The cannibalistic axolotl

I knew a girl,
she wanted to lick everything she liked,
everything she wanted to behold if
she couldn’t reach a full mental grasp of it
using other senses.

I knew a man,
he ate his dreams, while he was asleep.
Once, he became so hungry
so he ate his soul;
and at the dawn of next morning
he died.

The cannibalistic axolotl
is a king of the night.

He knows everything in the world,
because he remembers the taste.

He knows when you need his experience,
but comes only to destroy
your paragons of virtue.

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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.

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”

dreams #5

Just a recollection,–
you were running,
chasing someone.

Or being chased
by your own imminence.

A knob, then door,
then elevator shaft
to the bottom of your
superfluous regrets.

A screaming static
and an endless rhythm of clapping hands.

A swooping down flamenco
by the hands of Che Guevara in the jar.

An intimate nuclear blast.
Do you see the sound?

In the bottom,–
a ghost of Hamlet’s late father behind the desk
and a visitors log on top.

“Please sign next to your name”

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?