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.


They don’t even know our kind exists

Is that alright?
I reach for your hand as our bodies swirl,
it’s so gray when we try to catch up with the storm;
all is dust, forgettable mist without any mystery.
Can you see them?
We’re little sinners, petty gods of petty misfortunes;
tribes dance while we’re turning, black eyes
and honest smiles. Their feet sing of rain,
stomping on poor fires, feeding on the poorer.
Is that alright?
I reach for our tiny tragedies,
pills so romantic,
and they don’t even have water.

Media Massacre

So simple is the disregard,
the righteous’ addiction to flat claims –
angry, easy on the target.
When the masses shoot idols
they never miss. Crosses made of flesh,
bones left for the dogs right after.
His blood like wine in the throats
of the wrong people;
they’ll forget her body
no matter how hard it stinks.
It’s never a matter of principle,
but a contest where losers
always win the attention


He’ll use his power to deflower female careers,
he’ll fly to Ukraine for flatlined blonde satisfactions
he’ll play sensitive until the ego gets in the way
he’ll grab a tissue wet with another web-hub attraction.
Normal but destructive,
typical but disgusting,
deep – attractive, but
desperate while hunting.
It’s the everyman
and the everywoman
it’s a simple riddle and
its disappointing solution


There’s a responsibility hiding there –
between long legs, under a silky tight dress;
it remains as silent as it has been for decades,
a power diminished by hashtags of redundant violence.
What happened to compassion?
When predators must answer for their deviant behaviors,
why do ideals keep eating their victims?

Voiceless limbs on a fractured body
it’s not the monster but the Doctor who cries
“all is chaos under the powerful order.”
We are just lost makers of bodies, enslaved,
there’ll never be bliss, no resolve, no understanding
on the wheels of sexuality and what they call love


True agency is voice –
voice alone, speaking several sides,
ever-talking, ever-doubting, ever-heard.
Biased sisterhoods work on false platforms,
they support with virtual hands
and my shoulders are more than real.
I won’t be made a victim by headlines,
and I will fight, I will even scream.
But lower your axes
cast all violence aside,
don’t sublimate delicate flowers & beauty.
There is a power within us,
rich in its variety, illuminated laughter.
Don’t point your fingers, use voice,
your own – tainted, different,
two-three opinions in one mind