Help, I’m dating your answering machine

•April 26, 2017 • 2 Comments


*image found HERE

Help, I’m dating your answering machine

*Warning: cheesy as Hell

How many times a day
Is normal and ok
To call your other half
And bother them about
Such things as
Amulets and papers,
And old worn out sneakers
And T shirts,
Lost girls and lost boys;
About distance?

How many when halves are halves;
How many when he is away?

Look, Honey, how the stars
Flash their bodies
Through the smog of this city that you hate.
My chest is split open like a tent.
No. Scratch that!
I’m fine, I just want to know
Where did you used to keep tools?
Hey, do you know what who and who
Told me about who and who and what?
Did we really end up like this?
No, Scratch that.
The weather is beautiful, ain’t it,
A summer of angry ghosts.
I am sorry, who would have thought of it?
The length of a single street
Hurting more than a continent.

I miss you. I miss
Not having to be quiet
So you don’t wake up.
Scratch that!
I feel like I am missing my heart.
And I don’t know
What to think about
Still going out to get groceries
Without you. I pass the ketchup
Line, pass the snacks and the drinks,
I brush my hair and I brush my teeth
And I make sure
Not to lay on the bed
In outside clothes;
All the damn birds do is
Chirp through my woe.
No. Scratch that!
You don’t wanna know.

How many times
Can I ask you
About the same old things, like
How are you?
No, Scratch.
How are you without me?
I know it’s just been two hours,
But I worry, you know,
About my useless things, like
Is there your favourite drink in the fridge,
What did you eat, with who, where
And why?
Why should I fold the sheets and take out laundry,
Put it on the line and wash – up,
Set alarm and open my eyes?
Why should I walk and sit,
Why should I eat and drink, and where,
With whome;
Our two plush hippos
That I cry into
In our darkened, scratch that,
In my darkened room.
I’m sorry if I leave you soon.

What can I keep,
What can I sleep in,
What did you forget?
Can I drink your cologne, you know,
Like a tourniquet?
Scratch that!
What can I frame, what can I borrow,
What can I steal?
What can I use, what can I burn?
It feels like five million
Light years passed,
The nebulae borrowing their bodies
To the river, flicker
Through the swarm of nightlights,
A nightclub of sweethearts
Stuck atop the poles next to the highway.
A marketplace of scavengers
Beneath our window.
Will you buy my matches?
Can the sky be more cruel?
What will happen with democracy?
Do you want tea?
Please need me in your sojourn!
The plates are scrubbed,
I vacuum cleaned;
When will you return?

Look, Love, the trollies are passing
In their machinery hoot,
It feels so lonely, it all feels lonely,
The most ordinary things.
No! Scratch that!
Will you ever ask again
To borrow my wings?
Look, the things are simple.
I love you, I love you so much
I think I will burst like
Gray dandelion heads
The our son blows
Over the grass.
I love you, I don’t think that it will pass.
I just saw you, shaped like a cloud,
What do you do without me,
Do you ever miss me?
Scratch that!
I wish you stormed in here at 2 AM
And kissed me.

I’m sorry that it’s just too hard to be alone,
I’m sorry that I ask about stuff like
If I have a seizure in the middle of the night,
Who will call the ambulance?
Who will greet the paramedics and tell them
I eat too much spicy food?
And why should it be nobody or somebody
And not you?
Scratch that!
Could you stop by
And let me look at you,
If you are passing through?
We’ve been to the park,
I made
Meatballs and rice, and I made pasta,
And noodles, chicken in soy,
I wrote you poems,
I painted,
I screamed in tears so much
I thought somebody will call the police,
I waited;
I was cold, I was stubborn,
Ecstatic; and sedated.
I folded all our garments, I threw the garbage,
I emptied my soul.

Love, when can I come home?

Diab Soule

•April 13, 2017 • 9 Comments

diab soule closeup

A slightly older, gentle piece. I also feel a sort of feral, innocent vibe from it. I don’t usually work with pink colours, or pastels in general, but this one just came into existence as it is, it beckoned this pink.

The title for the artwork is inspired by the same title song by my favourite band Acid Bath.  Here is a part of the lyrics :

“Summer feels like death
Godless we run
In my eyes there dreams an ocean
Hell beneath my tongue
I understand
And don’t care
Well the skyscrapers look like gravestones
From out here”

You can purchase this artwork as an art print in my Society6 store, or you can request it remade and modified to suit your needs as a book cover or similar. Just write to me!

