Gentle Winds Blow the Dust
the silent movement of the sea;
industrial wings take off and
empty seashells and
burn through the ground,
drill a hole
the gnarly walls
wooden coffin abandoned
along the seashore,
feel the waves,
embrace the diving seagulls
roll the dice;
abandon all hope
as you climb the stairs.
follow the marble,
listen to the music from broken speakers,
hear the words,
brace the silent movement of the sea.
let the waves take you to
in the middle of nowhere.
bring back the fire
a mage from a
time no one remembers
long forgotten miracles;
empty shells, bombings
on the streets.
take cover, hide,
the moon has risen,
red like wine
hallow voices of ghosts
somewhere in the distance.
the needle on the ground,
the glass-pipe buried
inside deaf, mute walls.
darling of old,
yesteryears' grand love.
can you still hear me?
break through the ceiling,
the unholy fissure.
bring back our lost daughter
from the alleys;
from somewhere far away
harsh laughter's heard.
to the dead silence of the grave night.
the undying silence
Dancing under the Singing Flowers
during one of those long glass nights, in a shooting
we felt we belonged to a different realm
surrounded by a welfare state, yet we were all left
in our desolation trying to figure shit out.
it all turned dark when night fella funereal
veil, and we missed
the obvious signs. from the very fucking
when it was all flowers and music and dancing in the
it was there, the dreadful writing on the wall.
messages written by our younger selves, when we
traveled back in time
during week-long acid trips. and we paid no
heeded no advice but that of our own, controlled by the
it felt so damn good for quite a while, being lost in
but the mist wasnt as threatening as it was, is,
and forever will be.
for a while it felt like a good friend, instead of the
we danced, others mated, others slept,
and some died. even death had become
an everyday occurrence, part of the ice routine.
what terrified us the most was what mostd call
it was all right back then; we had each other,
wherefore thus should we have cared?
looking back at all those years in dives and shooting
trying to fulfill a death wish, and failing even at
her soothing voice, ever since a fateful Sunday
afternoon, has been
my most faithful, and often sole, companion,
when I lay next to beautiful naked strangers Ive
kissing foreign lips in underground strip
jointswhere bourbon rivers flowed
and there never was rhythm or point. only the
everlasting desire for yet
another mistake, for one more sin, just to ensure
the lowest levels.
I hear tears from beautiful green eyes
lips I once kissed, now smiling at a clueless bastard.
next to me, the whispering ghosts.
next to me, her. her memory and her essence,
the half-empty fifth of bourbonone last swig,
still here with nothing to write but meaningless
dont give up, her voice breaks
penetrating the infernal depths, causing the mountain
of purgatory to crumble down.
even angels cease their singing to listen,
yet I hear nothing more.
each hole represented
someone who tried to pass oregano
for weed to seasoned junkies.
pieces of windows sold
for meth; selling poor junk
for a high price.
it was all there,
I once knew every name,
not anymoretoo long
since I last stepped foot
into the shooting gallery
of my former (formative) years.
too long since I saw any of the faces;
most were dead before I left,
the few left standing must now have gone to
to party with the rest.
new faces, new bullet holes;
new ghosts inhabit the half-ruined walls.
circle of life,
Im gone, temporarily;
one day, Ill be back
to cook, sell, smoke,
I have my bourbon
and my increasing insanity;
all I could ever ask for.
trapped in different prison cells,
evading different demons.
nothing ever truly changes,
only momentary scenery alternations
to maintain some interest for the play.
all the same, nothing new is being told,
no original stories left in the world.
serve last years dinner with a different spice,
call it something fancy,
youre good to go.
forget the darlings of the past,
theyre dead, buried, forgotten;
their ashes scattered in the wind,
like Fantes great love.
and in the desert I too seek
what once felt real.
Caught in the Storm
songs connected to faraway memories blast
through the speakers, an unlit cigarette
in the lips. out of ulcer-inducing coffee, need
to do, to drink, to smoke
staring out of the
as the darkness fallsfalls.
nowhere to run and yet
I hear a voice from somewhere too far away,
it says hold on, wait, cling on for dear life.
wherefore? I wish to ask the familiar voice
which I havent heard for a long while.
no answer. only the same old encouragement
to keep going, 27 Club dont do it, not worth
solemn, somber contemplations of drunk suicidal nights.
the air is too heavy, the whiskey too watered down,
the cigarettes stale and those around me voiceless.
once, I drove on a highway high on acid;
now, Im trapped with coffee and strong
battling the same fight, losing the same war.
night comes, the bars getting crowded. I still
see no one.
only the bartender bringing me a sweating glass of
she would watch 3-4 movies per day;
they helped her escape reality,
the prison of life.
wed watch movies together, too,
usually those she liked;
artistic and with empowering messages
and happy endings.
she had to escape,
movies that offered
just that: an emergency exit.
Id drink the nights away,
watching movies slightly high
in order to make the stories seem
more plausible, and bearable.
I couldnt take in too much joy,
I was afraid of ODing.
she liked holding hands,
resting her head on my shoulder.
she failed to understand
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
their message was beyond her,
an incomprehensible life.
I felt right at home watching
Rourke and Depp drinking
and acting crazy.
I have my wine,
I remember her glare
when I laughed during Casablanca.
how could she understand?
I popped some pills,
took some acid.
suddenly, she was
an otherworldly Audrey Hepburn.
I fell in love.
despite Breakfast at Tiffanys.
and the morning after
was a blurry scene straight out
of some cheap horror flick.
she escaped life through movies,
I used wine and bourbon.
for a brief while,
we managed to make something good
out of the impossible.
until we found ourselves in deep waters
and, because we were not in a movie,
it didnt end well.