You are broken.
Constellations for a body, glimmering stars
playing connect-the-dots to create
a beautiful yet imperfect human form.
Black holes for eyes,
breathing in memories,
but anything positive loses itself in the abyss,
leaving you with nothing but past pain and heartache.
I am such a wreck.
Supernovas for thoughts, always
exploding into a frenzy of anxious thoughts.
Pluto for a personality,
being overlooked, underappreciated, and pushed away.
But when looking through a telescope,
all anyone can see is cosmic, celestial hope.
I think between our luminescence and darkness,
We’d make a lovely mess.
Just your regular Friday.
Trapped in a poorly lit elevator
with three other strangers.
The only things they have in common are that
they’re all wearing red shoes,
and that they’re all going up.
Everyone is listening to their own music -
a weird mix of
rap, rock, indie and folk
that sounds great played in the same time.
No one knows where they’ll get off the elevator,
at what storey, nor if they’ll take a left or right afterwards.
It’s all a mystery.
The first couple of floors pass easily,
maybe someone even cracks a joke
or makes a funny comment
and they all smile at their mirror reflection.
Suddenly, the elevator clutches between floors
and they get to see their faces for the first time.
They are mesmerized.
Although they have nothing in common besides the red shoes,
They feel as if they are doppelgangers on the inside;
They wake up in each-other’s heads
and it all feels comfortable for a while,
The chairs are cosy and the food is great!
The mirrors disappear and they start to see the world from above.
they realise that there’s no insurance,
and that they’re suspended in mid-air,
half way between the earth and the sky,
a band of unknown,
4 complete strangers,
everyone trying to act cool,
posing for an imaginary sub-genre cover album photo,
that no one will get to listen to.
Minutes pass and they become hours,
sky becomes sea
and clouds vanish.
They get tired of looking out the window
and all the windows look tired of looking out of them.
Someone finds a door and opens it.
He looks at the others, waves, then jumps.
They’ll never know if he drowned,
got burned in the atmosphere or
ended up on the good side
of the freshly buttered toast.
One of the remaining three starts taking selfies,
Smiling at his virtual image,
not being bothered at all
that the image doesn’t smile back,
being convinced that, in this way,
he’s slowly becoming part of a special form of theatre,
with a smiling/sad face construction,
a bipolar bear with
the heart of an eagle.
The second one starts writing nervously on the walls;
endless lines of pathetic reality;
a combination of feelings, lies,
social media security questions
and lots and lots of sophistry…
everything intended to serve as a rock-solid personal legacy
after the elevator’s presumed crash.
The third one gets locked in his own head,
carefully observing all of them,
gazing in the blank,
with his headphones still in his ears,
but with no music on,
no plan in his mind,
no clean underwear,
no purpose at the end of the journey,
no answer for any of the police’s questions,
trapped in an elevator
like a great idea in somebody’s head,
in a brain crack situation.
He is all alone,
humming sad chick tunes,
slowly losing his wit and grit.
The elevator walls reappear,
and he is now going up again,
surrounded by three pairs of red shoes
that were made for walking,
but are now
floating around the universe,
half-way between God and Darwin.
There's no better feeling
than hearing a new song
you want to drown
And there's no better
feeling than meeting someone
And i haven't heard his voice
He left with no trace of him.
One minute he was holding me
and the next it was like he never
He broke me.
But i've been drowning
myself in the new song i love,
because for the first time
i have loved something
since you stopped loving me.
As he sits back he blows up the smoke
With one look the Lizard King penetrates your soul
A talk of dreams and projections
No ears to hear the King's interventions
A post prophet of freedom and anarchy
The room is crowded but the lizard king is lonely
Innate talent of mind alternance and substance abuse
Words speaking of a King and a noose
The Lizard King roars before shooting his final blend
The King closes his eyes as the crown falls to an infinite end
Words Of Harfouchism
Good grades will buy my
ticket to the New Town
where there's sun and golden sand.
Good grades will save me from
the homework I am drowning in.
One day I'll count my change
to buy a banjo like my
runaway uncle owned.
Each strum will create
my Freedom Song.
Toes in seawater,
Strings beneath my fingertips;
I'll have found my escape.
While the tide goes out it will
carry my worries in its waves.
The heart of the Lizard King beats with every note
It speaks of a strange tongue and a banned tone
A vision of the future and past incarnations
A trip to the edges of creation
The Lizard King smiles, but it knows him not
He cries but the tears refuses to drop
18th generations of a pure blood race
The Lizard King offers the last chance to escape
Words of a lost soul that won't breed
Pain, pleasure and desires till the Lizard King fals asleep
Words Of Harfouchism
Music is the only thing
that makes sense anymore
its the only way
I can describe to you
the darkest parts of me
the texture of broken glass
encasing my heart
its the only way
you can feel the wires wrapped
around my lungs
feel the fire burning through my veins
its been the only way
I can feel anything at all
Music for empty apartments
Heard only in the winter
Of the soul
The deepest, coldest part
Where the distant melody
Is omnipresent, dark and low.
Music for the heart and mind
Drifting on the breeze,
And soft and gentle sobs
Heard only by those
Alone with their thoughts,
Swimming in the thoughts of others.
Missing ones held dear
Clinging to memories
Playing them over
So as not to let them go...
For empty apartments
With empty beds
And empty souls.
Music so unheard, it is nearly lost
Yet to those who play it,
It is deafening.
Will you allow me to steal from your treasure chest the one medal you cannot retrieve like spilt milk?
Will you grant me the permission to undress your innocent virginity in all it's vaginal silk?
Will you give me your drum beating soul with all its erotic musical notes?
Will you let me touch every inch of your breathing temple that has become my living sanctuary?
Will you drown me in your intoxicating presence with lips as soft as rose petals in spring coats?
For every ounce of your flesh is coated in the pain you carried through countless storms,
And all your nakedness defines the core definition of the word beauty in all its forms.
So for your sexual desires I lay next to you in your dreams, waiting for a signal that says:
“Yes.” to all my exhilarated questions.
I want to make love to you as softly as a carefree dewdrop gently rolls down a cracked leaf and as roughy as the ferocious oceans repeatedly crash the innocent shores.
They say the house ached
with an energy
his chord organ
haunting the A/C hum
colours crawl out
of failed cartoons
in schizotypal terror
dismembered icy blues
that take in everything
through bloodied stems
the retired boxer
fisting the umbilical
with his head carved open
to dementia and night terrors
They say the desk-lamp shook
from pill-induced tremors
the anxiety of perfection
never borne out in creation
eternal battles between
pleasure and Satan
between the chorus line
and bouts of sanity
twin the whitewashed wall
one frail and brilliant
with gaunt fears of hell
the other fat and docile
in the face of death.