Dying
is like sleeping,
with no more dreams
to rush inside
and shake you up,
night after night.
And all those
memories you stored
in archive shelves
of blood and bone
will be by then
forever lost.

hope stretches out
makes you dream
of faster, larger
synchronous,
stronger synapses
that show you
the same path
in different light,
that spans across
those past attempts
and future thoughts
still out of sight.

Berlin, today you look so sad
it’s sunday, isn’t it?
I think of you
like I think of some joke
that one reads out loud during the week
and on the last day
is thrown away
because it isn’t funny anymore.
Seriously Berlin,
there’s no more laughter
on sundays.

Berlin, your asphalt has acne
just look in the mirror
you can’t go out like this
you re just plain ugly
not as **** anymore.
put up some make up
dress up like some real city
don’t play that card again,
Seriously Berlin,
there’s no more trick
for you to play.

short dreams interrupted,
images almost forgotten
in motionless sight of cold,
night sky's dark turns gray,
as morning’s light unfolds.
in quiet rooms grown visibile,
silent trains of thought arrive
to turn night's voice inaudible.

I am ...
the marshmallow kid,
that lives
mostly in the present.

Inside locked rooms
I grab ...
whatever shows
and rolls around,

that looks,
I guess ...
so worthy of betraying
tomorrow
for the now.

the real, unveiled
by a film before,
so stunning, no eyes
could see it anymore.

if balance brings
thought into light,
why are you still
lost out of sight ?

is what I sense
as truth so wrong?
if yes, let’s just
stop calling it so

and let it float
in shapeless way
mind over matter,
both gone astray.

Give me back the time
I stared
at my black screen.
Give me back the time
I listened
to any sound that could have
disturbed
the silence I was in.

To keep it sane,
psychologists
often say,
you have to strive
to stay honest
as much
as you can,
but then again
some others say,
lying to yourself
is the best
possible way.

You have to see things from above
to understand them close up front,
but when they are right next to you,
don’t ever try to look beyond.

People who wait for the weekends to come,
collect their time in broken vessels.
They search for those hours
when life feels real again;
they seem to hold fish in their hands,
and expect to feel the ocean's depth.
But just like time, it slips away
so easily, every sunday afternoon.

There’s no free will.
Just some neurons
Tied together, that fire
Before you even spell
I am, I do, I will.
And consciousness
Is just a word,
To name yourself
In front of mirrors,
You accidentally pass by.

So what?

I wish I’d hear your neurons spike,
In rythms of love and despair
When you change your mind again,
And search for someone new to care.

there's this thought
that drives
so fast
my cerebral cortex
can hardly keep up with it.
and as one thought
leads to another,
I find myself impatiently
waiting
at the crosswalk,  
while taking another sip
of my coffee.

In a heartbeat,
for a second ,
Life itself lies here
unshattered.

I saw those stripes and signs that show
how everyone should act
how buildings should call each other
when people interact,
how high are trees allowed to grow,
how fast one has to cross the street,
where children could play,
where adults have to hide
after left over bottles
are smashed in the sky.

When shadows start
to touch the ground,
I watch the time
pass by in haste,
look down on
moving silhouettes
and try to keep them
fixed in place.

You got me all snowed in
and isolated in a foreign land
which used to be my own,
although I never called it that way,
some others did and told me so.
But now, long after it was poured
in concrete shapes,
of memory, thought and form,
you got everything covered up.

White layers make all edges disappear.

Words spread out in patterns,
Black signs thrown on displays
As sounds blend in one another.
Emotions start to dance in circles,
But silence starts to fill the phrase,
In awkward unfamiliar rooms
You watch the game vanish away.

You remember those small soaps,
that touch the skin and leave no smell
that wash away the time
you spent in some cheap hotel ?

I found one of those soaps,
that washed no skin and had no smell
and was just plain white
with no touch left to tell.

your sky is not my sky,
but sometimes we share
the same spot on earth.

January.
The sky is empty,
no birds to draw
geometric art,
except for some
airplanes, that rush
meaningless
from one place,
to another.

Pain is asymmetrical.
On my left side
there is this bruise
waiting to be healed.

Because love,
Love is unpredictible.
on my right side,
it almost disappeared.

Nights.
Looking forward to
Lose myself in various stages
Of sleep unfolded consciousness
From alpha waves to REM,
It's all still there to dive again,
Until bright, busy daylight
Suddenly pops in, just in time
To scare all dreams away.

If sensation is not perception
I demand to see what you have seen
before my eyes met yours,
before my feet stumbled
across the hands of yours.
before my voice played
along the sound of yours
and your feet passed on all the routes
for me forever left unseen.

You can’t swallow the truth
No matter how hard you try,
In every bite the seed remains,
Of meaning, irreducible,
That sticks forever to your tongue,
in darkness, undeniable.

Take a deep breath,
don’t swipe so fast,  
you still have bruises
invisible, yet colorfast.

I am a square inside a circle.
sometimes we speak tangentially,
but mostly I try to crawl
back into its center.
the way it rotates around me,
every hour, every day
is how I wish myself to be:
round, lively, unafraid.
but those **** edges
move back and forth,
reminding me how close, yet far
my ideal self slides
more and more, away.

Cornea,
my private shield
against sun’s rays
burned gold,
while straight into
the sun I looked,
to turn my black,
wide open eyes into
red-yellow bold.

Beneath the sheets there lie in bed
some things which cannot be,
because of other past half said
kind lies of immortality.