Here comes the jar,
“A Killing Jar”;
an obvious display
of truth and
illusion.

Then the reddish
stripes with pretty
girls in front,
ignoring the empty
cups.

Still flipping,
but this time,
I don’t mind, nor
do I see much,
except the surface of the
world.

From grass,
to carpet,
and to
the
sea.

Next please.

S

Flip; flip; flipping
through the cycle of
the human endeavor,
and the crying
horses.

Break down, deep down
the apparent
barriers between
the buddies; their bodies
and livings.

Run; run; run
to self-discovery;
make it a metaphor
to go high in your newly
discovered world.

Just like miniatures
provoke sentiments
of fragility, then
bend and make
them poetic.

Flip.

Again.

S

Leafing though the concrete;
the red lipstick stains on
the full lips of the man
and the blond,
both.

Then the eyes, and he says:
if they are good, then
the body is
full of
light.

Then what?
the fake nature and
the man-made connections.

Create;
collapse;
reconstruct
them.

Even if it’s
just a
symbol.

Even when there’s
only one spot
of rain.

Flip.

S

It’s ten thirteen and I’m feeling nostalgic like never before.

Going back to the days of narrow streets and wide roads… the smell of the beige leather chairs and Drive by the Cars… the foggy days and the starry nights… the big fire and the Doors’ “riders on the storm”… the wooden door and the second floor… the candy shops and the corner tulip stores… the school buses and the mountain slopes.

Now, where do I belong? I’m asking in this teary night. Where am I from? It’s bloody hard; I’m confused.

And I’m afraid; afraid of all these fading away.

S

The apples are floating and the hyacinths are dying… The poor apples in red are being killed by ten thousand cruel bites and what do they do? They only let the alcohol flow in their veins until it sucks up half of their brain and smash the rest with nonsense… Then they start to whine… Bunch of dirty naggers they are… They beat the baby’s scream in the middle of the sweetest dreams and replace it with the scariest nightmare… I question them… They bullshit me… I stop, and stare…

“Too Much Rape On Earth!”

I read on the wall, then frame it inside the scene and freeze it in my mind.

I inhale, then exhale;

again;

and again.

S

Oh God, it’s almost eleven; my eyes are thirsty for a good night sleep and I’m still not done. I want to write about Il Colosseo or the loveliness of Fontana di Trevi, but I’m unable to describe them in a sensational way as is their real nature. I think of the lady in pearl with her crossed elbows and her effortless posing in front of the black and white lens, but I will ruin the whole saga by dragging it long until dawn. Oh, another one just crossed my mind. Shall I write about her unreal pink hair or her baby blue shadows? Or about the creepy lost soul and the random doorbells, whose tolling was once echoing nonstop around me?

They are all indescribable tonight while my body is delayed and my mind is suffering from the worst writer’s block. I can feel a vacuum sucking out creativity from my brain. I want to break the machine into a million pieces and kill the barriers, followed by the clichés. I want those broken bits to mark the big change in my world.

My own happy world.

S

The bluish screen burns my eyes,

rapes my skull; the golden wings

rise and stun me not like him, not like

you; like no existence in a fantasized world.

I feel and cling to his red beating heart;

the pearl shaped bullet in the centre of his

spine does not bother, nor wakes me up;

unless it hurts and cringes his deluded mind.

I see the three nude dancers abandoning

the green hills, revolving on the blue tiles,

repeating the same motion as the Coyote Ugly,

copying the ebb and flow, running fast as the Lola girl.

I open my eyes, first the left then the right, and

see the old notes, still resting on the melting floors;

blaming me for my dreams, waiting for someone to

play them right on an honest stage, in a true scene.

I stay in bed, in desperate need of

dark roasted to flush out my

bruised night.

S

Beneath the angry sky,
where the seagulls start
to pull out in the gigantic
wind, her fingers steal the
fire and the stars just like
in postcards.

She used to be the girl
next door behind the metal
bars; all she ever craved was
the moon, his inhales, and
the smell of the crayons
all night long.

S

Humidity is a killer;

makes the mind sweat

and curl up like the

red-haired little girl’s

ribbon knots and the

tragic guts.

When the bliss is gone,

her hair draws a straight-up

line, and her eyes are

wide shut to the white

feather hats and all the

butterflies.

Her fingers move, her

lips donate him a kiss;

she flies for miles and miles

from an open window or

a closed door; who really

cares anymore?

S

For the past two weeks, I have been utterly involved in the world’s most famous cup, which can be as time-consuming and stressful as any major incident in daily life. Sadly, today wasn’t the most pleasant day for me and team England, whom I have supported as any loyal fan could ever have. How fair today’s match between England and Germany was is a completely different story — only history will tell what was right and what was wrong.

A token of the outcome is that the life-consuming bliss of this year’s World Cup is over for me, so I can now fully focus on the creative side of my life, my writing, poetry, et cetera.

Ladies and gents, shit happens, life goes on, and England and their team will always rock in my heart.

S