an anatomy of the meatball – the dialectic of bread and butter
two sides – one reflection
and the desire is to see what is behind the curtain.

losing faith is a cause for concern.
and Freud finally met his Moses on the other side.
and Zarathustra had nothing to say

we are united by the marching step of cattle, and not by our super ego.
searching for rubies with a candle in the corners,
but find only bread crumbs.



Sudden awareness of the reality, —
a pain of remorse.
Of an unconventional amorality, —
for better or worse.

In the night I’ll crawl into your kitchen
and drink all your wine and absinthe.
afterwards I’ll whisper my poems
into the keyhole of your boudoir.

I will posses your body,–
while your psyche is counting sheep.
hushaby, mon amour, don’t resist,–
this morning, an agony will become real.

You heard about pleasures of Heaven
or a suffering in Hell,
but for the soul without body
that doesn’t mean anything…


and all the cars
delivery men
street vendors
morning free paper distributors
bus stations
and more clutter.

I put them together
one a top of another
one next to another
tightened them all up
so not a single speck
can squeeze inside.

I placed myself in the center
and surrounded my self with it.

I called it a city.

(but, there was no space left for you.)

hence I forgot it all.

there is a sunflower field
and two of us in the middle.

(no walls)

about the space travel

a catatonic inertia of a mundane.

a wormhole,
this link between the concience
and the intellect.

squeezing myself through this pipeline,
Lieutenant Commander Data, set the coordinates.

a heart surgeon fixing a running engine,
– add some coolant.

my moral stability,
has a destructive impact on my creativity.

once I saw you on the background of the tornado,
that riped the world apart.
once in front of the dry seabed,
covered with cracks,
the nomad’s lips.

a parralax?
I probably need a new pair of glasses
and a concierge services.

lock the door behind me,
hungry wolves are hiding
behind the neighbor’s car.

a girl with the pink hair

a girl with the pink hair
what are you doing this hour forlorn?
while you’re filling the void
in this air with a smell of a pee.

we’re riding same train,
sitting across.
whereas I am not Hungry Wolf
hence you’re not Red Riding Hood.

clanging wheels, ticking breaths,
flickering lights;
counting cravings that we could have
while musing on numerous nights.

the trending intentions we flourish,
the attempts to redefine our past.
the misunderstandings we cherish,
imploded anticipations we lust.

I saw all these reflecting
in the rainbow sunglasses you wear,
protecting your eyes from the throw backs
that you’re so afraid to bear.

the imaginary Pan Piper
is calling you out.
you will get out and I’ll stay confined,
facing the void you made.