filterless


parchment paper soft between our lips,
we smoked rebellion filterless,
sitting on pavements, lolled in
poster-plastered rooms,
the lush-me-green park or forbidden
quarry ponds next town, inhaling

pipes of freedom, world-less peace,
release-ing tiny dragons, tunneling
our lungs like oriental trains,
badged with the fear of falling black,
etched fat upon our foreheads

And their remnants fell like soldiers.

We lived on Che Guevara, blew
our ashes to the wind & bravely blasted
tightly ravelled dreams, fueled with
insist_dance, resistance–
hand-rolled, bent between
our fingers, gambling high scores

shoreless, though never tagged them
good or bad, left/right, dark/light– but
threw them in the air and let ‘em fly

(your lips did curl like Tutu seams,
pink ice-scream dreams) & we rolled
drunk with summer-laughter over
clover-covered grass.

But i remember autumn hanging in your hair,

& we kissed hard to keep us warm and like
there’s no tomorrow– and there wasn’t,

so we cut time to tiny mars bar chunks,
thickly sick with politics we didn’t understand
until we faded,

blue with smoke

& caught in the nightfall

maybe you’ve already heard the rumors on twitter…next week, we’ll be launching dVerse Poets Pub, a new online community for poets. The site is just a shell right now, but stay tuned, we’re about to paint the walls and get the chairs ready for you guys..for tonight i’m linking up with One Shot Wednesday  for the last time..and i’m thankful for the great time we had…thanks to all of you who made One Stop a success..and could you hand me some tissues please…


stab me with the sun


stab me

with the last, fast floating sun beams
as the evening glistens sweet & soft
like candy floss

the rails lead nowhere,

watching trains,
high voltage strains like
they were toys, held in the sticky hands
of little boys, lost in their play

just stab me

slowly and dramatically as the day
has bored, ripped me to death already

we pass people in their cars.

no one moves us, neither do we care
enough to smile or shout or tear them
on their shoulders out of
susurrating silence,

dancing tango argentina
(with that passionate look
that melts the glaciers in this land)
right on the lake-side street,
dipping our feet, laying our tongue
in fire folds -

we run,

turn up the music and
imagine standing on the stages of our
lives -

the brave, the winner, the silent,
lined up comically on the promenade
like they belong; nowhere

Will You stab me

my heart sinks to the deepest point,
hitting the dead-line of the day
when sunlips kiss the gurgling waterbed

blood-red

.

i’ll be your host for tonight’s poetry party over at One Stop Poetry, come, write a poem and join us..sign up opens 5pm EST

the old man & the fence


he wears the same shirt every day
(or must have hundreds of them, lined
up neatly in his wardrobe)

leant against his fence he
holds his cat, catching the evening sun
in lazy amber eyes.

He smiles friendly as i pass
but does he have a voice? not sure,
my headphones cover me -
so i know nothing of his sound
nor what he loves or hates and if

the imprint of his fence takes hours
or years to disappear from sunburnt arms.

.
smiling back and twinkling at the cat,
i walk on while he watches
(there’s just nothing else to see) and as
i disappear around the corner,

he may tell her of the light, reflecting on
blank-polished metal bars

.
which hold his fence,

.
which holds the street,

.
which holds his world

..

as the sun lays down for the night

.

..so if you got a cat, make sure to tell her it’s one shot wednesday tonight and this wicked crowd of crazy poets gathers for a blistering poetic blaze over at One Stop where we will bathe in words without a single drop of sun-lotion…come and join us..sign up opens 5pm EST

ART Basel & touched


three hundred galleries & history
invaded by the artists of the world
i’m moving amongst forty thousands,
there’s still room to breathe in holy halls
until art grabs me, first a light touch

on my hair, feels feathery and makes
me—

.
smile,

a single color slowly sliding
up my arm and with firm hand
bends back my neck to kiss me
vulnerable and exposed, exhibited,
parting my lips with

sudden fierceness & his colored tongue,
invades the choir of my—

.
vocal chords,

i’m sensing crumbs of oil paint on my teeth,
wanna sing aloud but all i can is
stammer hoarse & splintered words
that make no sense; amidst the crowd
i start to sweat, warm hands glide up
my thighs until i’m shaking heavily like
Shamrock Sundae, stirred until i cannot

stand and leaned against a wall give in,
letting him—-

.
drag me deep into the dark where
pigment-tainted chambers hide their
secrets from the light, his voice sounds
like a galaxy of structure, pressing hard
against him, hanging spell-bound
on his lips as he moves deep and leads
with gentle hand; wrapped tight &
canvas-sheltered, thousand tiny nerves are
pulsing badly and i’m pushing

.
sun-less

glasses deep into my face to hide

the eyes that will betray, my lips

get dry and i am rational until i burst,

explode and end up gasping on the floor
when water-colored streams wash me to pieces -

.

Silence,

purple droplets dripping wet from
sterile walls and everyone is moving slowly,
hush their voice as in late gothic churches,

weighing, nodding, moving, no one notes
his hand is sweet & moist with what was streaming
from me as i screamed and crunched under
each pencil stroke, so i walk on – one visitor
of forty thousand, watching, weighing, nodding,

.
Burnt

..was visiting the ART Basel exhibition last week, the world’s premier international art show for Modern and contemporary works…and..woohoo.. it’s One Shot Wednesday again where we let poetry touch us until we cannot stand…sounds good? come, write a poem and join us…sign up opens today at 5pm EST

breakfast at tiffany’s


sitting on this bench for days
or months already, years?

there’s nothing of importance
and few things make us cry, it’s
neither warm nor cold, we don’t
get wet, the clouds keep moving &

Why shouldn’t they? you ask.

