading humans into ever inebriety.

                               ---

O’ glorious feathers who hover with mystery –  
Over skyey dreams and unearthly visions –
Which land on the earth with vice and misery,
Lending the haver only vain aspirations.

O’ one-time ornaments of the seven heavens –
Brightness and whiteness of all times –
Have you no shame on the dirt of your pens
Writing worldly prose and heretic rhymes?
By-the-way, your heaven is no heaven but a sky –

As well as not every brightening is holy –
Just as Icarus has fallen from and by your high
As others are mystified by your fake glory.

                               ---

Whether art thou the sinister poker of Iblis –
Leading by a dancing feather in the hand –
Human arts like the one that let fall Ibn Idris
Calling with fair words to the Fallen’s land?

Whether divine inspirations in form of an aura –
Blown on the poor’s brow as enlightenment –
Art thou as the freshening science of soul and soma
Kindling the minds’ muscles as a tea of mint?

Oh, Only God knows of Ma’at’s Hall of gloom –  
If one’s deeds worth a feather morrow –
So, I seek only Deus’ forgiving, life-giving plume
To pardon my feather on the mortal pillow.

Gets no love the one who doesn't love.
It's not Karma, but simple logic.
Even if he does, it's a sort of odds,
Making the canon candid.

It's not Karma, but simple logic;
The misanthrope is alone -
Who doesn't like water, will suffocate in,
Who doesn't like life, will be perishing in.

The misanthrope is alone.
This is all a matter of nature-
One may hide in a mass like serpent,
Still being poisonous, threatening.

This is all a matter of nature;
The old song of yin and yang-
Darkness isn't overthrown by brightness,
But they fulfill the scheme of destiny.

The old song of yin and yang-
The side uncursed by goodness
Is the side blessed with senselessness,
Extreme plainness and severity.

The side uncursed by goodness
Fulfills the dark side of the bright -
Without looking for doing the right
Since it's all self-implemented.

Fulfilling the dark side of the bright,
Giving chance for the light,
And bearing all the dark of the moon,
He may be a hero, the antigone.

Giving chance for the light,
Getting no love while another does,
We - people - serve perfect bad examples
For there's no hero without Antihero.

Getting no love while another does,
Even if getting that's out of odds;
Darkness isn't overthrown by brightness,
But each fulfills a scheme in destiny.

We've been and we'll be gone even as antigone.

My ever question as a poet:
Whether the world is providing me all those imaginary words
Like sitting next to my room window's fantasies-
Or rather, reality is just the jail of my real world,
And my words are just the sunshine for me, behind the bars.

I'm a poet already -
So why would I care,
How poetry is itself?
So why would I care,
About anything, but myself?


I've got the power -
The best pens are looking for my order,
The words are bowing afore me one by one,
The paper serve me as faithful recorder,
Meanwhile, they're followed up only by one.


I'm one, one of you -
My babbles are coming from your room,
Your parents forbid me to talk as the street,
Your schools lent me books to consume,
It was your friend who read my first sheet.


I'm no one anymore -
You people kept acting after the school,
Turning cool movies of business and household,
Meanwhile, I observed what you name cool,
Having several lives written in colours and bold.


You are a poet as well -
You only need to open your eyes ajar,
Leave a comment, show me how you care,
Mellow your world and serve up in a jar,
To let us, your brothers taste if you dare.


We are a nation, mate -
We were born just as every Earthlings,
None of us was born in flames like dragons,
But we share as well magical-noble things;
To respect each other's opinions sans dictums.


Tho, I'm your poet -
I thank you people a thousand times,
For giving me a world and cause to write,
Your different colours feed my rhymes,
Without you, they would be mute, lucite.

A poor room homed me in the childhood
With cold stone walls and a leaky stove;
Some days were spent under cover
With a hoody, a hat and pair of glove.


Nathless, there was no poverty of food;
My mother managed well the stew
With rice, potatoes and some carrots,
Her care cook'd a lot out of few.


Beside, the careless neighbours stood
With a lil bowl of sugar and eggs,
Trading on a sip of juice for gossips,
Paying the fee of the one who begs.


Way-outie, we were never even gloomy;
Despite the days of water and light off,
Mother managed the waves of hardship
Like the sailor's star never falling off.


Is a grace of God, the unfortunate broom
In which I scarce tasted thick happiness?
Sugar tastes sour after golden honey;
For rich, my treasure was unhappiness.


