it must be autumn

It must be autumn

when leaves say yes to joint burials,

acceptance transforms aerials

and all goes down to the ground.

bare branches pointed at passers

clever whispers lure ears

through narrow paths

and words get a second chance

when thrown another glance.

It must be autumn

when you’re left broken hearted at the end of the land.

a mixed experience where love and hate meet to date

where you have your downs and ups, puffs and rocks,

candle lights and rain, fingers touch soft parts, bodies, all together

in search for a bedroom fame.

wind blows her hair, you take a look, blinded love, broken glasses

your love fades, grows and then  fades again into a crystal clear winter.

It’s the time of highs and lows, of fun and flows.

It must be autumn

when one loves and hates with the same passion

when strangers serve hot tea

when one feels free under a raincoat

a walk in the park, boots shuffle leaves

dry grass in the sky

books, music and wine, a time penetrating journey.

autumn satisfies, running naked

her dress left on the floor

I take look around for

it must be autumn.

I roam around reality

…and after all, why should we dream in this dreamless world?

White walls wait in vain a paintbrush, a hand with sand,

shattered glass canned in bodies, familiar faces hold deep scars past recognition

in faded paintings of the past, kept for unknown reasons in lugubrious feelings

and it all comes down to this. I light my spirit with a handmade satisfaction,

I rub my brain off on sleepless nights with friends like Johnny and Jack,

I lack the sense of now and here when sharp shards of the past sting my flesh,

and blood  gushes to my brain with floods of ruined houses.

Days pass like whores I never paid,

towers I never knew how to climb,

 lips I never knew how to approach and it seems time skips over credits

and my present needs certain edits. Naked stories dash in from spread shaved legs, sweet sweat and honey drop nipples, Anaïs Mountains explored in hot summer nights, a rush of adrenaline

and then it all stops. I wake up in solitude.

No drama here, no love, no desire, no pain and everything

melts in a green pot.

Old and dusty memories mixed with dreams and hopes until the mirage transgresses pushing my reality towards a floating state. I try to stand against the wall; I fall on the ceiling from where I see me on the coach. I am a miller of emotions and experiences, a jack on the road,

a philosophical monkey in a human body. I kill my hopes with useless dreams for that I call it off,

I run away from these false prophecies,

 I hide myself in realities embrace

…and after all, why should we dream in this dreamless world?

Losing all

                The town sleeps deep under the sunrise. At five O’clock only the seagulls wake up and start to argue about life’s meanings. The quarrel is very intense and it attracts morning drunks. They stare at the birds, amazed by the philosophical approach of the debate. Dull faces warmed by the sunny beams. Barefooted young girls drink cold beers on the fjord having problems in maintaining their balance. They laugh hard, they laugh falling apart into unknown arms. Heavy clouds appear in distance. Hands shake from overdosed substances. “There is no such thing as God” someone states behind a cold can of beer. The others are lost somewhere as far as possible from that place. They travel a bit just to come around when someone shouts. Tom is rolling a cigarette behind a corpulent young girl. She is helping out by sitting in the wind blow. Her name is Elisabeth. They just meet. She likes to drink while living. Someone takes and shares photos using Instagram. Michael likes this. He is sitting next to a girl named Rebecca. A lot of friends will like the photo where these two smile in the morning sun. Some of them will comment using smiley faces. Some of them are seagulls. Two times and then they pass it around. They don’t know each other yet. Blinded by the morning light they got together for an early meeting. With their fears hidden in sealed envelopes, waiting for the right one to whom they will send it too. They search. They explore unknown feelings, strange shaped bodies somewhere under unfolded sheets. Rather lonely individuals fired up by the strong alcoholic beverages consumed in the night. The universal catalyst was used in large amounts. Mouths full of saliva and ash, opened by particles of substance assimilated by the floating bodies, blended tongues and wet vaginas salute the sun. They are there on the fjord. Giggling at each other while hours pass by, they throw ideas worth nothing in discussions about the illusion of getting drunk.

                Dirty fancy clothes cover the body of Matilda. She is in her early 20’s. Deceptions dragged her in the bar for more than one night out with the girls. She kept mixing, experimenting, dreaming about another life. It is hard to keep her head up with all that money. All that drinking melts her thoughts into a pot of shattered dreams. Her shrunken lips touch the cold beer can for another dose of substance. Her red hair interfuses with the reddish sunrise. It all got twisted for her after she moved up north. The wind blew her hopes into the North Sea. The castle she built was made of sand and scraps which remained after a demolished relationship. It was her that sucked the life out of the poor guy. The poor guy that now is enjoying a lap dance in some strip club down in south. She was the girl with a mushroom tattoo and big earrings and blackened eyes that stared too much into the past. Confused she grabbed bottles from supermarket shelves into a continuous delirium fueled by alcohol and other damaging substances. This stupid search for happiness dragged her far from her initial desires. With pale brown eyes she watches Michael while he is showing Rebecca his appendicitis scar. A seagull passes by flapping its wings and shouting his prophecy at the ignorant souls. Matilda gathers herself from the stairs where she was sitting. The clouds disperse.

