Crawling the streets aimlessly; the sunlight’s clasping the earth
drunken and wild from the heat of the longest day
the passing clouds in the dullest sky
getting drunk by the smell of the
fresh white berries hanging
from the prideful tree as
a vintage chandelier
gazing down and
lighting up
the castle’s
dreams.

Falling
down on the
humid soil covered
by lucky pennies and
the ants in a hundred rows
marching home with crumbles
for their summer festivities and
flashing back, back and forth, to the
childhood stories; jumping up, watering the
persimmon tree; the time that all I cared was the fresh
white berries and the rest was just dressing up my all-time dreams.

S

The voyage goes on then off to…

Where the silence stands for nothing
and he stands still on blue velvet
or on muddy lanes with his Dr. Martens
like a thousand in the battleground
saluting bee the queen.

When she sings the words, digesting
his purest tone and when the marble heart’s
dancing on her cracked bones
while regretting her own heart
fifty on a hundred off.

She’s off to where the currents take her
one direction or maybe five with a
heart full of going-backs where it blooms
not like his, but glows and melts
just like the past.

To the baffled lanes full of wins
when the failures betrayed them once
she stands still just like him, walks the world
leaves the fears, keeps the faith, her little
faith up high.

S

act calm and
aband a want
as far as dawn;

alas all
hands can
wrap a band
as dark as a man;

stand tall at last
and watch
ash fall;

what a blast
that fast
fat ass sang at
a half mass.

S + 3

She looks abused with a busted heart. The black veil is her sole hope to cover her deep scars. Propped against the sun-dried bricks on the sheer walls, her tearful gaze is on the tiny little pebble that builds her never-to-arrive mañana. She thinks of nothing and would rather drop her thoughts of an unfinished world with no mercy.

In contrary, she looks being all loved yet owns a blurry heart. While questioning the parallel lines, she looks at her veil without the slightest clue of the deadly scars. Yes, she stares at something unanswered while wiping the salt off her eyes. In her nakedness, she holds a white towel just to sympathize with her sorrow, her joylessness, her hopeless tomorrows. The sense of guilt rapes then murders her soul in slow motion.

In my sight, they are two in a sole soul. They are both alluring. They both define art.

S

The broken paths,
the vicious cracks,
homed the inflamed storm
heard the forbidden chimes
sucked the green bloodshed
raced behind nature, which
never failed on the rise of the sun
and they, they got lost
those darkened deceased souls
buried in the cemetery of thoughts
amongst the green lilies on the graves,
mournful and despaired, yet the ultimate nest
we shall not allow the cracks
on the cold stoned heart;
let’s follow the caravan’s trace,
restart, and praise the lights;
the light at the start of an end,
the end of an era.

S

What is she smiling at today, I’m wondering. Is the nature harmonized in her favor or is it just a mimic of something?

The huge-eyed girl wearing a black blazer and a dark burgundy tie, which is meant to be part of her uniform, looks ecstatic. While holding a heart-shaped tulip in her left hand and a wingless bird in her right, she magnifies all her surroundings. Her eye color amazingly changes minute after minute and she has yet to discover it. Is it her house behind her or is she just waiting for someone to wave her from the crooked windows? The sun is turning its color to white and the leaves on the bent stem are changing their shape accordingly. The only star in the sky is shining at the cross on top of what the girl has always known as an old cathedral. I look at the girl and she looks back at me in the same direction as the jaded clown resting beside her.

The nameless girl is nothing more than a framed painting on the brownish backdrop. Oddly she wasn’t smiling in the days that are considered as past.

S

I have “Dreams” on my earbuds; on repeat non-stop: “thunder only happens when it’s raining… players only love you when they’re playing…”

True or false? True and false.

Hold on a second; aren’t we all somehow players one way or the other? Players of our own life journey or perhaps a fake version of it. If we think about it with a clear mind, we realize we sometimes play it in the proper manner, but often take the deceptive path.

Right? Hmmm, right!

I have a secret, though, which I find favorable most times. When I’m trapped in the wrong path, I quickly retreat, somehow erase myself from the whole scene, and instead try to watch – or better say, observe – the whole act(s) of my self-play from an outside perspective. I have a tendency to sit in the second row or watch myself from the balcony.

Do I make sense at all or should I continue with my “Dreams”? Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m so out of tune that it’s not even funny!

S

My name is… well, never mind.

Oh, sweetness, how should I start?
first of all, let me apologize
if I stare at you down upside.

Look far up to the May starry night
waving at you from the plane
passing above where we both belong.

You think I’m thrilled deep in my heart.
what difference does it make,
do you really mind?

It’s bouncing, I’m burning, and starsailing
don’t look up and continue
with your taxi ride, would you?

S

Crawling up the stirring metals
lucid bricks on the frozen walls
one by one, add by two, perhaps four
falling into thousand puzzles

He is loaded with nothingness
she counts her dreams and all her cents
she and them; he, himself;
tumbling into all those riddles

They hate lovers, let’s love haters
we’re all players of storytellers:
the beauty falls for the villain one
whites and blacks become one

I return, even turn
passing thought the “No Exits”
here and there, final dribbles
indulging my mislaid wishes.

S

It’s twelve past three;
swallowed in this terrorizing night
when another flame
ignites right before dawn.

The greedy concrete, the frozen thoughts;
the blank postcards and the empty lots;
she won’t trust nor will she fall for
those rendezvous spots.

The barriers, the forbidden lies;
the traffic lights and the broken time;
oh, where have all those
frankness gone?

What if her heart breaks no more;
and the yellow balloon keeps
swinging in the night that
lends away its green light.

What if her heart still tastes
the confined love?
Shit, what if the damage
is already done?

S