As always, I am more than interested to hear your thoughts, what does the artwork make you see, think and feel.

Uoy evol tnod I

•April 10, 2017 • 14 Comments


*Image found HERE

Uoy evol tnod I

Like Syrinx, barefoot at the river’s edge,
a plural of nouns,
knees muddy, hands worthless.
Choices were made,
and prayers were prayed
and prying servants and maids
and among them worshiped gods
of smoke and linen,
dead trees, an empty chair,
or worse
a temple or a church
with no priest to lie to you.

I ask my heart to be still,
like a pin cushion,
let the lady have her auburn dress;
let the bitch have her blood moon.
Be still, while the magician saws through.
I am mute with puddles,
I am dirt, I am dog, I am dime,
dinner, dilution, dissipation. Done.
A witch set ablaze,
I have scrapped the closets
for garments,
closed tightly the scents like potions,
keepng them safe from wind.
I cried in an empty room.
I cried at a crowded concert.
I cried in the cab, cried in the bathroom,
the kitchen, the busy street, the dead end,
I salvaged the drawers for trinkets,
I made choices that you orphaned.

I take my sorrow to the butcher
like I accept I am meat for cutting;
I let him chop of my head,
hack off my arms, split my ribs
and I shall plant them in the ground
and weep for growing
countless more of worthless me’s;
I will let him hack and slash,
play with it, snip, snap, pull –
like betrayal, like brutality,
like ten more me,
sliced to steak, like
my thighs, returning to the lord,
like my face, held by strong hands,
like my eyes, like snuffed candles,
like gut feeling versus the choices
between fat fingers in the early morning shift
lining the black beard of someone who doesn’t care;
just dices.
I will listen as you speak of me as past tense;
I will let the butcher make a knife shelf in my chest.

And soon, the silence will wrap us like lasso.
The trees will quiet down, the birds will fall asleep.
And the groceries will need doing, and splitting,
and fitting the shelves and there will be aftermaths in need of fixing
with kisses on the neck.
The priest will come to his church and he will clasp his hands,
and incense will burn in the temple and pictures will corrode
and your soul will slut its way inside some dark abode
and I will ask What shall become of me?
What of the dreams, the bed sheets, the bedroom, the bed,
the loneliness? What of the waiting?What of the choices

of where to go, where to be, where to lay the head, where to cry next
and where to weave the sparrows? Which colour, which parcel,
which flower? Which name, which surname, nickname, sweet thing,
which honey, which plum, what kind of sugar, whose teaspoons? What for breakfast, what for lunch, and choices like the spiral, the farfale or the sea-shell macaroni?

How do I call you
come the morning?


•February 25, 2017 • 14 Comments



Mixed media/ February 2017

I know the title is misspelled on English. I wanted it to be a weird fusion of the English and Serbian word for the word “mosaic”.

I recently started a gig on Fiverr, where I can turn your portrait in an abstract artwork like this. Check it out if you are interested by clicking here: Fiverr Abstract Portrait

Poetics – suburb poetry

•February 21, 2017 • 2 Comments

Tonight, I am hosting the prompt at dVerse, the topic of poetics being Suburban Poetry. Come and join us!


Today we have the pleasure of welcoming a guest-blogger at our bar. Oloriel who is a great poet many of the wordpressers have come across. She is an occasional visitor to the bar, and often stun me with her words. You can find her blog at

Greetings to one and all! Oloriel here, tending the poetics and the bar tonight.
One of the topics that marked my previous year, and melted into the current one, is definitely the topic of home. I was born, bred, raised and still live in the suburbs. There is things and emotions you notice, that differ, at least for me, when I travel from my place to another. Over the years there has been images that etched themselves in my head as “suburban things”. Recently, I have begun noticing and exploring how it is so very similar in poetry. I discovered poems characterized…

View original post 437 more words

Coquelicot in the Purlieus

•February 20, 2017 • 55 Comments


*Image found HERE

*This is a very long poem, just a heads up. I really appreciate and commend you if you read all the way through!

Coquelicot in the Purlieus

There is no wound to point
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center.
An old watch, rusting,
Hearts like a dumpster,
Fur coats hanging by the hook,
Smell of fresh pastry.
Love at the cemetery gates,
Faces floating like garbage
Down the brook.


