Autobiography

He was the drug of his own infections.
Alcohol to his own intoxication.
He was the flavourless shot of cola straight to the vein.
The antidote,
Anecdote of his own brain.

He was the rightful owner of the dusty corner.
Symptoms of his own cancer.
He was the red light shining through the borderline traffic.
The petrichor,
Afterglow of his own trick.

He was the sun to his own moon.
Night to his morning.
Fever to his own health.
He was his own God.
The perfect creator of his 1994 beating heart.

Noche

I. The child in white resembles the rage that is currently drenched by the acid water from the bottomless skies. His red balloon is slowly letting itself go from the innocent grip of the young boy. As if he has no bravery left in him. No judgement. No attention. No. Nothing.

II. It is easy for us to run barefooted through the wet ground and misty sight. But it will be hard for us to be found, no matter how "found" we are going to feel while we're drifting in the silent song of the rain. It is an endless misery that every single lost soul has to feel in their pitch black life.

III. The rain is shattered on the tip of my tongue. The distance between the sour blue stars and midnight smoke is getting blurred as the night grew colder. Tonight we can write the saddest lines; feel, or nothing at all.

Hermit

Acidic hermit in a sealed room,
Claustrophobic eyes are slowly distorting my tangled minds.
Blind faith hanging on the scratched windows, and morphed sorrows.
I talk to my own again,
This selfless soul is more than hollow.

Former pageant dolls stripping on the burial dance floor,
Blank stare up on the starless skies, whispering nonsense, making tragedy.
Little did they know about the codes, and morse.
Silent applause are consuming their blossoming thoughts,
Dissolving, and devouring every single inch of their fraud.

Tear up my old wounds, teenage slits, and unconscious wars.
Burn the bouquets, light up the feast, set this closeted asylum into pouring water.
Drown my empty words, and drink up the remaining verses.
If I could close my eyes, and count to six maybe the world would turn inside out.

Aoraki

Charge the Amethyst under
The pale blue moon.
Divide my crackling bones into
Pieces of handwritten letter.
And dust our elder's memorabilia
That we traced up in the attics.

We have forty years to talk about
Our lonely mountains, and ashy hearts.
Dribbling sunrise into starlight
In front of the wintering porch from the coldest field in a fictional work.

We have million paths to go;
No more weapons,
No more disclosure to the fragments of our weary fingers.
It's getting harder to choose in this misty light of amber.

We have a little less to frown;
Braided leaves struck your feet before you drown,
Blood red vine into our lungs,
It's getting easier to breathe this time around.

Heights

Dribbling thoughts like
Pinot Noir in a crystal glass.
Summer afternoon,
Wintering minds.

Pale reflections started to
Appear and disappear
Beneath these tired eyelids
In constant motion.

Capgras delusion
Replacing what was meant to be there
With few additional hours
Imagery, and deeper fiction.

Dribbling thoughts like
Vintage white in a steel glass.
Winter morning,
Summertime minds.

(Steal the rectum off my spine)

Hum

Recalculating distance:
Memories intertwined
in a sacred box beneath
your Winter breath.

Just when I thought
you've got carried away
Stafford on the radio:
I've been resting too long.

(You Belong To Me - Jo Stafford)

Go

Let us go then, you and I,
Reciting poetry from memories,
Glazing bouquets in ebonies.

Let us go then, you and I,
Drinking to the dawn of September,
Watching roses in this wild weather.

Let us go then, you and I,
Painting mischief in the garden,
Running freely under the ocean.

Let us go then,
And look up to the plain blue sky,
And wave to the early cloud.

I am there as much as you are here.

Missing Muse: 2

Slithered out of the depth of my rhythmic pulses.
Leaving the paint stained blood with rigorous stanzas to breed.
Five days have rolled by the sun.
Empty hands are now wandering the shorelines.

Three golden locks have wept my victory away,
And brought back your thoughts,
And words,
And black steel streets to walk on through.

You are the witted absorbance of sparks and light.
In your absence, these tumbled stones are losing control of their frights.
This is not my flaw.
L'esprit de l'escalier.
I am still lost in the wavelength of your world.

I sit quietly like the moon, and the melted fingers before me are the reason why I am infected by fregoli. Tu me manques. Illuminate me.

You've wrapped me in presque vu. Unexplainable shadow to hold on to.

Before Dusk

Spring;

Monumental equinox of your crystal wrist,
And lucid forests in the middle of illogical catastrophe.
There is a reason behind Plato's subliminal idea.

Your eloquent whiskers, and fragile shoulders are the midnight dreary of April's humid hour.
You were still there a day after the explosion of the annual tour.
And light years later,

Gone, gone by the misshapes of the sea.
Broomstick hair and ceramic have become my humble blanket, and I am not conscious.
Shifting to my cellular brain,
As if I was human

Reversed Dawn

Shattering noises in the air.
Stitching garments in your hair.
Breathing fire far from their glare.
This is
U
N
C
A
N
N
Y
We are
U
N
L
I
K
E
L
Y

Grow

Closed gateway.
Empty halls are the fluorescent smell of April's heat.
I am enclosed, and trapped in the last minutes of my time machine.
Tick tick before midnight.
Tick tick before the enhanced responsibility of the ultraviolet ray of the upcoming winter.

Closed wormhole.
The buzzing sound of the cooling air is the music of my nostalgic fever tonight.
I am locked, and cornered in the last stanzas of my Neverland.
Tock tock before the faded constellation.
Tock tock before the unfastened seat belt of this shipwreck-like cadillac.

