Means of Transportation.

Metaphor poem.

Thank You!

“Primal, primitive desire.”

I had a dream,
my hands behind the steering wheel
looking at the curves
of the racing track ahead.

Thoughts racing in my head,
trying to escape,
like water from a boiling kettle
dancing to the adrenaline and heat.

I know I’m asleep,
it’s part illusion, part deceit,
part a wish
and part a poison spiked with fear.

In truth,
I’m not a chauffeur,
best served cold
together with a grass mower.

Not with engine powered
metal carriage, counting mile
together with a dripping hour.
Real power.

This fact
became a blinding itch,
on the back of my brain.

It shifted places,
took a ride
around the fleshy soggy highways,
making way towards the corner of my eye.

Primal, primitive desire
to scratch the eye,
to relieve myself
from this melancholic agony.

I hit a wall,
or some barrier of a sort,
doesn’t matter anymore.

Sent me back,
to the void of nothingness,
only strings of information
flowing, tangling each other,

Now I ride with a bike,
take a cruise ship or a plane,
maybe will be lucky
for the ride,
on top of a phoenix bird,
around the familiar dreamy lake.


He has tamed a wild horse.

Thank You!

“Patience is a virtue of the dead.”

Needle, thread,
stitching scars,
filling empty gap
in the chest.

Tailor of the reins
swaying wild foal,
master equestrian stance,
a castellan of all that’s undisclosed,
keys swinging around the solid belt.

The voice of reason
penetrating pensive pacing head,
bringing hope,
looking further in the distance.

Patience is a virtue of the dead,
but we wait
submerged in the water,
suspending time,
collecting precious dime
waiting for the moment
to grow the wings of fate,
through the gasping gills.

Truth is biased in each mind,
but we hold the rope together,
swinging higher with each pull.

Note escaping from the pocket
landing on the bed of wild roses,
from this note, we paint a soul,
united but as well divided,
together in the dreams and wishes
separated in ideas and expression.

Everlasting Soul.

Photo by Pars Sahin

Do bonfires work on Pandora?

Thank You!

“Circle sitting on the ground.”

My ship is not searching
for the mystical Aztec fortune,
nor do I seek the fame of Cortes.

Boat is bound
to the sunken shores of Atlantida,
and toxic lakes of Pandora,
exploring ocean floor
for the lost artifacts
of my imagination.

As I touch these shiny pearls,
static flashback,
to the childhood vision
or a dream,
showing clearing by the woods,
bonfire flames
dancing to the waves
of shaking strings.

Circle sitting on the ground,
unfamiliar faces
bond family alike yet,
singing music
talking poetry and all
to the audience of stars.

It’s not the aesthetics
of nature
that displayed
this dreamy vision in my mind.

It’s that warm and cozy
feeling it provides,
of tranquility and peace.

In these moments
created a youthful eternity
for the everlasting soul.


Photo by laura adai

What if our life is a resocialization program for the cosmic prisoners?

Thank You!

“Blooming flower on the sidewalk.”

Cosmic penitentiary,
endless rows of alien inmates
looking at the stars,
thinking of the planet
closest to the soul.

Unpassable see-through screen
separates and divides,
different races, ideologies, and crime.

Last chow,
pat on the back
from a distant relative,
sharing destiny and good-luck wishes.

No hands,
no need for cuffs,
nowhere to run or fly,
following the faceless officer
to the edge, to the place never seen
through the porthole of the cell.

Bright room,
too much light
for tired belly eyes,
floating table,
take a sit,
no such function
so will stand.

Sense of hostility, contempt,
filled the room, intoxicating filtered air,
talk of luck, last chance,
sounds like a pardon,
maybe freedom,
forgotten meaning of the word.

They inject something
into clear jelly skin,
tired eyes losing battle,
falling in the void,
so warm, is it freedom?

Bright lights piercing virgin eyes,
hands holding, wrapped in plastic,
memory deleted, a new page,
some power drawing
to the crying, smiling creature,
beating heart…

Desert Gloom.

