Mixing Uppers with Uppers

•October 9, 2020 • 5 Comments
Search - Rijksmuseum | Painting, Culture art, Art
Image found HERE

Mixing Uppers with Uppers

* Midday Lunch *

“It is easy to climb up;

climbing down again, however,

is the hard part, the pain “

is what we teach our children

on climbing trees

and how to perceive

and spot the moment

which throbs and feels like ascension

is taking place within them:

to Lights! But to lamps, or rays of suns

or forest fires,

or candles?

Like a million good questions in one second!

about moments in which

one with absolutest of certainty

will have forgotten

that he remembered


the raw pulse of moments

in which do we begin

to lift the glass; to take the shot.

It’s aftermath and legacy

ironic, starlit ceilings

and desolate praries.

Is it not how we would describe

our children – to the fairies?

moments like – solar years

orbiting into

repeating repentance:

I missplace myself in the tranzit.


In my last night’s fabrication

on a field

I saw him –

a man stabbed in the back

with nines : daggers, swords and sabers –

he was kneeling;

in the epicenter

of his pain

thinking only

of all the good possibilities

etched into his, now forever,

un-moving eyes

gazing the distances

as the moments

golden and ashen


in their vacant valleys,

like switches being on – and – off

and we met in the middle :

The World and I;

and agreed


I am not for the world,

but the world is not for me


This is where you and me

wake up

then immediately inhale and do

all over again,

spin it like hula-hop;

like Cardio.

Midday – lunch.

We are the peasants in the painting

just with a Missed call

from god.


•September 9, 2020 • 4 Comments

Mixed media / September 2020

T. S.

•July 9, 2020 • 6 Comments


*image found HERE

T. S .

a golden evening
in a light blue gown
is waltzing in
as someone is
practicing their piano lessons;
each stroke stabbing away like melancholia
through the wind
in a stupor,
drops notes of perfumes
down the lazy street;

used to:
study the scales like arpeggios
and write them skin-down
so i don’t forget
how love always wears red
to the liminal ball of scandal.

a sparrow is showing
his open mouth to my tallest begonia;
antennae sunbathe
in their duvets of radio signal,
the trees like scalds
in their respite
beneath which crows
discuss with doves
about tear-gas canisters
and mothers are collecting their children
one by one;

used to:
salt all my wounds
like they were an entree;
periwinkles of dysfunction
arranged in circles
and on plates,
like art,
dividing my scars to civilizations
propping their towers
through the wilds of all the seas
their pockets full of dust;

seeking refuge in the shadows,
the mimicry of distant
rolling tires
plunges itself across newly-lit
neon signs
of barbecue places;
coffee is being brewed,
lovers counting down softly
towards ungluing of their lips;
the piano lesson over
and streetlights
disrobing their buzz
over cobwebs
at balcony corners:

the coroner has my heart
and is preparing to bag it,
turn it over;
while it hums like a songbird –
gritty, and ran-over
like an omen
to all future larks,
yelping for the dark;
the truest dark of darkness,
while I just try to do my part
in the waste disposal business.

Luminous tenebris

•July 6, 2020 • 3 Comments


*image found HERE

Luminous tenebris

To not have any regrets
about things that you cannot take back

I want to be somewhere,
where I’m wearing it
like a comfy coat
that could make one outlast a winter
even if it came straight from the index finger
of the big boss himself
and straight into us.

I feel lonelier than the devil
who rides the train to Siberia
with no
other devils around to
small-talk to
about topics such as:
Would you whisper to a pretty flower
that it will end up in a vase
as you are cutting it, off from the grass?

Can you believe it?
They did research
and some taste tests
and when burrowed under anyone’s tongue
and delight-tears
taste different;
one is saltier than the other
yet fail to mention
both are just
and only sinking ships

Meanwhile, at Olympus,
a see-through paper-boy with wings
is looking at a photograph
in the newspaper,
of the Fates:

youngest in fabrics of quartz
wearing an engagement ring
on her left hand,
the middle one blistering
in her house-keeping clothes
and pie-stuffing stained,
the eldest’s face
a caricature of words
cut out in Times New Roman
like a pain that comes with
the aging of itself –
straight from the mouth
of the wealthy clergy
and stapled like a lullaby
onto the circle

that hand-fasts their hands
to the twin crescent moons
swinging a breath too far
from the string
at the behest of no kings
and as a duty to no nomad;
merely knowing
what they all must do.

Tag yourselves,
I’m the shears.

What are you?

in all honesty, if you ask me, I have nothing nice to say

•July 5, 2020 • 2 Comments


*image found HERE

in all honesty, if you ask me, I have nothing nice to say

so I learned to stay silent,
and the stardust that I ground up
into make belief
gently helped my mouth stay shut

we like to attach certain things
to where we grew up,
our childhoods
and who raised us and how;
i am a machine.
When I speak I entice
I thinks deities are
funny dressing charlatans –
i wont spill from their guts

I am orphaned
to anyone who fathered me,
that leaves me bruises
is my mother;
there is no third side to look at,
no fading lights
in a rear-view window;
northern lights
are chemicals
of deviated humanity –
not Sidhe;
I am the deer in the headlights,
never the driver –

I don’t ever want to own a car
because I don’t know how to stop driving,
you don’t want me to teach you
any traffic laws

or geography
but I will still stand before you
with the audacity
of a sky to be all fluff and pink
an armada of whims and dreams
amid the fjords of a December
and I will still try

to lie.