                I go after her along the fjord. The sun comforts my skin and I feel right. I’m also part of this morning’s behavior. I approach her with an erect thought of empathy. My body is full of love and a morning desire fueled by some alcohol and some smokes I had in the night. Nevertheless my image stands in the eyes of others as a quiet, good-hearted man. My flesh burns inside as if I cached a bad cold. A light wind blows her skirt, revealing a pair of well trained legs. She runs and cycles a lot as I found out later. Then she stops and turns around to look at her follower. She twitters something incomprehensible with a crystal voice that stopped my unfinished speech. I barely have the courage to smile at her sad face. Big eyes goggle through me for a couple of dilated seconds. My heart shakes while my penis kicks caged behind the zipper. A weird atmosphere induced by a damaging silence and a lack of communication. I start blabbering about life and its meaning only to realize I’m a 25 years old seagull. Which means that I past my life expectancy. She listens quietly, smoking her cigarette with thirst. My idea was to grab her weaknesses and pull until she pops out from there. But I see me, torturing my mind just to get somewhere with the conversation. I stop.

                Time passes almost hitting my skull like a bullet shot from a barrel of a gun. I leave in silence after we exchanged some meaningless words and numbers. Semicolon.

                I open one eye and see a room with black curtains. I’m not home. The sound of gurgling whiskey is still fresh in my ears. How many years have passed? I rise from where my rotten body dropped last night. Maybe a week went along with the others and I’m still thinking about my unsuccessful conversation. Some rats are trapped in my belly. I explore the apartment in search of a place where I can successfully throw my feces and some misconceptions I have about the world. I roam around the place for a little while until I bump into a 40 year old mother. She asks me if I’m Morgan’s new boyfriend. I hold down my surprise and tell her that I’m just a friend. I can’t remember her face. I try to do that but my mind sends me in different places. I ask for a bathroom and slowly move to the safe place. As I pass her she invites me in the kitchen after I finish my business.  I nod my head and disappear into the darkened lobby. A big hangover seems to take control of things. I piss in the sink while washing my teeth with the index finger. They have very bad tasting toothpaste. Who are these people I wonder. I spend 15 minutes on the toilet recovering strips of a hazy night. Foggy scenes pop from the darkness of a wet street. A promiscuous existence embraced by me and some morning individuals that I once meet. I wash my hands and my face and rub my nose with a clean towel. Better than home. The black liquid was poured in dotted mugs. Exactly what I need after...after I discovered that I’m home.

                I close my eyes but the black visions persevere. No escape from this dungeon in which I’m chained to the roof, enable to move my body into the desired directions. Suddenly madness kicks in and I start to rape my mind with images from a better life. I struggle to calm down by smoking half a pack of cigarettes and drinking chamomile tea. I guess that this could be an end. I strive to resist the temptations of abandoning this life. A necessary act which must be carried out by using a tool or maybe pills or I could just go out there. For sure I will find a place where I can rest my tired bones and mind. All those individuals I wonder if they ever existed. That morning mirage shattered by a seagull reality. Afternoons are trailers of a near end.

I know nothing. Full stop.

meters

He counts days, he counts hours, he pays to stay; he pays to obey a mouth, that controls the answers to this artificial happiness

created to guide the bewildered masses

into a self destruction; a filtered mankind

of impurities associated with poverty;

a sickness enforced by the leaders.

He counts days, he counts hours for he has to pay for the winners.

fuzzy pixels

People miss you more when you’re away

when you leave the pack to stray and exit-stage right through the curtains.

They really do! Useful machines help people today, to see

familiar distorted faces, a bunch of friendly pixels that they know.

You people are nuts! You talk to machines! I shout at them from my garden of dreams.

A filed sprinkled with haystacks, far from the scams of nowadays.

But a strong wind blew my hay and ruined my garden so I had to pay the man;

to buy a machine, to buy my friendly familiar pixels.

People miss you more when the wind blows you away

When you’re faded image is cleared with double clicks

Ghostly appearances, blue faces glow in the dark

Fade out, fade in, fade out, fade in until

You get the skill to handle the machine.

But what’s the point of all of this when you can’t hug the screen

And thus you start to miss them more and more when

You shut the window down and goggle in the dark;

At dancing flash spots forming familiar leprechaun mobs

Calling you back in case you missed the call!

People miss you more, digitally wrapped.

undefined trajectories

a black scarf wrapped around a white graceful neck was found on the street

by a homeless person.

kissed the scarf with trembling lips and slimy hands stuffed the fabric

under his multicolored rag.

another classic;

a lost and found ordinary story

which anyone can see on the afternoon news

 zapping through life, a broken remote control

get close to the TV-set, see what’s on.

another scarf, another bum, another road, another story

to tell the kids, to tell posterity.

falling bread crumbs from rich tables, in content;

cockroaches crawling under, to take part at the feast.

zapping again and again, anxiously waiting for  new reality shows

on which he can fit in.

but when the night comes, the red button is pressed

and it all stops for a couple of hours in a surrealistic image

and it never ceases to surprise him for that he never sleeps

while searching for a world where he can safely dive.

heavy steps on the stairs outside his nutshell

the feelings hide behind ignorant curtains

and fills his mind with purple mist.

he runs to find another story although

he didn’t sort the present out.

dwarfs roam around the crippled mind

dark corners waiting for the lights

nothingness is timed using their scale

tired of his vice he calls in sick

of life.

progress is spinning like a dice

numbered steps decide his trajectory under a cloudy sky; no planes fly

in a matter of years it all ends

the mother that cries, modified genes, desired femmes and all

the beams that hold the barns.

everything collapsed on an afternoon broadcast

live and for real, he leaves his nutshell in search for the same things

a repetitive surprising journey, where he knows that he knows

but he forgets to remember.