Salakh Magamadov

As I write this poem, Salakh Magamadov, LGBTQ activist and admin of the online atheist group, has been jailed and tortured in Chechnya, Russia. He was forced to make an apology video, admitting the existence of God. The lawyer has been denied access.

If you would like to find out more about the treatment of LGBTQ in Chechnya you can watch the groundbreaking documentary “Welcome to Chechnya” by HBO.

Thank You!

“Eyes are portal to the soul.”

Oh lord,
don’t solidify my inners,
don’t imprint the mark of hate
on my face,
stop boiling my blood,
poisoning my heart.
Eyes are portal to the soul.
I need no facial expression
or hand gesticulation
to witness,
the barbaric horror
you find yourself in.

Poison burning slowly
when the law,
became the tongue of the viper,
when the maker silent
to the cry of the weak.

How is it to feel and see
no way out,
when medieval warlord wants to drink
your blood,
while ancient thieving kleptocrats
dancing on your bones?

Hell constructed,
brick by brick,
by the justice seekers,
must have failed to see
the invisible hand,
dripping evil, speaking hate.

Dear Salakh,
beautiful flower,
they try to rip you off the ground
to destroy the only color that you bring,
to the surrounding desert gloom.

Stay strong,
even if the hope runs dry,
even if the light is bleak.

As we race towards
the new medieval mess,
and prepare for sunless days
all my dreams and hopes
beg for the event
of the Ranneisance proportions,
ray of sun piercing through the grey.

King of Syracuse.

Photo by Febiyan

Birthday poem. I am not the King of Syracuse, but this poem is full of riddles, with answers unknown.

Thank You!

“Blooming flower on the sidewalk.”

Mirror mirror on the wall,
poster stuck to a wooden door,
pride left shuttered on the floor
fingers twisting the handle
of the radio below.

It’s slippery and wet
from the fallen midnight tears,
butterfingers pressing buttons
to resupply the salty liquid.

Like ocean water,
calming hallucinogenic pill
or meditation of deceit,
fools treat, spoiled meat
on the feast
of my forgotten adolescence.

Superstition, silhouettes,
playing violin and rock,
shifting heavy boulder
off my breathing chest.

Hallelujah, Syracuse,
I have arrived,
holding a golden goblet,
precious liquid spilling off the edge
as I bow and offer,
to the King who doesn’t drink,
but speaks in riddles
for the lonely widows.

Small Things.

Photo by jana müller

Everyone reaches their final harbor eventually, but has the journey been rewarding, or it just glided by?

Thank You!

“Blooming flower on the sidewalk.”

I miss the trees
that I have never seen,
my woods are lonely
metal lampposts,
on the streets of a foreign city.

I miss the time,
mirrored in the iris of my eye,
when people got drunk
on the beauty of life.

Small things,
seen as insignificant and given,
schedule, rush, and angry phone call
is the main focus of the mind,
rest is adorable decoration,
for this staged performance.

accelerator kissing floor,
pushed by the manic psychopath,
and I’m the passenger,
desperate to jump,
but leather belt
around my arm,
tying to the seat,
donating heat and gloom.

Blooming flower on the sidewalk,
how did you survive, the cold the rain,
rubber wheels and giant feet?

Spill your secrets
on my canvas,
teach me the wisdom,
of your narcosis sleep
fuddle me with the
juices of your leaf.

Car deconstructed into pieces,
driver also,
all that’s left
are the essence, soul, and music,
surrounded by the ancient woodland,
whispering astrology in my ear.

The Arab Boy.

Photo by Łukasz Łada

The story happened to me at work yesterday. He didn’t show up the next day, likely he got fired, but we warmed each other’s heart, a spark of pure goodness surrounded in the darkness.

Thank You!

“Telling me to ask all the questions that I have.”