When you speak words here,
They are there, but they are not.
The roofs are crooked, green,
Tied by the skinny, bony hands of willows,
White with stains
Beneath the sky,
Split and spilt
Magenta, purple, bluish hues
Like a probed placenta,
Dripping its hope
Down the windows
And how you think it’s beautiful
Even though you know it’s just
Light pollution.


The kids set the chairs on fire.
They watch it burn,
Mommy the cat with her fangs in the rat.
Teaching the young.
Mommy with a needle in an open basement.
Trying to run.
There is no wound to point
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center.


My husband says the devil is a
Burger-flipper down in Cincinnati,
But somehow I think the devil is a suburban sister
Making club sandwiches
And elder-flower lemonades
And constantly, constantly, constantly
Her father to forgive.


Since we teach each other
To dream of herds of sheep,
Count the knots of their wool,
Cut our minds to strings,
Sheep, candidly bleeping,
Jumping over the picket fence,
Landing over in the valley, pure and green
And endless as we count them,
Until we forget we are we;
I have heard of androids
Dreaming of electric sheep
That buzz
Over, and glide through
Chipsets of a gigantic motherboard…

I’m worried that the dead
Dream of the living.

As they count
There is no wound to point
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center.
And poof! Just like that!
We were martyrs,
We were,
We were eating each other,
We was,
We knew,
Building a kingdom
In a flat that overlooks the river.
And poof! Martyrs, dirty martyrs,
Dry martinis,
Bleeding like a halleluiah
That puts the boatman to sleep.


What do you mean
When you say love is sold out?
What do you mean,
It’s a seasonal merchandise?
What do you mean
When you say wrong size?
I found love in a dying man’s eyes,
A love for the world that held his head under whiskey.
He had no wounds to point,
No light that could get in, or enter
His irises as an angel
Nibbled on his corners
And the devil was slurping his center.


An evening comes, let’s say
That around 23:35h
You lit a cigarette
And you decided it will be the last;
It lasts too short,
Blazes too fast
And after that you are kindly reminded
You are not allowed to enjoy suffering,
Just taste like ash.
It bothers you because it sounds like
“I don’t want to die”,
But the voice is pre-recorded,
Tucked neatly into a machine
Repeating and coughing
Into an ex-lovers ear;
Perhaps you used to take her to the arcades,
Perhaps she made your heart go
All boom like pinball,
Perhaps you adored and it still didn’t matter.

At the same time,
The closest I ever came to god, I think,
Was having a priest blow his Pal Mal smoke
Into my face;
His blue eyes like vast oceans,
His green eyes like absinth
Or Elysium fields,
Depending on the diagnosis that you need
To feel saved,
His brown eyes like forests, bending like a pretty noose;
City boy priest, refuge priest,
Billowing like a hookah,
Like a psalm, saying
“Only I am home”
“We are all alone”
“We are all alone”


What bothers you the most is
That you will someday be somewhere,
Like Ibiza, under a palm tree,
Clad and sweaty, with a cocktail in your hand
And a straw hat on your head
Surrounded by lulling foam, and waves,
Resting in a body, molded out of
Warm sand
And you will do nothing but
Shimmer, like a ghost.
Just someone who isn’t lost.
Just someone who can never be found.
Not around.


You tell strangers of the wilderness
That used to be there,
The unkempt weeds, nettle, burdock and ponceau,
And tall, sharp grass
In which the kids would hunt for crickets
With jars,
Interrupt their matinées on Wednesdays.
Fifteen years later it’s a McDonald’s,
Nothing changed;
Your face is the darkness of suburbia,
Looking in the mirror a million times a day
And asking
Who the Hell are you?
Is anybody there?
Because there never is a wound to point
(but something always hurts),
And never a light to enter,
(a kiss behind the newsstand and the light bulbs burst),
See the angel pull a loose string,
(the bastard still has my perfumed sweater!),
See the devil tuck it at the center
(my anathemas dotting the highways and the forests like houses)


This is our temple
And in our temple
The girls starve for starlight;
They starve for another girls mouth.
What happens on the hills
Stays a marriage to Moonlight
And can’t be broken.
In our temple we love you
Like the sky is burning,
Like the melting wings of the angel
Overdosed in a ditch.


