Insomnia

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Poetry
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

I Saw a Ghost

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Poetry
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.

Caress

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Random
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.

Fears

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Poetry
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.

Black Magic

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Poetry
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. 

Bells

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Random / Poetry
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.

Silent Song

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Random
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.

Days Rained

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Random
 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.

Birdsong

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Fiction

He entered the 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 troubled thoughts.

There was some weight to lose 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 ordered his staple and overindulgent meal of red quinoa salad, sauce always on the side, and beetroot hummus with raw vegetables (no cauliflower, thank you very much). 

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, park-less 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 really. The sole is terribly thin, so I can feel the pavement as I walk. It can get quite bad in 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 job. 

He couldn’t believe his ears, getting that gig 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. 

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. They never ever helped me. If anything, I’ve always felt quite badly judged by them. The one I had a few years ago, would arch her eyebrows 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 scratched his hairless shin. Thunder solemnly stroke, announcing some doomed and wet afternoon ahead. He approached 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. 

Tightrope

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Poetry
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.