Lullaby #5

to my newborn son

Some, —
can’t sleep, because they’re afraid
to close their eyes
and fall
into the bottomless hole:
where their suppressed memories, —
night moths,
are fatally attracted to an artificial light;
burning their wings, —
blinding their sights,
falling,
falling,
can’t reach the bottom.

While crickets chirp,
and fireflies fly.

Yet,
you, son, go to sleep.
Hushaby, mama and papa are watching you now.

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She sleeps in her dream

In her bed
on the rim of a dream.

Locked inside
nautilus’s chambers.

Walking a maze,
— don’t touch the door knob!

Maybe a wolf is hiding inside
or maybe a hunter.

A new drug is looking
for some new brain-cells to reside!

A palm is turning into an eye
and fingers into tentacles.

A guy came from upstairs,
the one who collects all rents
in the end,
— don’t look into his eyes!

He sits,
bites his lower lip.

Till it bleeds,
till it bleeds.

Reading Daily News.

a psychedelic blues.

“Will you give another chance? *
Will you try, little try?”

She sleeps inside her dream.


  • Jim Morrison “Shaman’s Blues”

a right place to be

place me back into your splendor.

on the conveyor to the incubator of the sleeping beauties.

I will be the default prince,
the messenger of the dawn of the spawning season.

meet them on the other side with the generic kiss.

(a withdrawal)

an air bubble on the tip of the subdermal needle
in the kingdom of smog and mass production.

then you’ll open your gates of glory
and the waterfall will be the ladder.

8 dollars per ticket.

“secure yourself”, do you hear me?

wait for a green light,
a color of hope.

a melancholy #2

this sinking boat is taking us to the èshafuod.
all the chindren are watching fly sinking in the citrus jem.

they aren’t crying,
no, no.

(break your grandmother’s mason jar.)

no more canned aspirations,
and poisoned apples preserved in the honey, sleeping beauty!

a britsh lady, – is made out of fog and the afternoon rain,
is standing on the barren cliff,
chanting mantras in to the wind.

burning peat, psychedelic mead.
don’t beg her for pity for your soaking pants and shoes.

wear an orange life vest,
maybe the coast guards will find you
and pull you out of water.

blow the whistle, blow it hard.
maybe the big fish will swallow you,
and spit you out on the shores of the ancient city.

Metatron is waiting for you on the streets
of the ancient city.

see that girl with a wolf and the rose?

dreams #4

suddenly I woke up.
stripped down from the dreams.

I was laying on my bed naked,
waiting for the sun,
to cover my abasement
with shadows.

yet the sun didn’t come,
it even refused to peek inside
through the dusty shades
on the windows.

confined to the gloom
I fell back into the slumber,
decorating myself with the attire
of dreams.

then I realized
that the sun always shines,
it just can’t penetrate
the soil.