There is no deity in the scar, all of it is knives.
Stainless steel and plastic surgery.
Love like burglary. Love like forgery.
I barge into your heart
And I steal the TV, DVD and VCR.
Let’s grind our bodies and fit into a vanity case,
I wonder will anyone ever
Buy us of the flea market
In the afternoon when
There is no wound to point
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center,
right here, underage, with beer in hands
at the corner of our cull-de-sac.


Don’t ever stop by these woods, no no.
Bad man will eye you as you walk.
Bad women will spy you, and cut you with their eyes,
Piece by piece, red, young, old, full of future lies;
They will sugar you and cook you into pies.
Never ever roll up your sleeves.
Never ever show them the orchards, dear.


Nothing grows here anymore.
We were drawn. Now the child is a sixteen year old.
We just sustain.
There is no wound to point
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center.
See me, chewing on peanuts.
See me, dreaming the world will change.
Like a horny seraph, it sways,
Entitled and eager, with its blonde locks
Of silky, smooth and thin hair
It rears its sunshine above the geriatric ward
Like: Lips? Here is graves!
Like: Let’s have brunch.
Like: Marry me, asked on the bus station.
Like: Never let me go.
Like: Tell the kids to put us in a nursing home
That overlooks a lonely square.


And we are
Open, 24/7,
Hands like a barbecue joint
(cheap meat, sweet sin)
Our hands like church bells
Baptized with mouth water,
Aching to tear down
And swallow the Moon,
There is no point to wounds
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center,
entertain the fools.


And Sun shines over the food-court
Of a mall in suburbia
And you feel proud and serene for
Convincing him to take a bite.
He’s chewing on the fries
In a cacophony of sweaters tearing gently
At the skins of everyone around,
Smelling like lilies of valleys, hyacinths, sandalwood
And there is laughter
Amid all the sounds
And it makes you think how
Convincing people over and over to stay
Under flocks of disinterested, migrating birds,
Just repeating Don’t kill yourselves,
There must be something in this world:
It pays, it pays,
In the shadows of the necropolis,
While wasting way the days.

*This poem was written for a prompt at dVerse, hosted by yours truly (that means me, yes!). Do come, join, read, write and chat with me while I am tending the bar! The topic of the prompt is Suburban poetry! Now go on and join in on the fun and writing!


Invoking the Huntress – an Artistic Collaboration

•February 18, 2017 • 19 Comments

Greetings, everyone! Recently, I had the pleasure of collaborating with two wonderful ladies on a great and inspirational project. These two ladies are great bloggers, writers, creators and beings and are known as Aquileana and Resa around the blogosphere.

What was this project about? Resa makes gorgeous dresses, inspired by life, dreams, mythology and stories and she made a bedazzling dress inspired by the Greek Goddess of Moon and Hunt, Artemis.

Aquileana is, I dare say, famous, for her deep, thoughtful , informative and inspirational posts about everything mythology. Moved by Resa’s creation, she weaved a post about Artemis, whilst I was at the same time moved to pen my inspiration into poetry and art.

You can find Resa’s beautiful creation HERE

And Aquileana’s treasured tales and myths of Artemis, HERE

And here is my artwork and poem:


*Artemis ; Mixed media, February 2017


Invoking the Huntress


The crescent beckons a heave,

a touch upon your corners,


a light brewing

not like a thunderstorm, or a torrent,

but a sickle ready to brand you

in red-

you will be

like two eyes among the pines,

as she lowers her hips downwards,

descends her bow to your forehead;

she tramples your heart with her deer,

her name preaches – You can be here, free;

free in the forest of flesh,

a dancing hunter among the cypress.



She will give you the bear – to fold his head before you.

She will give you the wolf – its maw now your sisterhood.

She will give you the boar – the towns named after your sins but dust beneath him.

She will give you the stag – the horns ripping the night itself to drip

over mouths of dirty gold

whispering her hymns.

Her Kingdom atop the arrowhead

more eternal than the sway of day,


the wilderness, soft and pure, and nectary

grow out the belly

and may

it not fetter the beasts,

let them run through her chambers of your bones and chest;

let her tame them with a single breath.


Her name, like a dream of ground

wet with vine, sizzling like fire

over which the prey darkens,

her innocence unlike any altar,

her savagery unlike any temple,

she arrives

and the winds grasp for air;

Ursa major sticking from her untouched hair,

a moonlight promise,

a devotion of flame

made of her vestibule,

silvery debris

her name, Artemis.


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