we are the collision of two stars,
light and dark, the light bulbs
hanging like broken poems,
from your ceiling.

There are some that live with their lives,
walking around with their heads bowed
to keep tears hidden.
Bed-ridden from the sound
of their own steady heartbeat.
With little thought to spare,
some turn to religion just so they can feel
like they have a prayer.
When every dream is a nightmare
And they tear open every morning
to reveal reality,
just to remind you it is still there.
Despite all our best hopes,
there will be no escape from our binds.
For everyone who finds the rope
instead of support,
let this be the rapport by which
your memory still will echo within us.
To lift an entire heavenly choir to your name
and your legacy.
We will not forget you.
Until there is no one left to pass your torch.
The children you never had are echoes
bouncing off flesh and bone,
finding no way out amongst your corpse.
They will die with you,
as much as your memory eventually will follow suit.
The mute will one day find the voice
to cry out for the horrors done to you,
but until then, you must fight on
so you can live to see that day.
When every exit looks like another highway to hell,
you must find it within you to dwell
only in the light places
, to turn to friendly faces
no matter the pain,
to make all the slings and arrows hurled against you
thrown in vain.
We will not forget you,
but only if you are willing to echo
in our ears just a while longer.
. Flow like a river and
blow open this world like a volcano.
Leave your torments behind you on the bus home,
they will never reach you again.

I heard they found him hiding
behind claims of inner peace
and the sweaty palms of a
bare-breasted Parisian lover.
They found red stains on the
mattress. She could have been
a ******; young thoughts and sin,
though I know Leonard had
quite the taste for cheap red wine.
It would often resemble blood-lust.

They dragged him away through
the photographer's parade,
one million flashes mimicking
nature to capture the colour
leaving his handsome face.
In a faded suit and tie,
in a faded verse and rhyme,
he addressed the crowd to call
for freedom, to call for anything
more than a monthly wage.

I heard they found him lurking
in the digital archives of their crimes,
biding his time to become a hero,
to blow the whistle once he had
finally learned how to carry a tune.
He found innocent blood-shed
in the dust-cloud streets and money
distributed amongst greedy hands
like poker chips, passing weaponry
between countries like a blunt.

They dragged him away to
great public disgrace,
funding the next big blockbuster,
turning genius to mania,
and his lover into a victim.
In the lack of space or time,
in the lack of pouring wine,
Leonard learned to whistle
from by the window until
the inner peace returned,

until he understood the birds,
until the city came to burn.

I determine to die loved.
Even if it is only
by myself.

You built a great tower.
Filled it with gold and rubies.
Great Gothic domes that stretched
to the feet of heaven. and St. Peter.
A great archway of marble.
The pews of redwood and leather.
Scripture clean and untouched.
For all the value you place in it,
there is no real value on its exterior.


For the real value is not in the building,
It is what cannot be measured...cannot be valued...is
what lies within a greater treasure.

I built another tower.
Wood and nails and glue.
I filled it with the greatest treasure
Man could give to man.
The voices of others. Singing and
helping. The Word is frayed and worn.
But it’s the best kind of worn that worn
can be.

Let a book be judged by it’s cover for
sometimes the most un amazing things
are the richest treasures in life.

In the middle of the night
I share this poem with you

What do you know
what do you see of me?

A few patches of black
carved in the white of a screen
a few sad words trying to soothe
what is left of me

I live secluded in an apartment
downtown of a half a million souls' city
founded by the Atlantic ocean

I live a cosy and quiet life
sometimes going out to feed myself
and breathe the lousy air of town

Me and my few friends gather once every week
to share a drink
to exchange meaningless thoughts
and useless ideas
around the fate of man
the hopeless prospect of our destiny

We are bachelors around forty
We were born wild and hard
offshoots of the oddest
long gone sycamores
rooted in the most infertile soils

We used to read powerful litterature
Nietzsche, Kafka, Broch,
Joyce, Balzac, Beckett,
Shakespeare, Goethe and Bernhard
to name a few

But none of them has ever helped us out
to find a heart to love
and a pristine soul to care for

All the books we read
have tormented us
with many questions and relentless issues

Now we sit still in our chairs
and watch the clouds go by
hoping for the next blue sky
hoping for the next feeling to come

And never do we ask when...