I enjoyed the oxford blue sky of the moon
While mom sweeped the streets for stubs,
I jumped up moon-high finding pennies
Far away the parties' hubhubs.


What a pity I feel now, for all the poor
Who had money, goods and no misery;
They know nothing what is life like,
But for true rich, life itself is glittery.

A tick and a click are rhyming up in a lame flame,
A thick stick of dry herb is the flame's aim,
That starts to burn and blatter in a burring pain,
Framed by a grey fog, hiding its disdain.


The mere pain of life urges this hateful act,
Looking for more pain pack by pack,
Claiming if there's no stop, I want more of that,
Waiting and feeling and waiting and feeling,
The sniff-by-sniff approaching Death.

Sugarless ideas sleeping furiously
Wake my every week badly obviously;
No sugar, no sweetness comes to me kindly,
I am just rolling my days down tastelessly, blindly.

Sugarless ideas sleeping furiously
Wake my every week badly obviously;
No sugar, no sweetness comes to me kindly,
I am just rolling my days down tastelessly, blindly.

In the grey fogs of the cities -
Like mushrooms in the moist,
There grow beggars in the corners,
"Just a penny, sir!" - voiced.


You may find them in any genre;
Old men next to a jar,
Sad blokes without roof nor goods,
Lads playing a guitar.


All they want is only a coin-
Giving them needs morals;
Only God knows, you may be there,
Begging with them for alms.


                       ---


Every time, I bypass by one,
My throat knots in a ball;
I feel an urge to seek coppers,
Always giving them all.


However, once it happened that-
I ran out of changes,
When an old gypsy woman was
Looking for my wages.


She blocked the entry of the shop:
"A coin, may God bless you!";
I excused: Now, I'm short of posh
While trying to get through.


                       ---


She grabbed my arm and hugged my waist:
"My dear, my kids need food!"
Get out of my way, you witch! - thought,
"Witch?! You'll pay for b'ing rude!"


I was shocked: What, she read my mind?!
She spat between my eyes,
Hugged me harder than a python-
While murmuring weird rhymes.


"Pale face - hard heart, now you will pay,
Pale heart - hard face, you'll own!"
I fear'd if there were watching crowds,
But none, I've seen none, none.


                       ---


The witch's gone as if never been,
Leaving my eyes in pain;
Taking my sight away, to say:
Oh my God! Am I sane?!


No doctor could cure my blindness:
"Nah, you must pretend it."
Then, a charlatan informed me:
"You're cursed, I'm sure of it".


Knowing being cursed let me sick;
"You'll need her to be cleansed",
But how to find her in Paris?
Been blinded and uneased.


                       ---


I digged through the darkest quarters,
Meeting gypsy kings and hags;
Though, they were all laughing at me:
"A witch-beldam who begs?!"


My dispair led me to the shop:
Maybe, I'll find her here;
Time has strained my face and my heart,
Begging there year to year.


"All I want is only a coin-
Giving me needs morals;
Only God knows, you may be here,
Begging with me for alms."

The boogey man is not a man,
But a monstrous cavity in the minds of the men.
Black corners and shaded wardrobes,
What deamon, boggle, hobgoblin the bedstead-dark holds?


Eyes are sticked on the darkness,
Noble nowhere: the wide pupil is seeing far less,
While the truth is under your nose:
Thousand lies' eyes lie upon you that no one knows now.


Spiders? Rat snakes? What's hidden there?
No one knows and no one cares by-chance you barely dare;
It's you and your mind - your demons
Who barely care - its self-destruction deepens itself.


Dark room, wardrobe and under-bed;
Darkness dwells in none of among them, but in your head.
Empty-headed pics of crassness,
Made by no boogey, but an ignorant's recklessness.


Put away your holy water;
No need for illusive Jinn-conjurer Gin-tonics.
Darkness knows one weapon: homage;
Nightmares can be killed only through the light of knowledge.


Black corners and shaded wardrobes,
What morbid poison, what fearful drug your brain cells hold?
Embrace no torch, no crucifix;
The thirst of knowledge dries out every grim-naughty pics.

For the one who has no rest from tempest to tempest,
What does the word mean: summer?
What does the word mean: winter or weather?
Would he believe ever that there's a good weather?
Would he believe in warmness and sunshine or any similar form,
Or rather, would he see them as the lull before the storm?
Wouldn't he see the sun as hiding new tortures?
Wouldn't he hide under a tempest's cloak as turtles?
Saying: Oh Sweet Home, I know you and you know me,
Oh Sweet Roar, Thunder and Rain; follow me.

