Poppy Petals Beacons Night I cannot sleep I cannot dream I close my eyes My mind goes blind Just for a second In an infinite loop Of dreamless drain To start again Flower Petals Beacons Night I was a witch in previous lives And this is why I cannot sleep I am forever burning In insomniac heaven I need more petals Cradling me into Languid death To start again An infinite loop Of dreamful drowsiness Poppy Petals Beacons Night
From poppies Opium is born Not dust, Emerging from Crushed dark seeds. Subjective beauty And a creative tinge. She bites her lips, A full-blown plastic Moon Floating in an ocean Of red feathers. Opium is born Not dust, Emerging from Crushed dark seeds. They decorate The crumbs That feed the birds. You take a bite, Like them you fly And you stop crying. If you were crying. You bite her lips And catch a glimpse Of your twisted soul In the bathroom mirror. And then you leave. Subjective beauty And a creative tinge. Dust, Emerging from Crushed dark seeds. Subjective thoughts, Creative bite, I saw a ghost. That ghost Was me.
Vanishing, The oneiric lightness. Feel through the glass And there is silence. Sing in my ear, And close your eyes. Dream-like And painfully Palatable. The oneiric lightness. Smell my thoughts, And touch my words, Feel through the glass And there is silence. Dream-like And painfully Palatable. The oneiric lightness. I just want To keep caressing The music In your eyes. Feel through the glass. Caress. Pierce. Silence.
He stands awake. A foxlike figure ventures into the woods. Voluptuous fears. His only chance To speak half-truths. He steps away, The river dries out. He does not know How to swim. He falls asleep, dreaming of broken windows, blue-tinted grass And old-fashioned toys. A tiny merry-go-round running out of battery. Voluptuous fears. His only chance To speak half-truths.
Stepping aside, And mending steps, And working two jobs, And renewing her magic. Like the black magic That comes and goes. Like the black magic That comes and goes. Silent wishes, Dreading fun, Founding fathers Of fear and dust. Feeling lonely, Stomping feet, Crafting stitches, and black crows. Like black magic That comes and goes. Dream and hide Her feet deep In the sand. Her troubles diluted With sips of bitter pleasure. Her wildest dreams. Like black magic That comes and goes.
Stepping stone, Wonderful ears They hear the music While I swing along. Back and forth, Like a little child That sleeps And does not want To get woken. Like a song That does not end In innuendo. Wonderful years They go away Like a sad song, Like the slipping rain. Stupid fears, Those hectic lives, The bells go wild.
Singing silently Solving riddles Welcoming the intense pleasure Of dipping my toes in the sea. The water is warm And all I want Is to spend my future Trying to decipher Where to swim. I am helpless, Like a river That heads Towards the unknown. Only to die In the liquid immensity. Singing silently Solving riddles Welcoming the intense pleasure Of dipping my toes in the sea.
Toss a coin.
What will be, will be.
Forever unknown.
If I ever wanted to go and fly
I'd give it a chance
To my dying habits
Of swelling wet rain
Speaking half-truths
And venturing into the abyss.
All I want
Is to give away the fears
Precious as they are,
And to welcome
The uncertainty of days gone,
Days rained
And far apart,
Like a tiny figment
Of my imagination.
The one that dries out
Every time I think
About saluting the new world.
He entered the pale wooden café on the far corner of the shopping mall. It was a pale day in November, and all he wanted was to clear away his most immediate troubles – losing that extra weight before his upcoming race.
Slowly but surely, he approached the waitress, who was chewing gum and inspecting her gel nails before his very eyes. He proceeded to order his staple meal of red quinoa salad, sauce always on the side, and beetroot hummus with raw vegetables (no cauliflower, thank you very much). The fact he’d ordered such a carb-loaded meal felt extremely overindulgent right now.
He was a runner living in a city he hadn’t yet explored – but which he already hated with all his guts. It was not as peaceful as his Swedish mistress land, not as green and welcoming to birdsong as his hometown. They killed pigeons over here, or so he’d read in the newspapers a few months back. No wakeup birdsong for him either, no window sill visitors, no shitting on his outdoor Ikea-bought plants.
It was a lackluster city, a parkless sleeper town. Or so Joni’d told him. He hadn’t dared explore his immediate surroundings, just keeping to himself and indoors on weekends, planning the next moves for his long-term marketing project, browsing through Etsy in search of his new set of Skandi home appliances.
The only time he’d ventured into the center had been to purchase some wildly Instagram-friendly and aggressively unaesthetic toe shoes.
Are they comfy, those shoes? Dora had asked one morning while sipping on her first black americano of the day.
Not especially. The sole is terribly thin, so I can feel the pavement as I walk. It can get quite bad in the middle of the summer, as they are not properly insulated. Anyhow, it is better these days, as it is November. Which is milder, the runner thought, and feels a lot less like autumn than all the Novembers elsewhere, either home or back at Joni’s place.
Into the café came Dora. Earlier that morning, he was feeling cheerful so he had asked her out for lunch. He expected another meal of open relationship prospecting, yet all he could do was listen to her talk, to his surprise, about how boring she was finding her current job.
He couldn’t believe his ears, getting that job had meant something to him, he considered it a stepping stone to his new me! The one that would build up a new marketing emporium in this grey and birdless city. The one that would race the world in toe shoes.
So while sipping on a glass of white, he said:
Why don’t you go to therapy, Dora? Here, I will send you my therapist’s phone number, she is great, fully covered by health insurance.
No shrinks for me, thanks very much. Dora said quite self-assuredly. They never ever helped me. If anything, I’ve always felt judged by them. The one I had a few years ago, would arch her eyebrow in eager anticipation of what I was about to tell her. She took a sip of her red wine and looked at her own fingernails, painted a grainy blue.
The runner arched his eyebrow and scratched his hairless shin. Thunder solemnly stroke, announcing some doomed and wet afternoon ahead. He turned around in his seat, contorting his neck, trying to get closer to the window, attuning his ear to what the city was about to tell him. Still no birdsong. He wondered how he’d run back to the office in those toe shoes.
I wish I'd told you earlier
How much I like
Walking over thin ice.
I feel the thrill to open up pandora’s box,
the one holding the key to your desires.
I just want to carry on walking,
Feeling the sun on my back,
Stepping over the edge.
Just.
I wish I’d put on better shoes,
Since the edge is long and slippery
And I keep looking down the abyss.
And while I stay still,
A fly sits on the tightrope.
Suddenly I start sneezing
And lose my balance.
I wish I’d told you earlier
How much I like
Walking over thin ice.
I just want to carry on walking,
Feeling the sun on my back.
Stepping over the edge.
Just.