eventuality, –
is not a fundamental postulate
in my take on existentialism.

I may consider it a part of a mundanity.
(perhaps, after a few drinks).

as per the odds of my reality
where parallels meet.

a girl
in crispy army uniform
in random socks,
a wry representation
of an eternal militarism,
pops on the event horizon
of the rubbed sergeant.

that hour, parallels have met!

they all have tendency to fleet.

a highway
that I wish,
will never


Midas hands, steering wheel
radio playing endless foxtrot.

the dog bobblehead in the acid trip
is headbanging without missing a beat.

the desert mirage, lack of sleep
desolate heart, unoccupied back seat.

going in circles, warren, adrift
misplaced memories, unrevealed candor.

illusion of touch, artificial gold
rust and dust, – two Harpies are circling aloft.

veer, zeitnot, deceitful pothole
arrhythmic heartbeat, stench of pity, naught.

unfolding night sky, in a jiff
dismay, worn out mind, vacant lot.

on the opposite sides

our eyes met,
defying this twisted perspective.

on the opposite sides
of the railway platform,
our opposite lives,
gauged by the riders

in this subway train;
afternoon rain,

water running down the walls
to the drain
to the railway
into the rat holes.

don’t say a word,
I will not understand the code,
of the disturbed sound waves,
your voice.

voice of Thin Silence.

I am talking to you sometimes.
most of the times.
all the times.

you are the eloquent
and me, – the stuttering

a real torture

she was an Erynie
a groupie,
who followed my steps
without knowing sleep.

she was a pothole
on the torrid asphalt,
a pockmark
on my irritated cheek.

some nights
she came in nightmares
as young woman,
asking for a pain
from lacerations on the skin
she left another day,
while chasing me.

some nights
she was an old lady,
demanding pocket change
for Starbucks coffee,
pot and sour beer.

(she left abruptly.)

one winter morning I woke up
and didn’t see her,
but rocking chair
that stood motionless,

the chair
she used to fidget
while waiting me.

a punishment was over!

only just began.

please answer me, –
what was your real torture,
to chase me
or to wake me up?

the confession of the mirror

waking up in the morning, –
for her is became more of a routine,
rather than a necessity.

she is still in her bed, laying naked.
naked inside,
stripped from yesterday’s ado
by the artificial nightmares.

covered by the shades from the oak tree.

soon she’ll get up.
her feet will touch a hardwood floor,
and the tiles will happily squeak
rejoicing in her steps.

she’ll slip into her t-shirt,
(it wasn’t originally her)
who knows
who cares.

(I do, because I saw)

first she’ll make herself another coffee,
then she’ll make herself another day.

another day,
the t-shirt is on the hardwood floor,
and no more naked feet.

only pain,
left by her high heels on the shiny surface.

the empty coffee cup.
shades of the tree, that on the southern wall,

and me
her mirror on the wall.