I remember as a village member,
I cut a memorable road in the wood...


I remember as a walking wobbler,
Some deep thrill made shrill the route,
Covered by the blackness of Blackwood.


I remember as a faint bystander,
What a dark power had that wild park,
beware-embraced, making my eyes sharp,
Taking its hideous darkness like a lark.


I remember with a tender temper,
Some river's ripping ceased my shiver,
I - a thinker, harkened the silent timber,
How the water seduced me to drink her,
Whether I will fall to flaw, following her.


I remember as a deep slumber,
I answered the call, the fanfare, I heard;
The song of the fake stream was a lake,
A lake calling me with its narcotic ache.


I remember as I remember,
As if that freak lake wanted me to keep,
As if that deep lake... made me to leap.


I remember as a member of the lake,
I cut a memorable road in the wood...

At the Matra, in a country,
Lives my elder and dear auntie,
Warmhearted, hardworker and hale,
She is from whom I know this tale.

A bumbling deerling on a day,
Went astray onto the highway,
He fell over a fallen trunk,
Breaking his leg with crack and clunk.

While the poor was sadly weeping,
The old lady stopped there, seeing.
Taking him up, right to the lap,
She took the fawn home for a nap.

Curing him and cherishing him,
Not just healing his broken limb,
But giving him fresh hay, water,
As if she were his dear mother.

Katy the cat and Doug the dog,
Nestled to him next to the stove's log,
Sharing humanely their one nest,
They could not hurt the little guest.

The fawn's leg is quickly mending,
He could dance without pretending,
He could dance since he is not *****,
However, he wasn't in the mood.

His doleful brown eyes in the far,
Are hanging on the morning star,
While the morning's red-purple lights,
Are playing on the mountain's sights.

Evening winds are chasing the haze,
Then, they get lost in the hills' maze.
"My fresh crops are waiting for you,
Come home, deerling! We all love you!"

Tears sprang into the deerling's eyes,
He wished to go back, without lies,
Only if his mother wouldn't worry,
Only if his auntie wouldn't pity.

Day and night he wants to go back,
Whither the smooth grass is his snack,
Where are fancy fields of flower,
Waiting for their deerling brother.

Where squirrels are jumping around,
Woodpeckers are hitting the trees' crown,
Cuckoos are singing gay sonnets,
And ants are wearing heavy puppets.

He's waited by the stream, by the wind,
By the running clouds there sky-pinned,
By the dewy blue-bell flower,
By the fields in colour-shower.

The old dame is weeping for him,
However, she won't hold back him,
Each one has a home to live in,
Being deer woods or human housin'.

Escorting him until the gate,
The dame must tip-tap back and wait,
Waving to him until seeing:
"Farewell, my dear little deerling!"

Pacing slowly, ambling stilly,
Door is clacking, curtain's swishy,
She is watching her dear from there,
For last, he may look back to her.

Her helpless little animal,
Hurries more and more his footfall,
And then, as fast as the lightning,
He is on the mountain, climbing.

But on the top, under the sky,
He turns back to say a goodbye:
"God bless you, field, and my old dame" -
Like the wind, he left as he came.

The summer fleets, the leaf falls down,
Every beech tree balds its ex-crown,
Snow blankets the houses, the lawn,
The old lady's living alone.

Nature's waking up, flowering,
She doesn't forget her deerling,
The Earth is turning once and twice,
The gate is knocked by someone nice.

She looks out the window lattice,
What a strange nightly guest that is?
Moonlight beems upon the country,
She opens wide the wooden entry.

Her hands opens in hugging blow:
A deer, deerling and a mother doe,
Standing there, then letting them in,
Her heart's beating, recognizing:

Her deerling became a deer dad,
Having a son now being sad:
His forefoot's broken a little;
They visited the hospital.

He asked her with his bare eyes:
Please Dame, cure my son with your ties,
Don't let him crying dear auntie,
May God return you your bounty.

Mist is afore them, fog behind,
They dressed the cape of night to hide,
Leaving their little in her arm,
Knowing, she will cure all his harm.

The little got cured one by one,
He was almost able to run,
And before the beech throws its mast,
The young buck is in the forest.

At the Matra, village border,
The Old Dame within the portal,
She's not alone why she would be,
Cold or hot, she's a busy bee.

She's surrounded by bucks and does,
They're coming back as visitors,
Winter-summer, from year to year,
They bow their head to Mother Deer.

