I’ll rescind myself from further
meandering between right or wrong,
and let my consciousness
to have a tête-à-tête with my eternal
soul, while my intoxicated body will be
occupying an empty couch in the nucleus of
the void of your universal love.
a witchcraft is slowly turning into
a witch-hunt; Rangers won
and Devils lost.
Fighting social demons
by bashing gravestones.
Do you hear, – a cancer growing?
Do you hear how your exuberance is leaking
from the ventricles of days?
Inside – Around:
a self-induced consolation.
an umbilical cord
a needle on top of the syringe
just a few ways to convey
an anti-Truth serum.
an art of creation, – passe
an art of destruction, – a novelty
one good thing, – NASA had discovered planets
that might support life.
another good thing, – we’re not there yet.
I almost failed to remember
my obligation to see myself
withdrawing from my mental exile
in a self induced coma.
a State of the Union
All buses are sponsored
and waiting under the bridge
away from the Eye of the Beholder
away from the Thunderstorm of Hail and Fire.
The path to the dystopian future
is laid out through the parting of mind.
(Sea of Reeds)
Don’t jest and perform miracles
while stuck in limbo
frozen in salto mortale
over abyss of self awareness.
musical condoms and postcards
She likes her neighbor next door, –
his canary likes her pussycat.
fire escape ladders
and bathtub operas.
“Our elevator doesn’t make any stops at the Purgatory”
new revolutions, –
same old regimes.
Same good old dead comrades, –
they fought for peace
and it peacefully disposed’em.
“All they needed was love”.
a cotton candy
a strawberry dish soap.
I love you, – you love me,
I need a new rubber duck,
because the old one has moldy odor,
and hers needs a battery replaced.
The moment when some will learn
how to grow wings,
as their new limbs;
they’ll immediately spread them wide
and fly high to the sky;
and without having any bleak hue of guilt
will shit on the heads of those
who propagate potato-existentialism.
without any bleak hue of guilt, —
Earlier this morning,
on the subway platform in Brooklyn,
Manhattan bound, I was dealing with the hermeneutics
of pouring rain, soaking people
and the subway train,
that was running late.
and I didn’t find anything prophetic
in this morning nuisance.
Till later, —
when the woman entered the train
with her disabled son.
She didn’t say a word, but the eloquence
of her eyes was overwhelming.
She looked at her boy,
I was looking at them.
I saw the light,
but the shell around my soul
was still too thick
then I had to step off.