Death - is our only friend.
Never fails to arrive
at the final hour.
But before - the tornado of bones,
entropy; basic law of the Universe,
ravaging everything we have built
so carefully, gullible.
Leaving desolation,
so that Death can fly down
and stroll amongst the bones
and jewelry.

I want to eat a piece of your soul,
and taste it through and through,
and want you to do the same
with mine.
In this feast,
I want to take part in,
Whoever you are,
          Whenever we are.




I want to eat all these foods,
The most raw of all,
No lies, no fake shells,
Just the primal taste;
the core.

-Who am I?
-A desperate man,
an animal crying in the jungle at night.
A liar and a hyporcite(even now(even now(even now(even now(even n
A brief flash of light in the course of thousands of years(just like millions of stars in the galaxy, going through the cycle of numerous births and deaths). A wannabe, maybe? A formless gooey of matter, not different from anything else.
A hypocrite, again. And in this particular moment, even more a vomitter and a cold sweating frog.
All and none, time and rhyme,
soon not to rhyme.
And again,
I say,
I am one of the billion stars.

From time to time,
I hear your voice through a wall.
****, girl,
                I love you.
You have something special,
I value you.

Am I a painter?
-No.
Am I a sculptor?
-Yes, but not primarly.
        A writer?
-Whether I want it or not - yes. But words are only a tool.
I think of myself as an electrician. Some mad scientist electrocuting others, experimenting, playing with reactions, creating or recreating. You can call me a time travelling machine guy too, these roles are connected though. A sower, yes.
I'm a vomiter as well; a cold sweating frog.
An anchor throwing man.

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

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

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

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

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

These days, I often imagine myself
Lying in my bed, dead.
With nothing but the "Little black book"
On the table beside me-
-a rather non toxic version of me.
A sculpture once hot,
A painting once wet.
The "Little black book" written with a black ink
(except one little bluestar).
A sculpture now cool,
A painting now dry.
Finally - matured, ripe and stonelike.
Ready to be exposed to the people:
Family, friends, loved ones, strangers.
Chaos to words.
A cooled down notebook.

A short term quick evolution.
Span of 70 years.
I'm a paleontologist,
Archaeologist, and a
Wildlife observer.
Traces appear so obvious to me
Shifting of characters each day,
Growing claws, fangs and shells
Blooming flowers, colours.
The beaks must be useful.
Searching for balance and a safe spot.
Wildlife environment,
Behaviours of herd
Eyes in bushes.
Observation.

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

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

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

Winter metabolites
Cold air inside
Hot air outside
Clear in
***** out
Snow-covered bikes
Hand prints in snow
Indescribable sensation(culmination?)

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