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
Overwhelmed.

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,
Forever.

The end.

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.

Knock-knock

The door opens
With a creaky sound
Resemblant of that
Of an upright.
I tremble
And dissipate
Under a distinct impression
Of a mellow fingerdrum
As the elder brother rushes
Towards the second son
For a goodbye hug
Or, perhaps, a goodnight kiss.
Walls become wet
And gently crush me
Into a coffee bean sparkling
Glittering mass of yesterdays.
For what was, is and to come
Is surely hidden inside a matchbox
You keep in your inner pocket
To protect from rain, burglary
And other troubles.
Look up at the sky:
I’m standing close to you,
Garlic and tobacco odour included.
Even when I’m not actually
Here.

The stars;
They aren’t other worlds
(although some people say they are);
I propose a toast to my self-control
And to the sweetest place I’ve ever visited —
The corners of your mouth.

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.

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?

An old drunkard once said that
Cats **** each other;

I think it was at 3 AM they did so.

I lift my head up to the dimly lit morning sky
And smile as the wind touches my face.

For love is like a cat: it too loves to die in the night.
French, they call it la petite mort;

I like the sound of it.

Social lubricant, they say.
To hell with that,
I don’t know when or how,
By what chance or coincidence,
But I will call you.

You miss a step on a stairwell
And start to fall;
I extend my arm in an almost automatic gesture.
You cling to it
And let go of my hand
Just a couple of seconds later
Than you were supposed to.

Loud noises make me want to sit closer,
And so I do
In an everlasting hum,
Monotonous beat,
Saying some meaningless words.

‘It’s two for a quarter, dime for a dance’

And as I feel
The touch of your fingers on my back,
I pick up the beat;
We dance shyly
To the tune known just to the two of us
In the whole wide universe.
Some stranger congratulates us
And, embarrassed, we laugh nervously
But then look into each others’ eyes
Just a couple of seconds longer
Than we were supposed to.

Social lubricant, they say.
To hell with that,
I don’t know why,
By what chance or coincidence,
But you called me back.

The tension grows exponentially,
So we literally have to face the wind
And light up a *** or two;
Another couple afterwards.

When you didn’t see me,
I pinched myself —
Just so you know.

The piano
Misses a measure
And goes offbeat.
We start to fall,
I extend my arm in an almost automatic
gesture,
You cling to it.
We kiss,
And let go of each other
Just a couple of seconds earlier
Than we were supposed to do.

I don’t feel the usual thrill,
Or any extra ‘tension’ for that matter.
I just feel like I’m free.

Loud noises make me want to close my eyes,
And so I do
In an everlasting hum,
Monotonous beat,
Thinking some meaningless thoughts.

An hour earlier,
Or, perhaps, a day later,
And the world would have been
So much different.

‘I recognise that smell’
A hint of dried fruits,
Chocolate
And oatmeal –
Looks like a gleaming skyscraper
With a cute pink foundation
Below.

You say I’m embarrassing you,
Well, the blush is mutual,
But you sure as hell have a good taste
In music.

New coat of paint
(an impudent and familiar smell applied),
Same joint – new day.
And I don’t pinch myself,
Not anymore I don’t.


Social lubricant, they say.
The tension grows exponentially,
The piano misses another beat.
I don’t know why,
By what chance and coincidence,
But I came down for a glass that night.

I was staring at the beer and crackers,
One of those nights;
Haven’t I told you that I love warm beer?
I hear something familiar
And I smell something new.
So, the world couldn’t have been
Any stranger.

A hint of dried fruits,
Smoked wood
And chilli in a bowl.
I steal you for a cigarette
And we chatter
Just a couple of seconds longer
Than we were supposed to.

‘Call me any time you want to have some fun’

I know **** well when and how,
By what chance and coincidence,
I will call you again.
Social lubricant, you say?
A two and a ten, please.

Hope you’re not embarrassed anymore,
I know I’m not.

To hell with that.