Closed casket.
The wrinkly texture of the wall is the remaining montage of the twenties.
I am blinded, and freed in the middle of the deserted land of my own paintings.
Tick tock before the final glazing.
Tick tock before the illuminating lifetime beneath my own shielded moving chiaroscuro shading.

Below

And you're still
Giving out
Your amulets
Day by day.
In starvation
Dismay
You are
In
S o l i t u d e.

All Apologies

19 years. Rest in peace, baby. Can't wait to see you again real soon. I love you, I love you, I love you, Kurt, so much. 

Everyone who knows me knows how much I love this man. He will always be my main inspiration, my main muse, my main everything. I love you, Kurt.

RIP

4

April rain is the early
Transition of what was cold
To something gloriously
Pretty.

Obscura

You are the first stormy rain of April,
And there is nothing you can do
About your dazzling disposition.
Reposition.
You are the winter walks on the moon,
And I am the summertime smog
Drifting in the mid July air.
Prepare.
You are the frosty blue lagoon,
And your skin is as fair as the shoreline clues
Breezing through my midnight cruise.
Infuse.

Slither

Isolating wounds from the vultures.
You are peculiar,
And your timeless cosmogony was the reason I shifted my sight from the barren moon to the intolerable sun.

You could destroy this torn ulna ten million times,
And the wounds would be my lifetime mark.
The atmosphere, my sign.

Time is still an inconsiderable myth from the early borns.
Its static nature has brought wrath to the empires of the seas.

We are indifferent,
We dwell on phosphenes, and the moon beams.
In the absence of light, and in the coldness of fright.

"I am the ancestor of the future. I am the future of the ancestor."

Inspo

Figs Vision - New York Home

Figs Vision. Great sounds. They totally remind me of The Cure.

As per usual. Gojira. I can't spend a day without listening to them.

Holyfuckingshit

Holyfuckingshit (2)

Every single poetry by John Keats

Wendy O Williams of The Plasmatics aka the queen.

Ministry

Thirty thousand feet above the ground.
Closer to the stars.
Multidimensional galaxies, and string theories have been expanded on your tainted palms, and your
Muted guitar.
Gathering signage, illuminating image in rage.
Sending smoke signal every mili-second to your Scottish tongue, and renaissance eyes.
Receivers are still demanding failures, and trophies.
Warm light, cold night.
Zero degrees outside, and we're still gazing at our evening star

Banshee

Necropolis.
00:00
Good night is a shaded veil of homicide.
Unbeknownst to them,
We are internally
Dead.

Sprinter

Lost in a deteriorating syllables,
My pressed eyes are the trigonometry symbols of geometrical forms of illusion.
Tangled up in a centrifugal force.
I forgot to let myself down.

Butterfly wings,
(Cover your eyes)
Angels
(Aim the trigger to the blooming spring)
Green intoxicated heart
(Breathe in, breathe out)
Skulls
(Why are we here?)

Horizontal street, three degrees sunrise.
Don't look back in disgrace.
I'm not afraid to lose this one.
I will see you again tomorrow.

Night Butterflies

Red light:
Blown out hair, cigarette in one hand, musical gimmick in the left.
Johnny Cash in her lips; you're my sunshine, my only sunshine.
Serenading each windowsill, batting lashes, faking whistles.

11 PM:
Hiding faces, exposing traces.
(Silk gown, blood red roses in her hair).
Persuading laces, flickering spaces.
(Blood on her skin, sweet and fair).

Morning:
The sea is always streaming in sapphire, and the sky is always burning in cerulean.
Her eyes are always in tears, weeping in the middle of cosmopolitan.
Nothing to lose. Still a lone freudian.
Good morning is a marketing strategy of fabricated reality, and nucleon.

We Are All Bored

Goodbye, blue sky. Pink Floyd.

I’ve never been this pissed, and disappointed before. Everything seems to go irrationally from here, and my retinal disparity seems to be blurred in some static fucked up figure of a mental statuesque landscape. Double visions, binocular sunset. It’s like they simply put me upside down in a tank full of nonsense, and whimsical gravity. I tried to runaway, and they just pulled me back in. They call themselves as the brightest lantern of all, the immaculate source of hope, and legacy. Tell my man about that, he’ll laugh his ass off. He is as riotous as myself. He’s not just another punk rock lad with manner issues. Never felt love, never felt hate. We are completely numb to these crappy bollocks. Pedal to the metal. Can’t stress that one enough. Life is a nonstop heavy metal riffs from Iron Maiden. No, it’s heavier than heaven. 

Is the world really underwater? Or was it just a dream that I got while trying out Sigmund Freud-ish technique that Salvador did? Maybe it was really underwater, and everything dried up as soon as I opened my eyes to smell. Or to see? It doesn’t matter. All I can think about is how to go to New York, and pick him up from his flat, and off we go to the sunset. Why not vice versa? Because that’s how we always roll. Dead Kennedys in the morning, and Misfits in the night. Mommy, mommy, mommy. let me out and kill some people tonight. 

She keeps on rambling, and rambling, and rambling. Prettiest girl in the world. She’s the epitome of Marilyn Monroe of 2013. Gosh, please tell me that you don’t envy her beauty. What? No. You’re lying. You’re a lying bitch. St. Patrick’s Day, huh? What’s your excuse? Dress your feast up, party on. Bury me in my leather jacket like they did to Sid. He was too Vicious, and I’m very curious. Turn on the volume, I see that you’re listening to Gojira. Heavy heavy, their songs are my chill pill. If Plato was right, the current idea world can only be found in Joe Satriani’s guitar solos. Nothing is better than listening to a crisp shred, and your boyfriend laughing twelve hours away.

