What was not said

Oath in the night that is quest for the silence
not isolation but reigning from afar on one’s expectations,
praise the hours that gave moments to build out of nothing
with recipes written in cold running water,
ode to renouncement when knitting vague feelings
as the cure for the lonely is walking away…

Why stay in a present when so many futures await
but out of deception and fear of the path,
the image itself is prone to corruption
when in the youth air felt heavy and wrinkled,
and for what the force without a place to stand
when one’s mind travel for the story isn’t there…

What was not said is the heart of true meaning
that bland grains can leaven to good fare,
but why ask forgiveness and pursue convenience
when the church is inside and not in the dreaming
and marching dough comes from believing
not in the many gods but in one’s inner singing…

Love (Story)

Love is that one kiss on the forehead as the sun beams into little ponds formed by the rain filling our foot marks in the forest,
warmth after a cold morning,
sharing the last cigarette with coffee in the garden,
a plunge in strong memories igniting lost fire,
crying together in a Hungarian tavern,
calls running late into the night,
a private diary page opened,
building,
tormenting,
anticipating,
thirst and water,
loosing and finding faith,
drunk kissing,
in the dark,
caught,
fear,
coming back home and silent prayer on the steps of a locked church,
away,
a riddle,
a longing for more,
a night at the movies,
yellow flowers on a cloudy day,
a purple star that does not exist,
closer,
first kiss,
expectations,
a night trip by the bus,
small box in woolen thread,
light auburn hair and teddy bear,
an Indian restaurant somewhere,
drinking on the left side of the Rhone,
highest road over mountains and room with a view to the stars
tram 28, two glasses of Porto and Fado,
left –
the pain,
the questions,
“Talk to me!”,
a rock concert at the Eiffel tower,
the trip,
the visits,
the mother,
her daughter,
one last kiss to say goodbye,
brunch in the city of painters,
new year in Paris,
“On the Road”,
September the 30th


“Happy Holidays Stardust!”

Elephunts

I am wrong
you are wrong
life is nothing but a sadly played love song,
embracing fears on snowy nights
hot tea and spicy pumpkin coffee latte
and letters in the mailbox with handwritten thoughtful doves,
poetry when in despair
a good little song to take it well,
I am not perfect
you are also far
but the highs are in the stars
and there is ice-cream in the storm
purple rivers sailing north
turning warm the very cold
snow fights justifying being close
going up on slippery slopes
I was dreaming
and dreaming were you,
me imagining you while imagining me,
I am but a fool
and so are you
drowning in the sea good memories,
remember when asked me twice
if you held me someday really tight
who may tell in the awful bright
is this the morning or the deepest of nights?

P.S. Happy New Year! …and no regrets

Cozy Stupor

In a cup of precious crystal I have poured the cozy stupor
scarlet waves washing sorrows like blinds in winter cabin keep the cold outside
and words have built a wall to hide the scattered drops of poppies in the fields,
I am frozen in the melting sun I used so long for cover but my pocket is full of stars
my soul is reaching out the moment I have stepped through looking glass
journeyed for a higher meaning just to find the truth
that one must die a thousand times to rise above its youth…

paint my heart in darkest colors
write my letters in the bloody rust,
messages to the one I held
to never read and never trust…
and if you must,
hunt the beast inside like demons waking from the past
kissing it would be the last,
so keep away,
it is the only road to gray and wise sitting on a porch in the suburbs
nursing cats and dogs and dreams…

and when you tell her silence is the cure
a girl in red seams life to ruins of a certainty that used to be,
I must confess those days are gone but not the memory
and adds each day a longing for the carnival I want to live…

Throwback to the days…

I start with the video for once. Since it’s the music that brought me in the mood to write tonight I might as well do it. Listening it made me wonder about long lost falling stars and made me need with fervor a good rock concert here in Paris. It’s been a long time now, with the pandemic and the confinement that I could not freely wonder on the streets, less hear some good bass somewhere. Isolation makes you think, in the beginning, than starts slowly but certainly get to you. Did I turn mad because of this virus killing people? No. Well no yet, but if we need to go back in our little cell I might as well go forever….

The need I’ve never had, to go into a pub a sip a beer or even better a good glass of red wine and listen to the noise, the music, the whirlwind of voices coming from people I don’t know and never will and maybe, just maybe someone I might get to know. Let’s be honest here: life is not made for staying put but for wandering in the society, feeling the living, the sap of the movement, the fever, the brutality, the excitement… you get the idea. All work and no fun makes Jack a dull boy. Because, again, for how long can you decorate your one-room awfully expensive Parisian apartment? There is quite a limited number of items you can replace: garbage can, flower pot, light bulbs – there is a few of them, wine glasses, champagne glasses, get some glasses for doing shots. There is an alcoholic themed buyers guide out there somewhere because frankly I’ve never had so many different sets of glasses and types of 18+ beverages in that big kitchen drawer next to the window. And the view from the 26th floor gets even better after a couple of Tequila shots, right?

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Atomic dreams

…in the water I need wine
pour it red as viscous blood,
pills to swallow for the hollow people,
I am one, too hurt of follow…

my arms are roots that seek salvation
in the cold, the dirt, the mixture
in the mirrors,
how could be an ugly Sun a king forever
in the winter of my mind
frozen are the leafs and frozen all belief
I linger
sculptured in the paintings from another time,
remember
burning in the skin when pressured
and visions of a thousands skies with stars that move so fast together
I have seen, was not alone
a heavy head raining glimpse and thoughts…

driving west to Paris at the wheel of riot hearts
with atomic dreams in black and white
and shadows always close behind,
I struggle…
in the horizon of my founding self I wander as a fallen light
spinning chaos in the deepest dark,
moments to the dawn when the journey did begin…