Again i have no answers,
haven’t barely heard the question
and it feels like we have never met, it

happened somewhere on the way
and now
the traffic seems to make no sense nor
does it hurt ‘cos glass panes

hush the sound and graffiti on bus stop walls
tells stories no one wants to hear

We should’ve headed for the moon, i say,
you nod, or maybe rather for the sun?
he would’ve burnt us –

between passing cars sits silence, so
we keep searching mouse-grey streets
between Big Red and smoked down
cigarettes for common ground

and bowing low i start to fall,
watching the ants eat the last lonely crumbs
of summer and a blue wind
blows us cold..

let’s get poetic until the words drip from our hands, nose and ears in charcoal streams…and the place to do this is the wild winged crowd of kick ass poets over at One Shot Wednesday..so what are you waiting for..? sign up opens 5pm EST

Touching Floodland



life’s face phosphorizes ugly
squinched, unhinged & torn
parts of my body
rotting meters deep &
carry grief
in heavy vessels, wounds
fresh & raw with pain, weigh me
shoulders stooped, i

fled here from the city,
drowning in futility & raid, rage
between the dead,
knocking on doors we fight,
tightly locked with steel bolts
hold us until

someone steps
too close and dams burst with
a thunderous crack
face in the mud &
touching floodland,
ripped & split, i’m digging graves
for the pain – less, go, let me -
Go,

I know you can’t see – lies
bouncing back like
moon-pale, off-scale skeletons,
a ghastly army, envision decay,
mission-making-us-think
we already stopped
breathing but we still gasp, lying

on our back
with open mouths, body crinched,
fight until someone
throws us back & hoarse-tongued
clumps glued to my neck,
riding back the roots we came
from

.
my one shot wednesday poem comes straight from the cemetery where i fled to last week…and yes…after all it was a good time..
due to a business trip my commenting will be a bit delayed…

..grab your pen and join the party over at One Stop Poetry…sign up opens 5pm EST 

ThousandSwissTunnels


two mobiles in hand,
highway, heading
for the top, cursing
thousand swiss tunnels
with just connections
to darkness, exhausted
and cow bells shout
summer, we’re all

placed on a seat
between the lush
and the desperate;
not loving nor being loved
nibbling on us and

i know the day
doesn’t belong to me
nor i to it
as nothing really
belongs to anything ‘cos

we’re all sleepers, silenced,
brought to rest by the
click-clack rhythm

of the rails, bewitched
by yellow buttercups in empty fields,
no strength to fight, cry, cross
those milky lakes
when life

burns us to pointless
in our needs and hungry
like children
for food we can’t get,
which doesn’t get us – satisfied.

.
i shake my head, then nod
as if to confirm that things
don’t look
as they are,
synchronizing seamless
with the soft vibration of my mobile,

rubbing eyes, i
take my coat and
wiping our blood from the windscreen,
we never look back

.
…it’s One Shot Wednesday again…and i’ll be your host tonight. throw your best poem in and have fun with what the others come up…sign up opens 5pm EST….hope to see you over at One Stop Poetry

my cv is waterproof

i’ve tried something different with the recording of the poem…hope you enjoy..



hands in trouser pockets,
khaki and pink panther polo
no horse, i walk
on small town idyll with
a sunset squished
between my headphones,

charlie parker going
mad and you,
huddled up like lovers
on the front lid of you car,

polish life from coal black
varnish, lunatic antiseptic
without a party, fireworks,
mad man’s thunder dance
on empty streets,

inside your lawn gnome
paradise lurks desperation,
see it dangling on your
rear view mirror right beside
the skull, forwarding life

next what/What’s next and How
you gonna saturate/eliminate
the scratches
on these shining lacquer spots,

we’re flawless,
flowery jawless &
scents of clean slate washing
cling, expecting, reacting like
tie dyed penetration threads

to us, bad luck /tant pis ‘cos we
sing loudly, off-key, insanely
comically bizzare – ya know

i have no use for polished
cars and shining armors

but take my slinghot
to the rainless forests and
labyrinths of
brass-fed blues hue clous,
emptying all my pockets, shaking

charlie off my ears, feeding the
last crumbs of the sunset
to the birds and swim
the next lake naked

.
wanna meet some real cool poets..? then you should check out one shot wednesday… sign up opens 5pm EST..

a hundred charcoaled letters later

thinking of your notes,
i dream of you,

sitting next to me
with ink smeared lips,
hands caressing your pen
as if it were my breasts

i think of words, ripe,
falling from your tongue -
plucked and squished
to juice by summer fairies

and i want to preserve their taste
for scentless days

Don’t talk
or think or even breathe
you smile  – just
close your eyes, drink, trace
their patterns while they fall
to rest,

melt with the graphite of your pencil
and let the words
invading you,

splitting your bowels
with a crimson spear,
cracking you open ’til

you can’t be sure if you -
just dive, die, dance or drown

in a HundredCharcoaledFountains,
spilling your life like ink
across the barriers you have built

.


.
Anton Gourman wrote a wonderful poem, based on this one and I can highly recommend the read – you can find it here
.

and…it’s one shot wednesday again…gates open at 5pm EST ..let’s  flood the place with poetry…hope to see you there..