moving on

It frightens me to look behind, at what I've done,
It terrifies me.
What for, if they are just words,
which fade in shreds
of unknowing silences?

I do not dare to look at what I've said,
as it scares me,
not to believe the things that I have spent
my time into are somehow pointless.

Moving on, I don't want to find myself
when I look over my shoulder.
Moving on, never too fast, hiding my brain
into my backside pockets.

waiting

I was waiting for a man who came

and softly caressed my neck,

but I stayed home with a string of dishes

and murdered hairs and flowers hanging from it,

waiting for him to appear and bring me pleasure home

just like an express love-delivery service.



The radio went on: "It's raining men,

Hallelujah!"

so I took my head out of the window,

staring at the mocking sun,

looking upwards, in hope and expectation, to the clouds.



But love doesn't come home just like a pizza,

and the radio is never right.

So, there I stayed, here am I,

with my soft neck coming to creases,

getting old untouched: dead skin calling

for a hand to come,

a hand just created to please me.



And my skin is crumbling,

and silence embraces my neck like a serpent,

strangling my wishes in order to eat.




(alligator, alligator,

running down my spine)

Cinderella

Cinderella took her shoes off after the first five minutes of wearing them on. Too cold, these ice shoes, too tight on her feet, used to walk around the kitchen bare and free.

It was just bad luck that she lost one of them, which did not break. For Goodness Sake! Any regular cup would have collapsed into thousand of liberating pieces! But not these shoes, not them. They were the Devil’s shoes.

It was just VERY bad luck that the charming prince was such a fetish addict, and managed to find her, and replace the lost shoes upon her poor, innocent feet.

Now Cinderella had many servants, and her feet ached, restrained, inside millions of different pairs, which she compulsively collected, hoping to find some day a magical pair that did not make her feet feel eternally trapped.

Princesses are not allowed to dance carefree and barefoot on the kitchen’s palace.

Snow White Blues

Snow White said to the hunter: “why are you looking at me like that, with your lips trembling and your hand steady upon your gun? You knew what you were coming here for, and I am ready. Why so much hesitation? Do it!”

Afterwards, when all was done and over with, the hunter invented a nice story of friendly dwarves, magic mirrors and a charming prince, to tell to his kids on coming home. He did so as he washed the warm juicy blood off his hands.

The forest was silent and full of maggots.

dot of truth

On a thin line between two lies,
there lies a tiny dot of truth, undecided
as per where to go
withouth being annihlated.

On both sides, far away,
at equal distances,
monstrosities grow, furious and sturdy,
roaring out to be fed.

Funambulist in equilibrium,
the dot of truth remains, praying
for the trusting, unaware lies
not to find out it exists.

seaside

I can't just behold and not say something,
it's much too big just to stay
there, unfolding,
not to be touched, in front of me.

It's calling:
his streaky, invisible hair,
tickles my nose.
Little fingers of scent,
feathers the flying fish
lost long ago…

'Come to me!', you say,
'scratch me,
dissect me and make your pen
define me
and in doing so, change me into something
that I am not.

Make me pretty as a picture.
If only you knew…
'cos you don't know who am I,
who I was,
when we first got together…

How do you dare
to tell me you can write me?'

silence

Silence is light, and gleams like a silvery tissue. You may confuse it with a silky shawl and put it around your shoulders. But, as soon as you get used to its surprising metallic coldness, it turns into iron and encloses you tightly, and then it becomes a powerful magnet, attracting all the silence of the world and beneath, and, soon, you are no more than a ball of bruised shivering flesh overwhelmed by silence's burden.

what words want

What words want:
wishing to warn
worst words might happen.

Their reward:
unwanted abuse,
to make us wonder.

a road movie

Hollywood spoilt me for real life. I can't be happy just with half-true living time...Unreality is so perfect, so bright...I am willing to be part of that.


The road is just the road when feet walking on it define its direction. Unless it has some item on top, it is only a long dusty carpet acting as an awful decorative element on the landscape....

If you could leave the road for a second, and find a parking place in the desert, maybe you would be able to see the heat coming out of the roasting stones in thin, almost solid waves that deform everything...

Then, the dream of water, the imagined lakes on the distance, would placate the yearning for company in the desert, in the loneliness... A mirror on a pupil, a second of floating dust, a cigarette lighting up, his hands laying on the steering wheel.

And the words. Thinking, breathing, talking about time, splitting. Meaning is dissolved in the heat. You hear nothing. A hand trembles. The cigarette falls to the ground. Dripping tears. A body falls. His body. The heat is coming out of your gun, now. Fate is running to catch you. And silence comes back after the noise of his words and your shot dies away. The car, shocked, takes a minute or two to find its way back to the now fully real road. Dust will cover him, not rain. And you are off, off for the real world.

And you can throw all his cigarettes out of the car, through the window, to pave the unreal road on your back...

You know, it is not right to say the wrong words. Not to me. Not on the road.



I love Hollywood endings. Let me flee driving away to the west, and find a more suitable script for my perfect Hollywood movie

ice skating

Morning light found me
Ice-skating on the shadow
your cold breath left on my pillow
just before dawn.

Unwanted,
all my attention
spent the small hours knitting
winter hats and woolly socks
to warm us up through the windy night.

`It’s cold in here’
you said, your eyes half there,
and yet
half behind the glassy ice

‘Yeah’ I said, coming closer,
-my unwanted attention
dressing us both with her lonely night's clothes-

‘I gotta work’ and the ice
made crushing noises as you left the bed.
‘It's not that late’ I said, and I meant it.
‘Yes, it is’ and you meant it as well...

My unwanted attention keeps on knitting.
She doesn't know yet you're not coming back.