Leo Tolstoy was always right about everything. “We can know only that we know nothing”. Yes, Leo. Nobody knows what we know, right? Because we know nothing. Every single thing that we knew was literally nonsense, not really, but they’re quite invisible. Invincible. Sheer plasmatic cell of knowledge waiting to be stored in the pineal glands. Where is Stephen Hawking when I need him? Let me dig the truth from Gadamer’s book. Thank you, classmate for lending me this bible. I’m starting to worship the guy, and build an altar especially for him, but wait, he’s no Salvador. But still.

10:10 wish upon a star? Nope. Wrong answer. Newsletter is waiting to be done, and some paintings are dying to be coloured. And I dwell in probabilities, and posibilities, and maybe some chi squared test. This is purely for artistic, and mathematical purpose. The concentration of my oil paint is getting thinner as the night grows darker. Maybe I should stop here, and breathe, and put on GnR’s Patience as I paint through the night. Calling all the muses to line up, and fill my surrealist block here.

We are all bored.

All was created out of the night 
We're all born from the burst of a star 

Echelon

Tattooed hearts, cigarette pouts, golden roads, crescent nails, full moon eyes, screwed up laces, intelligent words, witty puns, painted life, cadillac voice, chameleon flaws, tainted bruise, dangerous spark.
You are.
You are.
You are.

(I am the spilled coffee in a busy street, you are the English Breakfast)

18:50

6 PM is the dying hour of the sun.
He dimmed the sparks of his warmth to glow the moon.
6 PM is the skipping beat of the natural pulse.
They stop to burn for a while, and let the carbon flees the empty air.
6 PM is the endless talk, and the falling rain.
Hear me sighing in the arms of the dusk.
6 PM is not for the wandering souls.
They mourn their fate under the joyful hymn of the angels.

Anthem of Dying Days

Out of the window, out of the vision of tomorrow.
Her smiles, grieving through my morning sorrow.
Blurred out paintings waiting to be borrowed, to be stolen from my rectum, and glow.

(Angels are still singing the anthem, endlessly)

Two steps away from the flowing hair, my last despair.
She might not be that fair as she climbed up the sculpted stair.
Swirling brushes in bare, choking in the midnight air.

(Angels are still whispering the hymn, painfully)

He is the white feather in the clouds, falling down like buds.
This is the end, son. Tear off your studs.
The wind is too loud, release me from the crowd.

(Angels are wiping the tears, eternally)



-------
Note: inspired by a short story snippet by Kak Joe.

Lover in New York: 4

Manhattan blinks the midnight down
Cigarette lashes, sweet as the triquetra dreams
Pastel skin yawns his dioxide
Pure as a baby's breath.

He is the one a.m sunrise,
Wake me up before the dawn.
He is the last stanza with no price,
Bring his hand to the ground.

Manhattan dims his hands goodbye
Ashes for lashes, bitter as the American dreams
Vivid skin stings his carbon
Stained as a dying flytrap.

A sonnet beneath his eyelids in Manhattan.
A rhyme beneath my whisker far from the sun.

(Four degrees. Partly cloudy and windy.)

Muse

How can anyone not love her?

Blue Velvet

She wore Blue Velvet

Bluer than velvet was the night

Softer than satin was the light

From the stars

She wore blue velvet

Bluer than velvet were her eyes

Warmer than May her tender sighs

Love was ours

Ours a love I held tightly

Feeling the rapture grow

Like a flame burning brightly

But when she left gone was the glow of

She wore Blue Velvet

But in my heart there’ll always be

Precious and warm a memory through the years

And I still can see Blue Velvet through my tears

(Blue Velvet, oil pastels on paper.)

Minutes to Midnight

Cadillac eyelids
Dear, with your pale blue iris
Sunset illusion, sunrise delusion
Struck a bolt in my bourdoir
I listen to your cherry pie lies
Head punch, and mistakes
I am not more than a shadow in the dark
A surreal gravity spark
I split skulls, and swallow neutrons
Zero clues of where I belong
We have no idea which river streams the right song
Sailed in shangri-la
Imitating pebbles in the lake
Static motion
Flowing upwards to the angry clouds
I'll wash the pain, you'll steal the pouts
Long roads to hell
Will we ever come back?
Are we there by now?

Video Prog

Spent my day in the woods with some of my highly creative friends! Now editing the outcome. We should do this again.

(PS: Fricilia looks like Lana Del Rey there)

Gaiēochos

And the ocean was made of lazuli.
Immaculate blue, anticipated home of the lost souls.
Spells in your palms, hexes in my tongue:

Ποσειδῶν, behold, behold.

The unseen force from beneath the core.
Landlord of the perished ones.
Your poetic mouth, and healing hands are the key to the solemnity of her black winter.
Πλούτωνος, gathering golden coils and haywires from the streets of deserted woods.
Be quiet.

Ἀΐδας, destroy, destroy.

I long for a Mediterranean summer, and flaming wheels.
Not a single drop of tears.
My clymenus thoughts are still drifting with your eubuleus minds.
The butterfly on your wrist is slowly departing to south.
Charon, take my obolus as you sail the empty flows.
And let me be your last mnemosyne.

Gē Γῆ, bless me, bless thee.

Lover in New York: 3

Thistle are the tired feet of the panting mountain.
(You are the empty walls before the rain).

