Flight and fight,
trains deliver the body in their usual pace.
Usual – when silence hits the air with clarity,
and the horizon aligns with a single color –
boring, dangerous, optimal.
Success leaves its oily marks on my fingers,
there’s still an aftertaste
when the tongue licks the salt off the tips –
privileged labor in the 24/7 era,
flight, fight and that frail fright,
give me a sip of that wine, I’ll be fine.


Waiting for My Friends To Arrive. Have Nothing Better To Do

Punch social media in the face,
there will be blood eventually –
add one in the money-lung ads –
one straight to their pornographic balls,
sum it up with a grin – laugh a little.
Oh, and drag Reality into that pool of poo –
together they’ve had nothing to say,
a nothing made out of terrible nothings,
does anyone remember voices are better
when they’re heard? It’s Music.

I’ll be laying here, thinking,
three blankets and a wifi.


Dear Vampire, black trickster, your lean long fingers
tap dance on ceilings; tickle that darkness; nothing
but a game of shadows – sharp leopard spikes –
distorted shapes; thick blood distilled – now thin cocktail
of water and poison, pure alcohol-rescue.
Your prey awaits in boring bars and tinder apps.

Black hunter vs. the white teeth of clean humor –
white too short, shoulder-Tourette’s, lacking charisma,
gratification with every snarky comment
while vampires are sniffing inside beds & showers.
Your prey waits while drinking Diet Admiration
beneath smoke of wisdom expressed between black mirrors.

Wooden Shutters

Nothing inside, not even for curious eyes.
Dynamic numbers embroil cryptic illusions
– satisfaction; nothing but calculated fears;
find shelter behind green willow wooden shutters,
while wild irises decorate the busy alleys;
doors kiss when neighbors do their bidding,
never goodbyes, never the necessity to hide,
never the face behind the friendly mask.
Your neglected cigarette loses again to the typewriter,
your art so ripe, reviving ashtray hearts, and you type,
type, type, perpetuate all tangible, make them true,
and let the natural light come in like a chanson –
like melodic violins that promise it once was, it really once was.
Type, the climbers caress the walls and people
flow to the markets like the soft flute, they’re looking at me,
a woman on the balcony, smoking neglected cigarettes,
just one more second before the music stops.

Games #5 (Makes no sense edition)

In my time on freedom’s crest I must attest –
unsteady is the settler in between his tests,
before the sickening see-saw of day-to-day’s caress.
I don’t feel blessed, being eaten by unemployment’s pests,
nor am I excited on my quest to trace the golden chest,
before the sickening see-saw of day-to-day’s caress.
This deep contrast repressed by pressed impressions –
it’s not my interest to be one with the oppressed, this I confess –
before the sickening see-saw of day-to-day’s caress.

The Doorman

A special seat just for the doorman!
He has ears for every detail,
smiling eyes for the passersby
and greatest of all his wave to the tenants.
For the children he saves the high pitch,
for adults the sharpened jokes,
for the inbetweeners a chuckle with a twist.

A special seat just for the doorman!
A staircase to fill the lungs with energy
a nice excuse to rest his legs again
and wave to the tenants with their other halves.
One task to keep all clean,
one boss, whose plots unclear,
one responsibility among other thousands.

A special seat just for the doorman!
Paid heed only when needed,
invisible on all other terms –
a hand waving to madams, sirs, somebodies and someones.
The no one, forgotten.
The no one, scorned.
The no one, the last in the no-one’s chain.