the sun isolated in outer space
rotates around us
star waves
staging the solar targets’ delight
illuminate its humble rays
with a flow of repelled attraction
Housing the revolutionary roots
of west-seeking poles
above the rainbow illusion
the only possessor of radiance
disregarded, uncharged, almost awake,
through the inner fission of its own rotation
secured by idealistic precision
escorted by faith
floating down like a broken confusion
gives in to the scent.



I welcome the lack of symmetry,
The clockwork imprecision of my expectations
The legitimate fears -
Of all the youth dreamers
who never get older,
who pay no attention to legends,
falling curtains and rising meteors;
We should turn the next pages of this critical fusion,
Replicate both our milestones,
Congratulate the daring intruders,
Ignore the desired effects of a queue;
When forced, just evacuate this colossal citadel
and hide inside temples
like a spinal-carved pseudonym
Explore the exceptions
and improvise heartfelt epiphanies.


Amputated Whereabouts

At the other end of my sorrow
I stand - impoverished with chronic distrust
Staring at a single long-distance flight
With history behind my back
Like a poisoned circle, a cursed wheel
Empathy eavesdropping as it always does
While virtually bathing in my own private thoughts.
Continents are public islands.
All my mental suppositions fermenting
framed in defensive, metal hypotheses-
by bizarre, impersonal priorities
like some cavities owned by their own heaviness.
Desperation hieroglyphics are the easiest
to translate into native dialects...
Urban feelings cannot be looked up
on yellow pages;
Some trees are destined to grow old as obsolete paper,
Some are destined to regret.
When pilgrims winged away from their soap-bubbles
They only missed the courage to wait,
To admit their disinherited failures,
Sounding like playground echoes
or an almost-repented childhood mistake.
You cannot lose what is not yours-they say
Heart readers rely only on irrelevant depths
With a few expressive masks we reinvent carnivals,
Break through the last tarnished thistles
For some downfall grace to cover our chest,
Shiny swings have long replaced rusted cradles,
And encircled their mobility like a levitation wreath
Both experience and intuition have betrayed me
Giving me reasons to forget my youth
and run away from second-chances like an escaped convict.
Being myself feels like gambling,
My sharp decay so brutal, so misused,
Being around you – such a constant wondering
Founded upon occult, hermetic diaries
I am a carrier pigeon dying before reaching
its visible destination,
on a flawless, yet too remote shore.


Relative Recipe

Take a few self-made germs of self-doubt
And throw them into the four laid back corners
of a virtually empty yard while still humming
the same tune with the silent photographs
Hanging above the second-hand sofas,
Wandering off the beaten track of tenses past,
Picturing a new knock on the door,
So fertile, that would feel like
out of the too experimental, contradiction laboratory
where seeds are born at the right time.
Each new revelation becomes
One-of-a-kind withdrawal of sun warmth and light
from entire generations of faked nobilities
and their pitiful self-pride.
To me, you are less than my predefined existence,
In a rye field with no catchers and no rain!
A mere hostile climate, with no repeatable weather forecasts
as part of an unexplainable, recorded tragedy,
a borrowed life lesson, lacking character and identity.
Without my permanent phobia-
I am becoming more and more sensitive
To the seasonal crops and rethought samples of abstract art
Like a mirror - allergic to tears
and all the pretend signals at the bottom of old, running streams
Now - a long enough way from the top of my lungs -
I’m drowning myself in nostalgia,
Lost and found in my own frozen loyalty maze,
halfway this rented, almost exclusive lifespan,
and its intricate system of lifeless caves.

It’s all about till death will do us apart.