Impala

A lonely kite flying up on the highway,
The open road is my dwelling site.
I've been driving too fast.
I've got troubles with my gun.
Gasoline breath, gunmetal sunset, inked vertebrae.
That's the way the bronze road dies in my arms.

(Diesel smoke in my cigarette, whiskey stain on your tattooed shoulder)

Intergalactic river, empty museums with unmeasurable frescos.
We are the missing details of Michelangelo's craft, and we are insensitive.
Dying young, chameleon souls, nobody dares to mug us to be insecure folklores.
Feather in your hair, butterfly on your wrist.

1 / 2 / 3 / 4
> 5
1962, purple haze in her broken eyes.

(We've been driving too long).

Tincture

My lung was dropped beneath a lonely window near lavender meadows, and the twin was scattered on the busy streets of Atlantis.
She stretched her arms towards my neck,
This inhumane nymph of the crest.
Our last resort is Kilimanjaro with dried up rocks, and rusty snow.

(Collecting old daggers from the grandiose folks to stabilise my rhinestones).

Drink up soil's cigarette blood, and the ethereal moondust.
Spark off your bats, and your tincture filled nails to the edge of the falls.
Bury the poison stained daffodil away from your dead and loaded:
Satirical wings.

(The ravens are all sighing in the arms of summer).

Metaphorical Gold

The lyric is pure poetry.

Turkish beats.

Metal.

Fin.

Build one nation, blind population, clone one another.
Earth is the chinatown of galaxy, abandoned our ancient culture legacy.

Build one nation, blind population, clone of one another.

Earth is the chinatown of galaxy, abandoned our ancient culture legacy.
We are the chinatown of galaxy, turned into one big product factory.

(ear / fucking / gasmic)

Snow Moons

You broke your bones, I broke my skeleton clutch.
And we are the mountain wolves running in the busy streets.
There is something about the windy rain tonight.
Mermaids howled to the full moon in their grotto.

My summer palette has been stepped on a dead abyss.
With a handful of sands, and a pocketful of wittiness.
We'll sail the dead with our transparent hands, and lucid spells together.

(I've never been so found before)

E @ 24 kph

Mostly cloudy in both places.
Like a time bomb explosion in a mid-crisis.
"Be responsible for their tears".

Lover in New York: 2

I've traced your broken Tibia on a piece of paper from the ancestors.
I've measured the length of the shoreline to an imaginary lake in Williamsburg.
Another ghastly day.
It feels like two degrees when you step away from the ghost of dawn.

10042.78 miles.

Post: Salt Lake City

Caring arms/
Childlike eyes/
Four syllables/
She is the pioneer of
632AF.
Brainiac tongue/
Silver wands/
Neverending realms/
She is the early source of
ΣF=ma.

Cloudy

Cold nights: day lights composed into a form of white gibbous light, and rough winds from the east.
Your freely floating tangled hair is uniting the moon, and the shore.
Talking to pacific mermaids in hymns.
Cry god for their glittery eyes, and fears.
Warm days are composed of your golden locks, and sincerest bones.

Sundays

Reciting Black Sabbath on Ukulele.

Lover in New York

You were sipping Manhattan's finest coffee in the morning.
(No backlash, feathers in your hand, butterfly on your wrist)
Busy streets were distracted by your checkered palms, and noiseless arms.
Your canyon smile was scattered on the ground.
Beware. Beware.
The sound of screaming troubles, and recurring problems were covered by the blatant crowds of St. Mark's.
Sid to my Nancy.
Fist up in the sky.
Rebel yell.
The coffee was getting colder.
And the day was getting shorter.
(Your Jew ancestor was growing inside of my thoughtless brain).

Stone feet, Crystal eyes: 1.

Two hundred karats skeleton like black diamond is sitting on Aesa's throne.
Engagement ring was stolen from her little voodoo doll.
She saw a curse in the crystal ball.
Quick, Viktor, hide, before she rips your vigorous neck bone.

Frozen

Tracing the full moon of February.
Bay leaves are tangled in the post-humous humid rain.
Meteorites falling upwards to the sky; titans growling beneath the liquid manganese.
Carbon black eyes drifting through the midnight mist.
Nowhere to go from here.
I've sinked my consciousness in the deepest Blue Lagoon.
Take care, you said, beware.

Books

Heaven isn't too far away (ayayaaayaaa)
Closer to it everyday (yaaayaaayaa)

Song of the Day: Heaven Isn't Too Far Away - Warrant
Because I'm feeling hair metal cheesy over my books right now.

What I got the past five months. It's only half of them. I'm quite shopaholic. Well, some of them were given by my bf.

εραστής

Rainy morning will always be our excuse to sprint to the woods, and catching Oreads.
Deep in the shallow river we stay, and whisper to the female dweller of the pebbles.
νύμφη, sing us how to say good morning when the sky is dark and good night when the sky is bright.
And we're still lost in anthropologies.

Elenath

Missing points, generic pathways scarred the ground.

I walk the lonely road to the endless mountains, and bottomless ocean.

My inamorato's heart is beating in my ears. Our iris-less eyes are dimming as the midnight sun goes down.

The naked trees, and the snow of Kerling worship the howls, and the crawls. 

Their whispers shattered the skies.

They have lost their home, and bewildered snows.

Fully aligned stars, and microcosmos are surrounding the green aura of the pole.

Made up moonlight, mythologies, and the Dharmachakra. 

(We are the ancient maps. We are the old souls.)

The desire to be alone under the sea, and to be found in another dimension.