The village folks loving her too,
They give her nicknames, one or two:
The Old Lady within the dear,
Or just simply Dear Mother Deer.

Red poppy, carnation, sage bloom,
Are decorating her mild room,
In big vases and little jugs,
Rainbow colours like made of drugs.

A flower from Steven Peter,
Another from Flower Esther,
A third one from Johhny Seral,
Surely, they'll be good persons all.

The wild flowers followed by songs,
The room's full of musical tongues,
Children singing is far and near,
While laughes and cries Dear Mother Deer.

At the Matra, in a country,
Lives my elder and dear auntie,
Warmhearted, hardworker and hale,
Her golden heart is in this tale.

Salt loaves wait the little deerlings,
Swiss rolls wait for the new-comings,
Be her guest, you too, I just say:
This is the tale's end; run away!

And when the Lamb had opened the seventh seal,
There was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour -
I did grab my last chance at God to finally feel,
But after all those fights and battles, I still was proven dour.


Never - I felt myself winning in Death's game of chess;
Even if, I was sometimes pridefully smiling,
Just as like children feeling proudly after doing a remarkable mess;
I wanted to prove myself on Earth while God has been hiding.


All time - I left behind the ridiculous faces,
Painted with pious spirituality from random rapturous riddles
That might fuddle the painful slaves on his laces
To hear the scream of Death as dance-starting fiddles.


Oh, no - I said: Away with all the physicality,
Give me rather knowledge on my own - at least to know -
Who is God and who is Evil if they are real in reality,
To know, these faked battles against Death were not shallow.


All time, I've been annoyed on my road,
Though, it wasn't Death bothering me but my own emptiness,
While others had thousands of funny wishes implored,
I only wished to fetch up with my boredom and lonliness.


Never, I gave up to call the fate upon suffering fights,
To know, whether I would bear another hit - another blow,
Then, for sure it's my final destiny to hear how it invites:
Come, it's the end. I know you've become so tired for now.


And when the Lamb had opened the seventh seal,
There was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour -
And God has been silence all since I've been able to hear,
Say, what's the fate of such a terribly deaf and faithless soul?






"S.D.G" (Soli Deo Gloria) — "To God Alone the Glory"

If my disappointment dressed in wrath,
It would rumble in hell-flames and chaos,
Reaching the gates of the seven heavens
Asking for justice with the blood of pathos.


All good feelings made out of nothing-
Just as the lightsome grab of a baby's hand,
Or either heavy as a smile, making compliment-
Shall be enclosed far away of the worldly hell of pathos.


Since, the heavenly drops of happiness
Are drunk up by stone hearted human greyogles,
Playing hazardous games with my rare happiness,
And leaving me in a chaos-like hellfire with my dear pathos.

This heart is going to stop.


It may be a scarry sound next to a pub,
A silent scattershot in a shop to rob,
An exciting smell in a chemic lab,
Or a short nap in a taxi cab.


Only God knows how it will end,
Passing through that particular land.


But indeed this heart is about to cease.


It is the keen and slow pain that nobody sees,
The heavy carelessness bringing no ease,
The fast heart-beaten minutes I lose,
My non-existent ecography's hues.


Only God knows how it ends,
While I'm passing through all these lands.

Many questions have been raised on my nature
The most of them by myself, but also by the people;
The funny thing in the huge number the questions assume:
They can be answered by one word: Vacuum.


From those questions, some may please me
Like "What art are those that may lead thee?"
Or "What limit has been reached by your knowledge?";
They are rare but I like when I'm asked on my storage.


While there are questions I barely like
Like "Why are you a person whom we barely like?"
Or "Why are you so different and not alike?";
Let's answer them by a single strike:


My nature is like the nature's nature:
There's no place where's no creature;
So, what I'm fighting is what the nature's fighting,
Where is darkness there must be lighting:


Vacuum, I'm all fulfilled with emptiness,
If there's ten planets I need a twentieth,
I wish to fulfill my eager to be fulfilled
Even if by the pressure of that knowledge I'll be killed.

the door creeks


"Ah, I've been waiting it for weeks."


"It's surely the Reaper, the final undertaker."


waiting for nothing


"Maybe, he has another job. The door creeked, but he sent one of his helldog to do the job."


the void avoids my thoughts


"Hellhound or a fluffy bunny, stop me feeling so moody."


"Somebody, take my thoughts and take me voice. Not to feel more sore."


waiting


creeking