Stones

Posted by Author on January 28, 2014 · 2 Comments 

You die beneath my eyes. The wind that blows is witnessing my bitterness of breath and claws rake through my core like those of crows, in search for all the sweetness of your death. I touch your eyes, your vaguely beating heart – it’s all a dream but not my own. I lie and tell … Continue reading →

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little accidents

Posted by Author on May 27, 2013 · 2 Comments 

With the phone at his ear, he reached out to grab the agenda, but accidentally pushed a glass in its vicinity and the water from it spread quickly all over the small table. Repressing a loud voiced curse, he threw a “Yes, this Saturday is fine, gotta go now” in the phone, and then rushed … Continue reading →

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passing

Posted by Author on May 26, 2013 · Leave a Comment 

May is dying – a slow and brilliant death, adorned with strings of forward insipid cherries and smelling like algae crucified on the seashore, a death like a heavy minuet to whose tempo cling, caramelized, seeds of dreams incongruent with reality. May draws slowly its last breath in our arms, crushing with masked despair its … Continue reading →

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crossing boundaries

Posted by Author on November 5, 2012 · 6 Comments 

threads untie themselves from your skin, and slither ahead, asking you to follow them and to accept the unknown helix pain they weave – threads that, crossing borders, dip into empty horizons, filling them with otherworldly silence and expecting you to blindly obey.   step carefully – here erratic winds crucify themselves on the sleeves … Continue reading →

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note – sonnet

Posted by Author on June 17, 2012 · 2 Comments 

along the boulevard of naked dreams a graphite-wounded paper floats at ease caressed by salty smiles and honeyed beams and carried by an old and restless breeze. on it – just a few thoughts. a slice of soul that’s kept alive by aid of shivers. sand was never able to erase the whole handwritten message. … Continue reading →

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fume

Posted by Author on March 22, 2012 · 3 Comments 

[…] in my palm drunken with stains of sunrise a moth searches for the path of yesterday while rays vibrate under the voice of a blackbird, like a violin string swooshing ‘neath a fidlestick sounds glide, blunt and sharp, and light shivers in search for a fulcrum within them – the moth is doomed to … Continue reading →

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