My inamorato's voice is fading with the early wind, and our conscience. 

The living woods, and the realms of the gilled nymphs are breathing through the mist.

Their presence warmths the whole ground.

I'll tell you a story in another life, when we are the lights.

Katatonos

The symmetry of the devouring devils.
The immaculate.
My bones are crackling through the legitimate angle of the geometry.
One, two, I've never managed it to reach
Three.
Countless of scratches, and windshields have spent for the crafting of this corporate -
Magnum Opus.
My catatonic head, and my forced syllables are now patterned to the gasses, and the anti-matter of -
Sigmund Freud's theoretical dreams.
I have crafted the remains of the day.
The diseases, and the fluidity of human's vain veins are now
Freely floating in the centre of Gaia.
Mother Bhumi, bring your lovers back to life.
Though I'll burn out at the end of the day,
These scratches will never fade away.

Winning

Remember the Nike painting that I did?
Well, I scanned it, and edited it a little bit for a t-shirt competition.

And I made it out alive, I won the competition.
I think it is safe for me to sing the whole Queen's discography now.

Feather

We are the eternal atomic bursts of the skeletal brush of the nightingale.
The initial mockery of an ancient scroll of the Mayans.
We are the lost souls of the mortuary.
The praying hands are gushing through the cold of night, and the dark is building our resistance.
The fluidity of our vowels, and rhymes.
They were the poison, and we were the antidote potion of a final demolition.
We were the fire that sews the persistence of time.
And they lost their breath along the way.
(Fireflies wings are still choking their minds).

Parcel

"Flowers die, knowledge lasts forever."

Thank you, Guns. One of the best days of my life so far.
They canceled today's classes, and these items just magically appeared from Ldn. Ha!
It looks like an endless inspirations are coming my way.

Fourteen.

Loaded machine.
A gas full of demanding engine, and particles
Of nostalgic present (and past, and future).

I cherish your presence,
My handful of hope, and beliefs.
I thank the invincible wires between our
Head and our heart.
Our philosophical conversations during the night.
And our spiritually correct fulfilling lights.
(You are the reason why I decided to stay for a lifetime)

I mourn His death.
The saint has lost his insides,
Like a box of sweet nonsense
Has lost its importance.
They thank him for his heart chakra,
And his
Celebration of love.
Like Neruda, with a less physical attribute.
But the sea sails to his eternal hymns.
(He is the reason why they decided to stay for a night)

Midnight

I opened the last memoir
Of the sea shells, and holocaust.
(You were sleeping under the snow of Manchester, and I was rushing in the middle of irrelevant strangers.)
The bow tied up our hands like a present.
A universe in its own moment.
The poison of Belladonna dripped from her ashy mouth
To the dried up ocean,
Into your veins.
Who called her name during the strain?
I inhaled the smoke off the Pandora's box just to be nostalgic for our future (and longing for our past).
And hear my silence,
For it is as loud as your presence.
Be fine, dear, be kind.
Come home, come home, come home.

(Song of the Week: I Miss You, by Incubus.)

Kill

Nobody knows how many times I've tried stabbing my smoking lungs with the finest utensil.
(Just to lay there in that eternal freedom).

Train of Thought

Thirty two flowers on my windowsills are
Gazing through my solitary Auschwitz.
(The dying stars are still following me down).
And our nebula filled eyes are crushing into bits and pieces of lifelong floating gig.

I don't want to be a hero,
I just want to be irrelevant me.
I am numb to their fears,
I can only feel their agony.

The wits, the wits of the horned flowers,
And all of their misery.
They are battling me down, down, down to the rigid bones of the floored sunshine.

The little child behind me,
Is smiling in his lucidity.
I was known as the undeniably broken, the suffocation of the unbroken.

The polarity of the windshield was the only measurement of their temporal moment.
The moment was zero, blistering the Jupiter's gravity.

He spoke as if he was a god, and the god was freed.
Freed as a butterfly, and his wings elaborated.

It was a red, red, and tragic cultural eve.
I was frozen in my own temple in top of my denying cliff.
The eve was gushing in brutality, and crushed momentum of sanity.

Drown the philosophies, sail the books of thoughts, and trained skills of theosophy.
Sit down, sit down near the river.
As the water decided to stream down to the shorelines of tomorrow's steam.

Close the eyes, close, close the senses.
Slowly, and let the moment speaks by its own feasts, and frowned forces.

The Words

My newest obsession. Listening to these talented rock musicians reading their lines as poetry is as relaxing as listening to Sylvia Plath reading "Daddy".

This are my favourites:

Overneath The Path of Misery - Marilyn Manson.
"Dad is missing an E."
I lost myself in his voice.

Absolute Zero - Stone Sour
"I can bleed, if I want to bleed. I can fail, if I feel the need."
Corey Taylor should do a read for a work by Edgar Allan Poe.

Birthday

I quickly opened the last page of the leather memorandum.
Your day is coming my way.
Your reckless smile, and your mean green eyes
Are gazing through my solitary
Auschwitz.
You were born today.
Oh, you
You were never supposed to be insane.
Raise up ten million hells, and hide Persephone in
Her eternal nightingale.
London birthmark. London scars.
Moroccan sunrise. Moroccan sunset.
Guinean smiles. Guinean tears.
Your Stuttgart firewall, and Kilimanjaro heights.
Will never resist to my made up minds.
You're going places!
More than those places that you went through last summer.
Beyond the eternity,
And up above the hot air balloon.
You're growing higher!
Wiser than the last time we broke the guitar strings on the staircase.
(Thirty two blooming flowers in my windowsills are whispering poetical lyrics.)
I wish you all the strength, dearest.
The beauty of the universe are surrealistically yours.
In the darkest paradise, we will all
Survive.

