About you

•October 11, 2017 • 21 Comments

They have said about me :

  • Kind, nice, way too nicely kind
  • ugly , but sweet personality
  • psycho
  • materialistic bitch
  • eager slut
  • hopeless
  • destroyer of world
  • rude
  • Kind, and nice, and way too nicely kind
  • control freak
  • impulsive, obssesive
  • needy
  • boring
  • not ambitious
  • lazy, depressive, liar

Who am I? Nobody asks that. nobody asks anything. People make demands. People don’t describe, they paint. No, people don’t paint, they twist metal, but since they have no metal it’s blood. I am A+. My soul is anemic.

Who am I? A heap of flesh, a “meat popsicle”,the kernel of popcorn stuck in God’s teeth, I am inconvenient and I am about to burst pollen, baby. Babe. Slut. mother. the Unkind, the worried, the blind, the ludicrous, the crazy, the freak.

TRain station. GRaffitied. Razor cut. There’s garbage everywhere. I like ’em when they roll their Rs, it makes the whole damn thing last longer, but in reality I don’t give a shit about Paris. And I don’t give a shit about Patagonia. Andalusia. In fact, I don’t even know where those are. Show me a map and I’ll be mute, because I am a train station. People are trains.

But that;s not what they say. They say “sorry”, and “Thank you”, and “It’s not you, it’s me” and my favourite,”Not now”.

They say “You are perfect (but I’m scared of airplanes and straighlines)”, they say “You are so strong Mary Jane (but you are not happy, I need someone fucking happy and stupid), they say “You’re cute (but there is no beauty in pain and you, you could export that shit at lowest prices and be the richest girl on planet Earth, circa plausible eternity)”, they say “I wish somebody like you loved me, but, you know, what, wait a minute, not YOU!”

Me about myself:

  • Weltzchmertz
  • girl
  • masochist
  • hopeless romantic, most definitely pathetic
  • cheesy
  • lovechild of goth and pastel
  • stubborn
  • a persistent whelp
  • an Aries, which is a modern fancy way of saying a pusher (hold on to your walls and castles, bois!)
  • crybaby
  • shmizla (google this one!)
  • I can sing like nobody’s bussiness
  • hopeless
  • I cook (and the secret ingredient IS love!)
  • weak and powerless (…. over you…….)
  • The darling to kill
  • weird
  • crazy (but you like it, loca,loca,loca! Why am I quoting Shakira? See, this is what I mean!)
  • I will dance and cry at the same time at your funeral. Then I will legit study Necromancy to bring you back

But what is the most important question is not who am I, but, who am I to you? How would you define me, where the hell would you put that candy wrapper in the Merriam-Webster dictionary and say Yep, that’s her, and will you , for bloody fucks sake (I forgot to add swearing to the list… Yep, like a trucker. What do you have against truckers? I want a truck for my birthday, nameday, New Year, whatever, even though I will probably forever need a boost to climb in. I swear, don’t ever gift me a vehicle. I will start the engine, press that peddle and never stop. I am lieing. I will most definitely stop at the nearest McDonalds…. aaaaand the farthest as well…) where was I?  Yeah. Call me. Tell me about the insignificance of your life. Let me tell you how beautiful you are. Let me need you. Let me be. Something more than a train station. Yeah, even when I am sad because a hunter I never met shot a deer I never eyes locked with in some forest in let’s say Canada.

I am who I am. I have a registered name. I have a passport, an ID, a health card (and thank Zeus no driver’s licence…. yet!)I have some education, I learned some things by myself. My favorite color is definitely purple. I smoke and I bite my nails, but I also play the bass guitar, and if anything, I feel everything way too much. I googled for Neitzche’s nudes. I am crazy in love, and sorry it is most probably not with you. I have a tattoo. I feed stray dogs. None of this is important. Who am I is not important. Who I want to be is not important, everybody dreams. Who I can be is also not important, everything is circumstances and desire. Who you want me to be is not important, it will always be a menu stolen from a confectionery.

Who AM I to YOU, tell me that?

