Small things

You’re alone at night
sat in your veranda
facing the cloudy sky
stars refused to show
moon didn’t want to shine for you
but wind blows harshly cold
there’s no one you can call
no one you can talk
the air is freezing you inside
then you light a cigarette
and put all your hopes on it
because people told you to find pleasure in small things.

It’s a cigarette
smaller than 10cm and a hell of a delight!

Words like water

I’ve got this faucet of words inside me
That has been over control
for a long time.

Usually
it only lets words
dribble.
A
drip
every
now and then.
But right now the inner pressure is getting too high
and as I see the time has finally come to loose it
so the words will come in a gush and wash away
the anxiety and anguish towards future
the remaining spots of faded memories
the fear and laziness, boredom and carelessness
break the wall of pessimism where I lean my head.

Writing.
Writing is the way to ease my soul
and clean my path.

Night

Many have suited her
in a mysterious dress
adorned with obscurity
which obviously
makes her beautiful.
But all that mystery and obscurity
Is only behind their eyes.
I see night as a naked woman
- The first one I loved -
With star shaped sparkling spots
all around her body.
And I often penetrate Night
get lost between her arms!
where I feel better
where I have all my best thoughts.


Night is the Lady who has told me
all the worst and best news of my life
who has fed me with inspiration
when I was struggling to write
who watched me drinking sadness down
until I passed out
who swallowed all the cigarette smoke
I blew on her face
without saying a word.


while all the others were sleeping
relaxing having sex
there I stood
all for her
the glorious crazy sexy woman who took
my sanity away
bit by bit
and is with happiness that I say
she still does.

One easy pieces

Sometimes I can go like
2 hours laid in bed
staring at the ceiling
and listening to Chokebore
LOUD.

Not sleeping
barely thinking
more like emptying my mind
with tons of flowing thoughts.

After I get up
I have some coffee along with one or two
cigarettes
and then I’m ready
- weightless -
Let it all come again.

After All

2009 wasn’t a bad year.

No, not at all.

I came to a new country

hence had the chance

to know a new culture.

I met some people,

some kind of people I didn’t know.

My curiosity about human beings grew along

with the sickness they make me feel.

I finished school

and now I’m being frightened with the future’s possibilities.

I practiced boredom as hard

As I had never done before.

Music has saved me again.

And it’s role in my life gets more important each day.

I watched over 70 movies

and finally realized cinema as an art

I didn’t read much in quantity

yet a lot in quality.

I’ve learned how to love

but most important: how to be loved.

During the process

my heart got broken and then

fixed, because

as no pleasure lasts forever,

neither does pain nor life.

It taught me how to enjoy things

even the bad ones.

To laugh at them,

Until they are gone.

2009 has ended smoothly

as a hot day after a typhoon

right now it’s 2010

January first

03:48 AM, my cast is sitting on my lap

everybody else is sleeping,

the wind blows soft and tells me

that it’s gonna be a good year.

It's enough

I must stop
writing
like an old man.
Or what am I gonna do
when I really get old?
Write about the afterlife?
I can barely write about life!
Right now it’s happening outside
and I’m still on my pajamas.
The youngness on me is not bigger
than three or four boners a day.
Sometimes I even
desire life! but when I leave home
to find it
the streets are dead
or crowded with stupid people who I’d like to kill.
Oh no
I must stop living
like an old
helplessly bitter
sad man.

To the gone summer

"It's just slow days, running into slow nights."
- C. Bukowski

Sun encages everything in its own existence
Look through the window on a sunny afternoon
And everything will seem to be dead.
Even if it winds, the trees just go
Back and forth back and forth
The leaves on the ground slip a bit
And then stop.
The cars, if they exist, are going
Exactly where they should go
At the predicted speed
There’s no freedom
No surprising movement
No inner nor outer life
People are just slowly getting crazy
With their dull tries to kill boredom
While sweat drips from their foreheads
And nothing really happens