Nike

Twerk your heads off! Goddess Nike, oil on canvas. Another direct painting.

Metric

"I don't wanna close my eyes, I don't wanna fall asleep 'cause I miss you, babe. And I don't wanna miss a thing."

---

It's either ride or die.
Ten thousand miles across the river of wish and hope.
Counting February to December.
We are fine,
We can still see each other
In the sun.

Punk

I love being inspired, and unplanned, and just paint my guts out. Direct painting is my newest hobby!
This is a portrait of a friend, I call her, Punk!

Oil on oil paint paper. Painted directly without pencil sketch.

February

My February sunrise doesn't look as charged as your forested eyes across the room.
I can hear your fireworks pulse from the digitalised telegram.
London town, gazing to where it all began.
I'm still holding
The metal strings that you gave me.
They are wired across my glassy lungs.
I have traced
The footsteps that you left on the corner of the garden
Dazzling flower grew on your shoulder.
Welcoming back the distance, distance, distance.
I live in the future of the precious past.
(I still feel your eyes, and hear your laughs every time I paint in symmetry).

Cities

I like your reckless smile,
And your
Philosopher eyes.
I like that Glastonbury garden in
Your heart.
That grandiose Moroccan sunset in your iris,
Velvet blue Cambridge knowledge,
Daring 1960s San Francisco rock voice,
And your
Guinean helps.
I like your reckless eyes,
And your
Philosopher smile.
As your textured palms touching the end of earth's breath.

Sun

People don't always look better in the sun.
Some are just too beautiful standing by the moonlit floor.
Some are desperately hypnotising under the falling rain.
With no fiery sparks, and watery stain.
People don't always look better in fright.

(Stand before the midnight sun for you can clearly see the greatness that is your ajna).

Nirvana

(Nirvana means freedom from pain, and suffering, and from the external world.)

----------

Unbind the candles off this shallow pathway.
Take some illuminated bones from your broken phalanges.
Arrange them in sadness, and a structured manner.
Don't forget to stain your blood for a head turner.
And wait,
Wait until the innkeeper comes out and break your neck
Into ten million yellow butterflies.
Floating through the midnight mist, and karmic clouds.
You are a ghost of your infection.
Nauseating bridges over this red ocean of soul.

Shout, shout, shout, shout.

Try to push your luck by opening my sewn
Eyes, and your sealed
Mouth.
You are the open book,
And I,
The charmed dagger that will murder your pages of war.

Awakening

I remember drifting across the ocean of indifferences.
Rushing into an indigo wave of strangers.
I used to close my eyes before the fiery flame.
Counting the next suffocation, and mortification.
His name was Ares, and so did he.
I remember dying in a grandiose tube of crimson rose.
Velvet blue eyes, and horned stems of lilac bush.
You crossed your anti-choking breath in front of my winged palms.
Not today,
I am not ready to be awaken

Deserted Eyes

Guinean sunset,
Let me see your face again on
My wicked outlets.
I have seen the damages of her forgotten lords, and regrets.
But nobody smiles as bright as your Guinean heartache.
Drive the two wheeled device off the raw gold desert,
Help the children of the otherworldly universe.
I am the hoping hands from the eastern Summer.
You are the barricade leader of the midwest flower.
Shimmering bright like an armoured devil of heaven.
They owe you life, sunrise.
I owe you, bless.

Studies

Daring snow of the grand London town.
It's so nice to hear the cricket sings a desperate goodbye.
Like a growing childhood, and eternal liberation.
They shed a tear or two when their scapula goes away.
I shed a glass, and a skipped breath when it happens to me.
Bring it back to December, bring it back to the week of infinite streams of falling starlight.
Take it back to the deity's island, take it back to the one way trip.
I remember drawing a tree's blood beneath your cranium.
Between your mind, and your inked soul.
As your turpentine warmth gazes on the summer mist.
Our bonded spirit, our vowed skeleton bracelets, and infernal tales.
The forest has granted our momentum.
The first drop of snow in Winter will be waiting for us.
We'll be walking together even when we're apart.

Lotus

I have wiped the brush all over your beautiful face.
It was red, red with anxious.
I dotted a crimson line between the inferior of your ribcage, and your sanity.
And then it ran, ran to the middle of your shoreline arms.
It was yellow, yellow with tenderness. Your padma heart, and icy soul brought my patience to the floor.
I was not a human being at all.
Your marble eyes gazed upon the starry night.
"What am I doing? What if I'm dead?"
The violet paste dripped to the end of your foot, your root.
The elegance of a lean inked man. The closure of his beating heart, and glassy lungs.
Consider themselves lucky for seeing you.
The stem grows from your ground, pushing through your mortal body to your fulfilled head.
We are one, the universe is us, child.

Fog

Drown my spirit under the gleaming lake of the misty mountains.
Lay my head under this solitary temple.
My heart under the dusty river.
Forgive my mortality, and my natality.
Won't the dying stars take it all back from me?
There's no momentum left to be stunned -
By the withering flowers, and
The dying powers.
There's no dignity left for the heartache -
Of the sacred anatomy.

Their cloudy minds, and stiff bones.
Pushing deep through my soulless crowns.