But somehow I still dread
of even thinking
about telling you
that the world is simply


•July 4, 2020 • 2 Comments



“S M T L”

Mixed Media / July 2020

The Gardener of Hades

•July 2, 2020 • 7 Comments


*Image found HERE

The Gardener of Hades

A close friend of mine
grows flowers down in Hades –
the kind that makes your wound-ache
taste like eating fiz wiz,
like snapshots of sunflowers
turned to each other
ground into a powder
that you’d be tempted to
season the Sunday roast with.

In the future,
the techno-priests will be pinging
for our absolution,
our dreams in grocery-skin-codes,
holograms of hummingbirds
glitching against our heartbeats.
We will keep asking them
where does the water go, when we die;
they will spoon-feed us with prettiest of lies,
murmur in ASCII
as they dissolve us to compost.

We’d want to
be grown out into speaking trees;
the handsomest of alders, birches, oaks and hazels,
crops of fine, plump pumpkins,
proud corns and outstretchings of whipping wheat
and other chunks
fermenting in a lukewarm stew,
ready to be poured out and sown

Yet awake
like a dust with pulse
hoping that the sand quickens;
in riled bones,
sprouting for a chunk
of a cold, sleepy Moon
in decadent black and confident innocence
against the face
of my mentioned friend,
red and pearly;
a synthetic jewel
in the wet mud of a pigsty,
like a shy thunder
before its clumsy crackle,
heartless and with soul-wells of scars;
who ‘s been down there for a while,
with a worn-out strawhat on

clipping our dead leaves.

Writing love poems in the back of my step-mothers agenda

•June 28, 2020 • 5 Comments

riverside at night

*image found HERE

Writing love poems in the back of my step-mothers agenda

Dim kitchen lights
seep out
to explore the world
while it still exists;
the leaves of the garden trees
are wearing the streetlights
like wedding dresses:
(and I confess.)

In the dark blue above
one could dip a finger
and stir;
connect the stars like dots,
watch the lovemaking
the colour of the sky
into sarcophagus dust,
like fingers
through marshmallow houses
(if I must.)

engulfing softly
all the mingling
down bellow
where one could,
quietly and with precision
drag a finger
across it all
and connect the dots
like they were stars.
(if you insist!)

June quenches its thirst
pinching the blood warm
and hurrying the winds
to spreading rumours
over and under plump, stretched out lips;
teeth gnashing through
maraschino cherries
(would you please?)
and let it run its course
like hunger never does:

the birds are chirping without pause,
like every hour is godly,
the river is a chatter of saints;
it fumbles through the darkness
(even if it kills?)
putting the moonlight
through the fibers
of a lonely, whispered whistle.
(even if it heals?)

The aftermath of a storm
drizzled over the chest
like an exhausted whore, finally sleeping;
(Keep it.)
atop a roof
a murder of crows
sifts through its haul
and shares evenly,
pallets like scaffolding
of Hallelujahs
with no ifs nor buts
(for me?)

and countless eyes of countless thieves
that yet remain unwoken
is leaking burning oceans
through a thousand
and we are carried around
like tokens.
(do as you please!)

The clocks could
any minute
peel away
and words breathe out
dandelion seeds:
gray-golden and true
like messages rolled
in tops of the mornings
or in boredom of making sonnets,
(please do it with me!)
the lilies of valleys
like lilac bonnets
of a tea-time dress –
(I think I will want you.)
the bones of glue
dripping down the highway;
stick atop the t-shirts
hanging over laundry wires
like a dream.
(I think you will want me.)

You –
walking about,
all dressed up
in the finest of my bedroom eyes –
one look
would have me
penniless, in rags,
peddling rainwater across the Styx,
(No turning around!)
kayaking through holographic clouds
until I can touch
the Eden of your thoughts
and blurt out over
flower scented letters
like ink
drools over the edges
of the night
into a chorus of boems;
(404. Eurydice not found.)
Crickets are reading poems
the grass is woven
mellow green
(I, very well crushed into.)

I am tired
of pushing
my heart
back in.


•June 8, 2020 • 2 Comments



Mixed media / June 2020

The Wanton Silk

•April 16, 2020 • 11 Comments


*Image found HERE

The Wanton Silk


Concern eats away at me;

We fumble down the loom

for space.

With no laundry line

between everything and nothing,

my hair wants to sprawl

on your sun-lit bed

like piss does on snow.


In the cross-hair

the Aquarian shakes

with the pitcher;

it rains in droves,

like bogey jingles;

there, alive, then gone.


It is easier

when fiddling with the frequency.

It’s pronounced timid,

to grab as many tomatoes

as my hands can carry

and leave the tender


for he did not pick and measure

for me.

I think of your face,

but when asked what ails me

I say



I worry you will


the molecules, the telephone, my voices;

my heart beyond the means

of blood pump

which keeps my body going.

Loving with profanity

is yelling loudly,

like a cricket;

neurosis in detention 

with her eye

peeling history books

like a bored child would

love a freshly painted wall.


It will all keep going;

new trees whisper by the brook,

you make me the kind of blue

a sailor would want

to swivel in a bottle;

the bird in my windowsill

just had babies.

Pruned wastelands rot away nameless.

Should it be so?

The meadows are vomiting

colourful flowers;

the songs of the drunktards

about somebody else;

Please, don’t go.


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