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The door, half-open, the sound
Of piano keys one by one
Accelerating, rushing,
Then, softly and gently
Fingertips only
On your neck
And my hair;

The doormat, greasy,
White stains on black,
White stains on white,
White saints above,
And below — white Snow.

Hands jump
From one place to another,
Passionate, yet thoughtful,
Albeit slightly nervous;
A black bough
With a little cloud atop,
Red on white,
White on black
And white on white again.

A lucid view
Through an opaque surface,
Chills mixed with warmth
Within and around;
Muted soft sound
Goes on for a while,
Numbs the senses,
Then, suddenly, a couple
Of accurate and precise
Touches make such
Clear and dazing notes,
That you just sit there

The drum, slow and steady
And swingy and lazy,
As the body trembles,
Bends slightly, freezes
And goes crazy;

Translucent wings
Flutter over white
And black and gold,
The bird serenades
In the dim, shivering light.
He puts
his hands
Around her body
And a calming, warm,
Quiet sound
Of a pulsating heart
Blurs and blends
All the colours:
White on gold,
Gold on black,
Black on white,
White on hazel
And so on
And so forth;

An upright bent
Of the bent upright;
Hold on,

The end.
A friend of mine once said that it's better than ***

Originally published on Medium @ Poets Unlimited

Subtitled 'A jazz-infused impromptu' for reasons unknown
The day doesn't start

When the first bird starts to sing

When warm rays crawl into the room through thin curtains,

When the breeze changes its direction,

When the coffeeshop around the corner spreads sweet smell into my window,

When the alarm goes off or the telephone rings,

When the first train leaves the station,

When fancy dressed people rush wherever they go,

When the golden chariot rides the crystal bridge,

When the primal deity dies and gives way to a new born Christ,

When the bell tolls for a Sunday mass,

When the mullah cries out from his ivory tower,

When everybody gathers around the Market place,

No, the day only starts

When you open your eyes.
Originally published on Medium in Poets Unlimited
It's so sad

That I can't always kiss you in the morning,
Can't kiss you goodnight either.

And sometimes it is pretty hard

To wake you up with a smell of coffee.

Alas, I can't always do any of that.

But what I can do is kiss you

In your dreams.
Originally published on medium in Poetry Unlimited
I am a restless giant at the end of a bobby-pin,
I am a lost love on the edge of a butterfly's wing,
I am a lonesome hobo, travelling all around,
I am a lifelong prisoner, hanging upside down,
I am a drop of poison within adolescent stream,

I am a man, who's smiling at you in your midnight dream,

I am a piece of wet sand, stuck in-between your toes,

I am a departed prophet, stripped of his weary clothes,
I am a balloon that's flying into the shallow sky,
I am silently crying,

I am alive. Am I?
Originally published on medium in Poetry Unlimited
Actions speak louder than words,
You wonder why I'm speechless.
I’ve been sitting at a local fast-food joint
Waiting for my friend, who was outside
Having a chat with some girl he loved once;
He didn’t anymore and just wanted to set things straight.

I ordered myself a medium strawberry shake
And just sat there listening to Bill Evans
As the most peculiar thing caught my sight:
All around me were men in their 30’s and 40's,
Drinking draft beer and staring sadly
Either at their phones or simply at the table.
They all shared a common tired and dumb look;
Hell, I thought, how low do you have to be
To drink horrible overpriced beer at a fast-food joint
Alone, at 7 pm?

At the next table, two young girls
Were having a dinner; so smily, happy
And full of life I sat there overwhelmed.
Why not just go there and talk to them?
But those sullen faces kept staring,
Rigid and unemotional, except for an occasional sigh,
Immediately followed by a gulp.
I glanced at the same table again —
Those girls were gone and another
Asian woman was siping her coke…

Some hum broke through the Shadow of Your Smile.
I looked around: different men, same posture;
Same look, same sadness,
Same disgusting smell,
Same lonely warm beer.

I picked up my coat and my hat,
Tied my checkered scarf around the neck
And went outside,
This is not a poem
Originally posted on Medium in Poets Unlimited
Light is dripping from the ceiling
(looks like you don’t really care):
If you stay with me this evening,
I will be your teddybear.
I will tuck you in at night,
Make you feel that it’s alright.

Drumroll, bass, guitar and fiddle
(you’re as quiet as they get):
If you care to die a little,

I will be your cigarette.
At your lips I’ll burn and fly,
All in ashes, to the sky.

Men are smashed, somebody fainted
(you just look completely fine):
If, perhaps, you’d like to get it,
I will be your glass of wine.
Cheer you up when you are sad,
Tip your tongue with viscous red.

Now it’s closing time, the last call
(seems that you would like to leave):
If you fancy cheeky rascals,
I will be your rebel chief.
I will play both Stark and Blaine,
Conquer countries in your name.

Half-transparent, slim, and curly,
You have almost fled my sight:
If you need to get up early,
I will be your taxi ride.
Safely drop you by your door
Not expecting something more.

— The End —