Poetry -For the Violent

Because I, with an unloaded revolver, became a suicide bomber 
While you, innocent, decided to buy terror
Because I, by fated attacks, was injured, but love was not 
While, all the way from death, you came back, but humanity did not
 
Because, living in the bright, I beg for your darkness
While you, in twilight, pray me even more of self-destructiveness
Because I, with hurtful sins, allow the world to erode me by your lord
While you, with painful respite, defend with an unjust sword
 
Because I, just like loving many others, love you
While you, just as you hate yourself and the lovers, hate all my world too
Because I, a human, is no angel
And you, a beautiful one, is no devil
 
Therefore, anything, I will not conclude 
But to leave you to pave your way with your mighty tools 
Therefore my wound may, one day, heal your wound 
but my deaths might not, in any way, give you all the life you consumed
Therefore I am, again, finally thoroughly away, but, regardless it all, again here to stay
 
Yet unworthy my words may be, and my soul, unnecessary, you may not see
Sordidly, turn on the house light 
Pretending it is, humorously, for a mere artistic sight
Then, perhaps, we could say 
That no words, at all, have been uttered 
No time, at all, has been squandered 
And no lives, at all, have been shattered
 
Last writing of summer 16′
28/08/2016 04:28am
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Poetry -Just As Normal

Why not live with me
In the world where thinking is illegal and feeling is essential
No more will there be philosophical dilemmas or mind prisons
Just us all with our own brainless soulful flesh
 
Why not drown with me 
Drown deep into the cruel waters of reality with me
We could breathe out oxygen for each other and our dead souls could perhaps live
Live just as before just as normal
Just as before 
Just as normal
 
Why not write
Just as before just as normal with me
Before Jesus gave us salvation saving us from one hell to another
Before ice sheets melting and polar bear cubs dying
Before scientific intelligence brought stupidity to kill humanity
Before the world lost its grip against corrupt politics
Before our infants’ familiarity with misery
Before innocent children’s first bloodshed
Before you’re here 
Before you’re gone
 
But with me
I guess 
You would rather not
 
30/07/2016 05:56am

Poetry -Present

A screeching lamb on the late night tram
Not the mere 3:13am or 8:28 pm 
Rather the touch of an ill-favoured alluring scam
 
Mellow as the bleeding marionette with a guitar-strummed sonnet
Heavenly as weaving absolute vodka into the Werther-themed opera
Exquisite as binging 99% dark chocolate naked at mid-night tasting nothingness in bites
Brutal as the dark sunrise’s insomniac alarm and its excruciating charm
Numb until consciousness re-appears like murderous reindeers
 
Seal the foreign arid throat with some unused wooden craze
Bury the quickening footsteps with one eerie killing embrace
How the good old forever stayed among the delicate haze 
Without the goddamn guilt-filled government-funded charity race
 
12/08/2016 05:30am

Prose -Last Words

There’s some kind of addictive mystery in the passing of time, some kind of irreplaceable beauty in the fluidity of moments. It is a sort of charm that is particular to the observance of the flight of seconds, a helpless sight of the accumulation of self-loath, and an awareness of the formation of revelations and the departure of skies.
 It is a meditative serenity that often propel minds towards a rumination of unreturned beings, recreations of unreturned moments, and imitations of unreturned sensitivity towards human emotions. It is also the sentimental geometry of void, in the colour of tranquility and the sound of ocean blue, that is, however, resistant towards futile disturbance, harsh progress, or any irrelevant form of force. 
It is an unfathomable spectrum of vibrance that heals itself above the surface of earth, without struggling with the philosophical question of heaven, or obsessing over the favorable existence of pandemoniums. It is, moreover, beyond literal language, but does not cease to immerse all souls into the impalpable curse of extravagant metaphors and the invasive hymn of figurative speech. 
 It does not fail to retain the capability of bestowing suffocation upon minds, or to cast upon torsos the experience of falling from the infinite heights of mountains. Yet, before the return of any sort of human consciousness, skulls are often, as they are destined to be, smashed into the gruesome ground of stones. 
All you will be able to recall is, perhaps, the way unpleasant screams gradually traumatise the running child, the manner in which the scrap of wound frightens the newborn infant. But all they will reiterate is the way blood is left forgotten among the passage of beings and the passage of time. 
 In this moment, where all worldly matter become unfathomable, you will be allowed to let go of meaning. In this moment, where all vile hearts become gentle, you will loosen the grip of pain. And, in this one last moment, you will be persuaded to let go of your current obsession of last words, or your imagination of flamboyant funerals.
 The only certainty will rest in the unstoppable flow of time, the darkness among brightness, and the beauty among condemnations, who will draft a genuine poetry of insanity, a peaceful paragraph of death, and, one day, some sheer words of anguish and pain, just as I and my soul did, on one drunken night of the day.