*Promised Ikarus I will write an answer to this post and I try to keep my promises. His post is here



•September 14, 2017 • 17 Comments



Mixed media/September 2017

“Our hopes and expectations
Black holes and revelations”


When life is shit, keep your head in the stars.

The What of Things

•August 21, 2017 • 21 Comments


*Image found HERE

The What of Things

Open a dictionary
and look up disaster.
It’s Monday,
my right hand
grips the teaspoon,
my left hand
sends the archduke
to explore the wound.
An exhibit of my voice
pounds my gut
and I ask no one in particular
why do I always sound
just like
a child, begging for a mercy kill.
a junction
of oregano, magenta lace skirts
drooping to the floor,
dripping sorrow down
into the mausoleum of the carpet,
one knife for chicken breasts, one for
potatoes, one for butter, one for peaches,
names like tremolo,
like angel corpses
falling of the edge of a broken lip
into the mass grave of wherevers floor;
my appartment with no doors,
my soul is dead, and bored
from mundane chores
of sweeping, and raking, and picking and taking
and splicing the sunshine like
A and B and O, like
make up, for the preacher,
like secretaring for ghosts,
like wallowing in the heroine of the guitar
at eight in the morning, like
Mary’s bloody lamb
with the bowels out for pie
and rejuvenation potions,
like crosswords and spreadsheets,
like fresh bedsheets,
like looking left, looking right, like bending over, like
smelling the lavender,like
crushing some in your pocket,
like cutting a strand of hair
and prisoning it in a locket,
like living, but
to die.

You will rise

•May 22, 2017 • 33 Comments

you will rise

“You will rise”

Mixed media/May 2017

Titled by the song I was listening to while making the artwork. Nothing special about it, just trying to exist.

Have a nice day, everyone!

Goodnight, Penelope

•May 12, 2017 • 12 Comments


*Image from Wikipedia

Goodnight, Penelope

Down by the river
I step on a mollusk
as he slurps on a reed;
while utter nonsense takes the world for granted,
a great silence wants to go to hell,
an accident on purpose

it sees these organs,
mine, sans me,
scooped up by the wind,
unhinged like scrumptious mothers
on 8th floor balconies
quenching the furies of their lips
with long drags.

Scurry with me, soul,
a demented shaman
kneels on his cobs;
tranquility has the skin crawling
for punishment,
and belonging,
for home.

I shall
unbutton the water to wake its dead,
slice the scenery
to profanities of sewed-up lilies.
Above, Shiva bleeds like bergamot.
Below, unrest grows into love.
In between, my hands
like two funnels
empty my chest like a gorge,
give dysentery to the psalm,
beer bottles and receipts and pocket dust
to the smooth surface

of the bed, made
green and unknowing
as I lay there, in war,
like a bayou:
dark, lonely, wet,
an undecipherable blue,
sliced through the middle, full
by the trunk of the little boat
that Death is rowing through.

March Madness Top Ten: Ligeia, under dimmed lights/Oloriel

•May 4, 2017 • 6 Comments

My poem on Sudden Denouement! Please go and read the rest of the amazing submissions. You will not regret it!

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Cracked like the skyline

at 18:11

countless men mine me for coal;

I suck the midday Moon

like a good symbiot,

like a pretty harlot of war,

I search myself at the garage sale,

I hollow me out,

unlatch the hands like instruments,

lick and spit,

soft, but I am dust –

disassembled to a murder of crows.

This blood builds altars between teeth,

this ocean is godless,

I am

77 silver coins shoved in the socket,

the worthlessness of thoraxes

is speaking tongues –

translated it means I who no longer know dawn.

I, eyeing this river, a carnival, alone.

I, no longer knowing the sparrows

for their marrow of strawberries,

I, stuffing the pillow with hares,

my ventricle for Doctor Death,

My mouth for the athame,

for you, lover, among decapitated carnations,

for you lover, your silences like noose

around the neck of promiscuous Miss mercy.

Now, sugar…

View original post 316 more words

Help, I’m dating your answering machine

•April 26, 2017 • 13 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?


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