Swept

Hands held high.
You are the winter of my summer, the reason for these fireflies to come over.
The nauseous spell of the shimmery black sands, and the forested pearls.
I am the roots of all demonic events.
The shadow master of their slavery acts.
The last option of her last summer.
Oh, you're my drowning victim.
My final spectrum.
(Nobody knows your winter flakes as much as my cerebellum).

Cancellation

I thought my phone was not going to work. So, no hiatus, since I am able to post my writings during this trip.

Say hi to Guns.

Guns / Flood / Dreams

It was the air and the fire, and the whole city breathing under water.

(It was you and I, and our epitaph of last summer).

It was the raging flame, and the unfinished drawings of her flower.

(It was our eternity, and how the sunset started a wildfire.)

It was the flooded city, and the everlasting storm in Jupiter.

(It was her promise, and our silence that bursted into laughter.)

Sirena

I've harvested the raindrops,
Sirens's tears are now safe in -
My glass heart,
The locked jar of Neptune's solitary shell.
I've broke down their dry fins,
And their anemone weapons into -
Pots of marigold, and opium.
If the sea started to call his sirens again,
Drench me in my made up memories, and his jacket,
And drown me in the pit of Bermuda

So much love!

We started to feel like heavy metal hippies or something.

Heatwave

I've set my fire on the alarming sunrise.
Let the blood red skies devouring its radiance of violence.
The dying dandelion, patience.

I've set my fire on the innocent crescent moon.
Let the dark blue ocean dripping its coldness and static motion.
The dreamy mountains, combustion.

I've set my fire on the beautiful evening star.
Let the yellow grass breathing its glow, and its acceptance.
The blurry fungi, remembrance.

I've set my fire on the world.
Let the mankind haunting their deeds, and fertility.
The broken canvas, serenity.

Kid

A glass house of lungs,
Your fabricated eyes are
Gazing through the rain forest
Manifesting the light of the day.

The stories behind your pierced
Fingers, and holed shoes are
Gushing behind my ears
Did I misplace our sanity?

Your inked hands reaching
Towards the finest raw diamonds
In the lucy bright sky
Blue trees, and red grounds.

I can't keep my hands
Off the railway, off the edge
Of a cliff, and waterfalls
You're going to stay.

Through the rainy Aquarians,
Until the very end of time
Nobody will be able to tell us
How to fight.

Indifferences

We're running with our hands
Intertwined together through the thunderstorms.
Pretending that we're the only survivals of the apocalypse.
The first witnesses of the biblical words of the end of time.

(Open your eyes. We're not the only one)

We're walking hand in hand.
Through the monumental mountains.
Just to feel as if we're the tallest beings alive.
One way ticket to their Asgardian souls.

(We're surrounded. 'Tis not a dream.)

We're sitting arms to arms.
Through the misty clouds.
Watching the whole world collides into a shattered ashes.
Twirling Poseidon's waves in our hands.
This is our fate.

(We're fully alive. At last.)

Constant Infernal

Been working on this project since like forever. Coming soon!

Infernal

Ah you're dazzling sane.
The only cure to my longing pain.
As beautiful as the falling rain.
Nobody knows how much bodies you have drained.

Burial

Islands floating in the distance.
Rain clouds are compiling
Their armies to stream
Down the empty waterfall

Thin oxygen are filling
My lungs,
My cerebellum,
And my liver,
(They're starting to make a small expulsion.)

I can see nothing but
The white storm
Closing my sight
To the nearest water

My gravity defying hands,
And the dark blue skies
Made a promise
To never fall down.

Islands floating in the distance.
Rain clouds are compiling
Around my freely flying soul
Pushing my astral
My mental
Back to the
Shattered grounds.

Poeta

The wind is still whistling in this forested balcony.
It is whispering a never ending story from the land of the gods.

Your hand is buried in mine,
And all your warmth.
And you're still drawing lines between
My white lies, and my unspoken frights.

I keep forgetting how much you have saved me
From the ants of the metropolis .

The broken chakras,
And the growing hearts.
You're still speaking in vowels,
And cards.

Shoreline

The restless ocean.
The sacred haven of all the mythological heroes.
These waves are pulling my sewn hands to the endless shoreline.
Minerals dripping away its own particles.
(And the stormy rain blowing my heavy eyes)
Seagulls dropping their feathers to my ribcage.
Down to my invisible fins.
As the angry ocean dragging my body into immaculate pieces of unfortunate wishes.

Ocean

Legs more fluid that the static waves.
Sacred waters,
And breathing particles injected the pores of spring.
Living stones, and sands bursted this wandering soul.
I drown my whole existence to the bottom of the sea.
I was empty.
I smoked the thin oxygen deep into my made up gills.
I was fully filled again.

Nirvana

Observed.
The water splashes beneath their arms.
In godesses's dungeon of eternity.
The clouds move faster than the first chapter.
They flow through the river of sorrow, and joy.
Bulletproof rebellion of the eastern sunset.
Aves are hymning in a secret rhythm of their meditative minds.
Bliss.
They have put me in peace.

Neruda. Love.

Thank you, Guns!

Dweller

I was born under a different kind of spell.
In a twisted fate, and a bitter reality.
Cut the sparkling cage of my ulna,
And the meteorite marks of my sternum.
The water lilies gave birth to my cerebellum.
Raised by the tigers in a pitch black Atlantis.
My vowels speak of spectrums of belladonna's breath, and cigarette smokes.
The crusty bouquet of roses, and my lies are buried deep in a sickening ashes.
The brightest luna is lighting my way up every single dusk.
(and her faint smile, burning the metal ground).
And I dwell in my constantly changing taroc pack within the illuminated hours.

