Through glassThis is permanence,This empty room.No vibrancy herebut the adamant beat of my heart,And the blue sizzle of my mind.The deep breaths before me.And the sensation of glasstouching my fingertips,sending chills up curved spines -kissing pale hairs on the back of necks.Gently and quietlyI passed my hand through the glass,And stepped from the roominto clear, cold water.
Vase with thistlesAn alabaster infant lay down in nettles,gripped them tightly in fat little fists,and said they tickle.picked them from the roots and called the nettlesroses, a vase lined with thistlesplaced on the windowsill to sitand wait in grey light, for the alabaster's stings to fade, their spikes to dull, their leaves to brown.
Pale FishPale fish seen through blue window paine,Behind net curtains, touching the glass,Leaving behind prints and breath,Drawings in condensation,A face with a smile,A sunbecause the beams don't penetrate through the double glazing.Daisies which don't grow inside.And the playing children seen through the blue,Who laugh at, not with,Until until, pale fish, she drowned.'Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,She turns to favour and to prettiness.'Flipped and flopped.Wasn't found for weeks.
A DeathI think things matter less,When you get older,But the small things mean more,The kiss in the evening,And the smile in the morning,And the endless endless nothing,The waiting until the end,I'll choose the font on my gravestone,And pick my slice of soil,My upturned grass,My coffin, made of willow,At least the details,I can control,If not the odds and ends.If I planned it all,The days after my last,I still won't know what to say,In the last moment,Feel I ought to,Really,Or should I go in silence,An unsettling silence,No closure,And no wasted words,Just a blurred line,And a flower I didn't see by the bed.Thank you all the same.
Like ghosts at cockcrowA thick glass lens held against light,To bleach out grey tones and burn antsaround ant hills and under leaves,pinned down under beams,which they never deserved, but got,which we, desperately, need.It's hard to make loveAnd call it fucking,Or fuck and call it love,When you hear ambulances and babies crying.When anything could be happeningother side of the wall.They can take your touch and make it theirs,underline its commonness,make you feel like animals behindcomplimentary wordswhich apes forgo and poets blubber,through bookstores and tears.Not so much disappointed,but out of ideasof how to dress it up in bowsand embellishinto something more eloquentand more brightthan a beautifully greyand done life.Like ghosts at cockcrow,We're an imagined noise,That makes a man wake in his bed,Not knowing why,And drifts easily back into sleep,Shrugging off their nerves for a creakand the croaks of old pipes.
Caught on a nailOf nature, our function to function,To stop and drift,Easily passed and grey.As vague as dreams and fleeting fanciesVaporous, hazy existence,Diaphanous and weightless.My body passes as easily and quickly,as delicately as the blood in me,unnoticed, it's as soft as shadows,weak and easily damaged -fine silk caught on a nail,a fragile sensethat one is never secure.A shock to the egotistical state,Bone and muscle blocking my mind from yours.Light and tenuous,thin as hollow bird bones,their downy feathers.And it's comforting.As a species barely here,It instils an uneasy calm.Uncomfortably -it makes me squirm.Comfortably it makes me soft and stilllike tired eyes closing,like lying down to sleep.
I may be dirtI may be dirt.There may be better dirt.More fertile and soft to touch.To tread over carpets and stamp into doormatsTo cover knees and leave hands grubbymucky pups in darker dirtto keep them dirty for days.You're still in this dirt, in this pile,shovelled and dug for things to grow,daisies raised from dust with pink tips on clean white.for love-me-love-me-nots, forget-me-forget-me-nots,and stems without flowersTo arrange in small vases on window sillsAnd leave until March, through 'til April,when it rains and rains.So when there's sun, it glitters.The dirt which made grass which made daisesglitters in April under dew.before it's yellowparched and done.After it's mud around toes.
Diamonds making jigsawsTo see bones under skin,Kept simple, plain and white,Comfortable and worn softso it runs smoothand tickles the hairs on the back of hands,arms and necks.for dry mouths,and lightly curled fingersrelaxed on pillows,or fingernail palm fists.the insignificant details, the cracks on skin,diamonds making jigsaws.For words read slowlyBrazen and barefaced.Through ivy and mazes,Through a veiled, romantic glaze.Through all the bullshit.To leave them anxious,listening with eyes closed,so they feel every word.For the anticlimax finish.
Circled like oceansBeating,slowly, calmly,heard the rain and the windsaw dust and breath,and shadows on a white ceiling.My heart beat heavy then, and now,different cause,blood circled like oceanslike seashell noisebeating.
-In the endless tranquil forest,Hidden by the shadows beneath the leaves,I smile; at peace with the world,As your corpse smiles back at me...
A Chance?A Chance?If noone gives you a chance for a long time,then when you are finally given one,most of the times, you gonna fail.And you'll ask for a second one,but you don't deserve it,because out there there are many like youstill awaiting the first one.Do You?Don't Ask For A Chance, Demand What You Need.
The End of the WorldI didn't prepare for the end of the world.I somehow thought that we, reclusive in a hardened bubble-shell, would survive it.I didn't brace for impact, I didn't even consider it happening to us. Why would I?I didn't prepare rations, bedding or bunkers.It didn't occur to me to imagine a post-apocalyptic world in which our love wasn't enough.I didn't see it coming. It destroyed me nonetheless.The end of the world doesn't care for your readiness.
AnimusIf I couldI would vomit my soulAnd let it chain itselfTo my speech Like a parasite.I would let it Become my puppet master,And let it sway my armsIn directionsI never thoughtI would.Instead, I've kept my soulTrapped in a cageAnd watched itTry to biteIt's way to freedom.
Mia Efkeria?Μια Ευκαιρία;Αν κανείς δε σου δίνει μια ευκαιρία για πολύ καιρό,τότε όταν τελικά κάποιος σου δώσει μία,το πιο πιθανό είναι να αποτύχεις.Και θα ζητήσεις μια δεύτερη ευκαιρία,αλλά δεν την αξίζεις,
ForeverYou asked mehow far I would gofor you but you never tookinto considerationthat the earth is round soI’ll end uprepeating myself.
-the stars shineso brightlyin those brown eyes(they're terribly empty, aren't they?)and i knowthat every dayis a struggle(i'm sorry i can't help you)because youhave been sob r o k e n(and no matter what i do, nothing can fix you)but the emptinessin those eyesseems to fade(and life flickers in those brown hues)so i'll climbevery mountain topfor you(just so you can see all the stars in the universe)
UnitedSo far awayBut so close anywayGoing separate waysBut connected, alwaysUnited our hearts areTrue friendship Is our treasureEven when afarOur bonds are unbreakableOur secrets we shareFor each other we standEverytime and everywhere
cognitive dissonanceto: the eater of gods thoughts memories,you are not a writer.you are a consumer, whichis ironic, since you do what you dofor the consumptionof the masses. sometimes.either thator the consumption of yourself. to: the small-minded one, the one who glamorises romanticises tragedy,you are not a writer.at least, not by your own definition.you are a professional liar, an angrysadseabird stealing food/dreams/thoughtthe only title you can lay claim tois thief.to: some combination of twenty-six letters some paper person some notebook child,you are not a writer.y
But desolateI took a telescope to the skyand saw no life.No message,no god.I saw stars and planets,All empty,And our own isolation Our view bright but desolate.