I woke up from a bad dream trembling under the strength of deformed uncertainty. On this quiet, sweet night I dreamed that my mask is melting. Nakedness beneath terribly surprised me, I felt bare while disgustingly beautiful pink skin stuck out from beneath magnificently repulsive layer of white chalk which ran down my face in the beans. In single moment thousands fluorescent drops of days passed before my blue eyes and thousands of miles of  pictures mixed as psychedelic assemblage. I was hoping that I would for ever float on silk of big circus tent, the place between sleep and wake and that I will never be touched by reality pedestrians or nightmare riders. Returned from a long journey dedicated to the cult of friendship riding on a brass beast sentenced to a breakdown. Return is a successful escape from the curious conductors who wear chains and key, maneuvering between spacecrafts driven by hesitative captains, sliding in between hot geysers of alcoholic delirium on the crystal surface of Arctic ice. Sweet and bitter is the view over always the same icy peaks that cast always different shadows, while the foamy rugged hillsides are blurred with the haze of responsibility, sunny with the light of honesty, depending on the morning. I rub my eyes while my mask, of which I am very grateful, still persistently covers the lines of my face and I wonder whether kilometers traveled last night were part of a dream or reality?

I want to spend the rest of my life dedicating my life to spacecrafts. So I can one day reach the gallaxy that is your heart and soul and live there forever.

The sun was mellowing like a luscious mango
and a small slit on its zest,
poured out its savoury sweet rays in the sky
turning the never-ending space into a blend of coloured popsicles,
from the brightest orange to a chrome of honey like amber
reviving my dull loafing adulthood
back into a fanciful imaginary childhood.

I am reckoned to talk about rocket science
to see things like those of spacecrafts and satellites.
But all I think of is walking over rainbows
And riding on white unicorns
unlikely of a grown up with rational outlook
but promising to a dreamy child
wanting to fly higher and higher on the carpet of cotton clouds.

All through the years, the imagination of a child
sheared off by precise and wise reasoning,
the innocence of the heart uprooted right away
once it believed it grew to what it has become today.
everything turned from feathers to ashes
when we learned that we can fly without wings
swirl up high in the sky with winged machines
but still cannot touch and make cloud *****
like the way we imagined and dreamt
when we were naive and small.

Writing poetry when you have no audience is madness,
It's like the schizophrenic transient babbling about spacecrafts
But the second you put him on a TV show
It's genius