Update

I've moved all of my personal (random) posts to a new private blog which can only be seen by my closest friends and relatives. I will keep this one for proses/poems and inspirations only since my friends actually texted me telling me that they like my poetry and they want me to keep this blog!
I've also made a new blog for my artworks/portfolio.
That's all.

Stories from a mountaintop

I don't know how did I get here.
Or what brought me here.
For all I know that we, all of us are intertwined in some particular uncertainties.
I saw a golden lion roar in the middle of my conversation with the soul inside the reflective glass.
It was enormously harsh, it shattered my whole weak drums.
The little girl in the old photo smiled back at me.
Telling me that everything is going to be just fine.
The sharpest roses bound her arms into an esoteric geometry.
(and her lies into a crypt of ashes)
The silent walls behind me, and the whispering trees above me are weeping through the coldness of the war.
The unfinished vengeance of the nymphs of the shore.
I was not alone, I was surrounded.
I was surrounded by the dying spark of humanity, and the shattered hopes of morality.
Every single thing was in between.
I could even place myself in the middle of the battleground.
For I could find their faces in the middle of the armoured veins.
From the lover to the devil.
The drowning victim of the glorious battle.
I thanked the empty skies for my family.
I thanked the universe for my childhood sidekick.
I thanked the devil for my enemies.
Here, I brought my weapons of my future war.
My personal war with myself, and the screaming crowds.
My war with the city lights, and endless dynamites.
My war with uncertainties, and the pressure of the societies.
My war in the madness of the neverending stories.
And through all the madness, I found peace.
Here, in the arms of the forested raindrops.
Here, in front of the blank canvas.
Here, drifting in his velvety voice, and silver strums.
Here, where I have no capital nor electricity.
I am free.

(Written in the middle of nowhere last week.
PS: I've been thinking to close all of my online accounts, and just get back to the old fashioned way.)

Picture

To be reminded of those sleepless nights.
Symbol carving on a pine tree; breaking the outer dermal of her pierced veil.
Burial grounds beneath her thick black hair, and the mystic of her gazing eyes.
Your leather studded guitar strings in my pocket; strumming my morning lullaby.
The hollow shelter of Evangeline, and the sacred temple of Neptune.
I was cursed with her vivid nature, and twisted minds.
From under the burnt soil, they're reaching up to the textual violence.

Blue Dot

She was grounded and stiff.
In an indigo shield,
Green patterned scarves.
Dehumanised with reasons, and theories.
Buried with her old enemies.

Her magnificent children, crushed the pore of her dermal.
Pierced the wooden nail through he thumb.
Her blood scattered over the air
Like violence
Her bohemian silk stolen
Ripped, and shredded to denials.

She cried ten thousand streams of pacific coast.
Vines, and thorns grew from her shoulder bone.
(And lies, and beliefs, and wars)
She wandered in circle, in a static motion of destruction.

Her borealis eyes are getting tired.
Her ozone breath, fastened.
Her fluid soul, dried.
Dusted in her own lungs.

And still,
None of the offsprings wipe up her scars.

Atlas

Her words
My ego
Her unspoken fiction
Well behaved knotted futures
Whispered lies, and a bag of lullaby
Tears on my left handed cheek
Blood on my paint stained hand
I drew a silver lining between her hair
And my thoughts
Between her eyes
And my voice
She was only a teen
With a different spin
Ten thousand road maps are spread before us
Jotting words, and lies, and secrets, and fights
Her small figure, and her constant nosebleed
Are the keys to the locked portal
White wings attached to her back
She blurted it out
Inks, and winks
Pain, and trains
I chewed the bullet out
She was standing before me
Like a child
Asking to flee.

Wednesday

From space to space
after you went off
I sat a while
Not more than an hour
I heard a house lizard ticking
The paintings are not yet finished
The ceilings are composed of bricks
And some tricks
I have killed
The time
I have read
The leftover trash
I have worn
Your spiked jacket
With my slippers on
And Zeppelin, Doors, and a glass of champagne
I have drink my thoughts
No stars outside
It is silent
In the middle of downtown
I have no idea
My brain was composed of million dust
I have watched the entire city dying
I was not flattered, I was just assuming
All dusk
I think of your inks
Your bloodstained picks, and steaming wheels
In the crowded street
The wind was
Quietly flowing in pieces
Frantic
Like a glitter of seas
Or sea of glitters
On to her perfectly long blown hair
Her red dress
Her innocence
Her statuesque shadows
I did not see her flaws from where I was standing
Beauty queen
I have drank the remains of the day
Your voice
Inside my head
Your painted skull
In my beating heart
When these beauties broke all the mirrors
Off the walls
The walls
The walls
And your paintings chatted
Through my holed walls
We could never hear other noises
But our voices
Beneath the dark blue skies
If they blame us
Whenever they hate us
It must be
It will always be
For our delusional presence
And surreal actions.

Recollections

For Anna.
Ink and Charcoal on paper.

2013

The dead crater is the silent witness of our exaggeration.
Count the pins backwards from their ribcage.
Where did I misplace my sanity?
The white sand, your dignity.
These thorns are bugging her brainless head.
Lullaby.
Death sentence.
Vineyard in the middle of drylands.
Empty. Empty. Empty.
3,
2,
1,
Boom, as you fists the empty air.
Glimmering eyes.
Permanent paintings just came to life.
We are the lions, and the monstrous vultures.
We feast on our lives.
Our nest.
Our soul.