June 15th, 2014
some threads end with the needle, end in the entrails of the beast, some threads become ropes, and a rope becomes a line, a trope, some ropes have men swinging on their curved ends, while a wind makes a sound, that can’t be put in lines, some men wait forever at the line, some cross them, some lines are stepped over, mistaken for straight ones, and so they bind, tapes, a ribbon, some lines get entangled, knotted, try make sense of them, cut them, pulverize them, snort them, the line of blood, the lines of curvatures, some lines make a noise, some get travelled through, some end around your neck, beating, a bass, wired to infinite openings, some strangle and burn you, some men follow their hairline, some a company line, airline, some can’t wait to jump the line, break it and bend it, make a web, thread it, hang a bucket off it, none of the lines have definite meaning, except the ones that end in rows, chained ones, imprisoned in vicious circles – the death of the line, spiral – the lifeline, some are endless and thus only presumed to be lines, some form figures, that can’t be accounted, only counted, manically attended to, some lines disappear as you approach them, some remain there even if you run (from), line of attack, line of a defense, multiplied, magnified, made hardly visible, all encompassing, stringed – the lie of the line, the truth of the line – lost, going offline
May 8th, 2014
The words that you steal are the words that you lie with.
The words that you borrow are the words that you expose yourself with.
The words that you bleed are the words that have yet to make sense:
you drown in that, teaching yourself to swim,
you die in that, learning to survive.
Life will come later. For most times – already too late.
Cue sun rays, lost in an orgy of innocence, way over your head.
The virgin lands you observe from a distance of red waters.
Come alone, they say.
Leave us together.
April 16th, 2014
The first spring winds, fast they blow the death of winter, whirling through your brain the sweat, the black, the aches.
The famine is over as you lay your teeth into chocolate buns, swallowing milk as people gather. Not much learned, and whatever that was, will have to endure the intense bouts of heat.
But for now, lower your eyelids and contemplate the opening of the skies – infinite as it has been postulated, proof waiting ever closer.
The dogs playing for bitches.
The beer brewing for seasoned encounter among birches.
You let yourself rhyme, feel stupid.
Fuck shame, join useless.
March 27th, 2014
Leave the pupil of chaos for some other place.
As of now, you are lying on the short green grass. It’s not established whether it’s late autumn or middle of the spring. You lie almost powerless, weightless and it’s insignificant to decide whether you are dying or on the threshold of birth.
While powerless, you feel sure and tender force of the transparent heavens – played through by bug feet passing on your skin.
In the noisy silence of early night or early morning you let your voice bypass the laws of language and follow the miniscule truth of being neither here, nor there. Directionless, right where.
It would be of dubious intent to try and decipher your moans, to prescribe your joy some nouns.
At times when your heart gets arrested, you lose the measure of your surroundings – the under or above the earth.
And so you travel, motionless, while the bug crossing your lips basks in the light of burning stars.
March 7th, 2014
Doubling of dreams – one for the night, another – for the future. Keeping oneself sane by risking to know the borders of madness. Dozen, or so, modes of truth exceeded by ways it is said.
Skies falling as they ever were, making sure the trade of beds stays in constant busyness.
Count not the times of night you found yourself wake, just having escaped becoming somebody’s eyes. There is no set of all possible dreams, each withering away at its own pace.
Car crashes, fatal wounds, worms forgotten behind. Till blindness.
You’re nobody’s vision, don’t kid yourself, even less one of God.
Dreams are like petrol for bicycles – burning them down. Going out in flames, the precise frame left to meditate on.
Best done this while lying horizontally.
February 20th, 2014
He’s dead! Shes’ dead! Everyone’s dead – nothing makes a sound. Thousands trees falling in silence, no matter how close you get, nothing.
You cut the silent wood, gather all the drunken glass, and start building. A hut to scream so as to make the ghost of your voice inhabit soundless insides. And you do (scream).
Then leave it in periphery of the mute land ”till somebody comes down, comes in.
Now this can be the time of great terror or an impossible joy.
And so, as is one’s duty, you hope for the latter.
January 31st, 2014
With every passing bridge one comes closer to have never have to experience death. The passage from one bridge to another is an event of grace and silent courage (though all courage is silent).
Passing over a bridge is a doubling of life. The old Heracleitian problem of stepping into a river is of another logic than the one of crossing a river by way of a bridge. Technically, every passing over a bridge brings another you into life. And so the count of total number of beings during certain passage of time can be derived by multiplying beings, bridges and the times they (beings) have passed over bridges, which exponentially approaches infinity, since once you have passed over a bridge, the next time you do it, you and your double double.
This gentle desire of getting closer to infinity is clearly exemplified in a locks married couples put on bridges – though probably unbeknownst to them, this signifies not a passage from single life to a one of being together (being two), but to being as many as possible – and by sheer power of expansion of this sequence – becoming immortal.
Bridges don’t bridge the gap and cannot be burned – bridges are places of birth: of a desire and a love for infinity, which every being is a shrine of.
And so the lives multiply, the places change and everyone that has ever bridged , is now beautifully spectred.
The time when there were no bridges is the only time, when exact and finite number of beings could have been counted, and when stepping into a river was of philosophical and existential importance.
The time when the oceans can become bridged will be the time, when one will be able to say that there are gods among us.
Whether or not it is a time of hope and celebration, it is beyond the scope of this humble try to pass over the impassable.
January 22nd, 2014
The city without a cinema is devoid of place for the real. The sheer resonance, size and precise movements the cinema provides all participating in it with, cannot be substituted by anything else. The sense of illusion and insignificance one experiences having left the cinema, the compassionate sadness towards all too small and uncertain characters walking outside is overwhelming. The melancholy of the theater of life sets in, the reality of cinema having faded for time being.
The city that closes its cinemas, effectively wages the war on the real and thus – beauty, truth and freedom.
The corruption of life marches on more so assuredly, drowning its characters in ugly delusions of determined randomness.
To close a cinema is to rip out the heart of the real from the city, leaving its fate to the petty and insatiable desires of the everyday.
January 10th, 2014
Somebody’s changed the old bricks, added new mortar. The blackened iron fence closes her off. She stands there knowing not what she has become. Death deceived, funeral faked. The specter of Aristotle, dumbfounded amid her walls, rests in chaos.
But if you take enough time, just enough to become humble alright, you might get to sense, that in her old heart of stone, she knows what she is.
The silent wails of her mutilated mouth terrifies you into making a promise of never forgetting that. The promise that you are sure to break one of those days, when the world goes violet mad, and oracles at Delphi, filled with laughter and disbelief, get drunk from the barrel of shame.
There was never a head to crack the wall plenty open. Just a semblance of strength and a headless body in the end.
November 25th, 2013
The desert weapon cracked with the silence pouring out. You should cry less, sister. You should be more patient, brother. The trees colour the bodies sucked empty of passion. The field, voided of battle, mourns. The wind blowing through scattered pipes. The sand dust covers the blood. Never the satisfaction of the last fight, save passing illusion.
Lay with slow infrequent breaths – a sky left to marvel. No voice, no intonation, what travels, travels without a trace. The land ruined plain, waters polluted. Shut down the machine, fuck trying. Truth enter the scene. Can’t fight it, can’t break that. The beauty stands small, even less in duration.
Close your eyes, friend. Shit’s over.