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).