Poetry -Confession

I am a murderer
I made my soul one because death is justified for a crippled sinner
I persuaded her justice that I am one for I’ve known minds 
that cannot be truer consciousness
that cannot be gentler 

 

I am a reckless man slaughterer 
I stick knives into thoughts at dawn and watch the tenderness in my throat 
gradually shatter
I will threaten innocence to bleed for my emperors’ pleasure when 
freedom eventually becomes our kingdom’s ultimate censor

 

I am a spectator to my own crime
I kill with ignorance by seconds to the delightful rhythm of Paris’ chime
I bathe my tainted lungs with the last words of victims and
cleanse my culpable soul with blasphemous hymns 
step by step each time

 

I am by definition merely a human being
I robbed these words from the love letter she was 
secretly carrying
She is the culprit of  guilt accumulating glasses of apathy permeating 
the witness of sanity perishing the pandemonium’s christmas carolling 

//Precision//

Let us be the exact duration of time spent on nothingness
The right amount of space that allows souls to redeem sins among timelessness
We would be the irony towards the accurate amount of heartlessness
The particular dimension of void that retains sanity while it corrodes our valueless humanity

Let us become the world’s most profound silence the universe’s most correct form of silence
We would be the appropriate apathy that fills hearts with complete tranquility
The familiar indifference that paints shivering breaths with subtle rhythm
And the unknown thought that rightly accuses our body’s actions with treason

Let us be sheer existence
The existence that does not disrupt aesthetic impulsion the existence that unconsciously relates beauty to intuition
We would freely dispose emotions at the border of your soul and mine
And condemn imprecisions inaccuracies and indecisiveness as we deport existence

Let us be none of the above
I would be sinful you would be inadequate our existence would be inaccurate
But we will one day be away from the ocean’s darkness
one day escape from the labyrinth of heavy inertness
and one day be freed from such futile catharsis

29/04/2017 12:46am

//A Hymn to My Dreams//

My dreams
willingly complicate deaths in your imaginations adequately dislocates temporary meanings of existence

My dreams
cease to contain upheavals of irregular heartbeats or valleys of Shakespearean tears in the pandemoniac heat

My dreams
were on a slow train without forgotten speech
showering naked bodies with tinkling helplessness for the passing views of villages’ siege

My dreams
attempted to transform moments into permanence while ordering a massacre for words of human kind’s sentiments

My dreams
cleansed my blurry eyes with your endless sunrises
robbed the world with their light beams’ imperfections and my lampposts’ crises

My dreams
wished the moon could glisten brighter than the stars while sabotaging tranquil ancestors of the skies from afar

My dreams
imagined your toes running through the edges of the world as my throats of blood their minds of poetries unfurl

My dreams
never wrote again never dreamt again never encountered rivers that capture dying silhouettes again

Your dreams my dreams
They were never ours
She was never mine either

28/03/2017 05:37am

//First Draft of an Imaginary Dairy//

15578793_10210806271529104_4944689960094522561_nThe world was so very beautiful today.
If only, if only, I could shed a drop of tear about it.
I thought, perhaps, my futile contribution could let one of my favourite dandelions grow with the hollow desperation I today generously donated.
It was a thirteen celsius degrees with winds that, finally and surprisingly, weren’t indifferent to my cracking skin. I faintly saw the unusually-humble buildings creepily recording every step i took on the concrete. Undisturbed by the eavesdropping, I was unconsciously whispering something, something important, to the chilling air. They were, in reply, asking me to lengthen my initially-unwanted stay. I looked into the background, into the building which I, in my mind, befriended a few seconds ago. I knew the windows had stolen my iris, yet, all I could do was to receive the wind’s filthy bribe. I could not stay, but did not dare releasing a single word of harshness. So I, secretly, ran away, even though my mild heart was painfully, painfully bleeding. My blood, swiftly and automatically, flowed though my sparse scalp of hair, into my salt-filled bitter eyes, and, into my frail, frail fractured bones. I was able to, for the first time, truly imagine a world without the occupation of my devilish torso; for the first time, walk on the flawed concrete like a brave near-death soldier’s stride.
But here came the passing millionaires-filled limousines. Alas- how I wish they had not witnessed my moment of foolishness.
My self-hatred, nonetheless, happily flew with the naive kite on top of my dreamy head and screamed “oh freedom, oh liberty.” The uncomfortable sounding of these words, especially on the land of “United States of America”, scratched open the wall of my brain. I realised, however beautiful the day was, the only bearable part of my existence was perhaps, still, merely and only, the tiny little fraction that possesses the ability to perceive the transient beauty of the day.
Maybe, maybe, I should let it stay. The rest, I guess, it’s time to get out of beauty’s way mate.
15/10/2016 1:04am