Black pants
black shirt,
some say he’s got a dark soul,
but all I saw was
the adolescent eyes,
filled with curiosity, attraction,
pinch of fear
and burning impulse
to cross the forbidden bridge.

He takes the first step,
approaching slowly, casually,
our eyes meet,
a boost of confidence at least.

He wears no mask,
revealing the widest smile,
I answer back with joyful eyes,
squinting like a relaxing cat.

Distance meter,
maybe less,
the way he laughs
as he stops his runway show,
hinting at the large quantities
of not so fine
alcoholic beverages,
tickling the insides.

He is surprised and not,
that I figured it so fast,
telling me to ask all the questions that I have,
the mind starts working overtime,
two steps ahead and nineteen back,
then back again.

He gave up,
now doesn’t hide his intoxication,
starts telling me about his piety before,
five times a day, a gift for Allah,
but got betrayed, his sister left in shambles,
while classmates laughed at him.

He then lifts up his shirt,
brown stab wound,
like ink spillage on the painting,
a hideous, unnatural, and foreign
a defect on the sculpture.

Unconvincing story.
I read between the lines
and understand, that he is also
an aficionado of the male form,
the shame of family, a walking curse.

Then out of nowhere
he hugs me
with a hug reserved for lovers, brothers, and best friends.

I see judging eyes passing by,
I ignore the stare
and return the warmness stocked.
Close to my ear,
he whispers,
I wish you the highest
biggest and the best Jannah.

Just two people,
no politics, talking life
breathing rain,
speaking in the language of the unknown.

Ancient Beast.

It is never easy to portray yourself as weak and fragile but it is so refreshing to just let it go…

Thank You!

“I yield and take a knee.”

Stone-cold staircase
spiraling down,
illuminated by the torches
wielding dancing turquoise flame,
radiating frozen breath
that I take through the nostrils,
burning tender inner skin.

I land at the bottom
of this ancient citadel,
greeted by the heavy metal gate,
unproportionate, somewhat alien.

I try to push the frozen bars,
click of fingers, gun-like pop,
chains have fallen off the gate,
inviting the unrelenting force
of a frozen wind, crushing,
against the armor of my chest.

I yield and take a knee
to hold on to my essence
and my hair.

I lost the hair but kept the soul,
sacrifice to see beyond.

Trembling and naked,
I enter the diabolical arena covered by the black.
I taste this thick and bitter darkness,
on top of my frostnip lips.

I stretch the shaking hand,
to feel the trail, to walk the path,
but I stumble
and fall further,
even deeper in the hole,
screaming, wanting home.

As I plunge
I see the enormous set of eyes,
burning, following the bumpy trajectory
of my ragdoll body.

Centaur is hungry for the scream,
sat silently for centuries or more,
waited for his meal, featuring my weakness.

I can’t contend against this beast,
I lost my weapon, lost my pride,
frozen, laying on the stomach,
almost dead, defeated.

Those burning orange eyes
start whipping solid skin off my spine,
with a knout made of the divine
battle stallion mane.

It’s burning but it’s warming,
boiling blood and heating soul,
I feel alive, I want it more, so give it all you got,
awake me from this slumber,
you ugly ancient beast.

Eden Lily.

There are so many beautiful things that can be created if we only put a little sweat into it.

Thank You!

“It exploded like a bubble made of soap”

There is something beautiful in the distance. Some spiritual lily radiating fervor, passion. Fragile nirvana plant, cocooned by the magnetic field, with colorful electric roots fondling the invisible aura.
It’s beating, stepping closer in my direction.

Enthusiastic flower calling me at nights, I can’t digress from its virgin beauty. It’s my lily, I feel its pollen on the fingertips. I drift silently towards this treasure and touch the electric current, soft like bunnies belly.

It exploded like a bubble made of soap, fast and insignificant. I have been left alone in the total darkness now. My mind creating monsters in the corner of the eye, I try to ignore them but they hollering at me as if they know me.

I try to find a corner in this nocturnal darkness, to hide, to put my head on top of my naked thighs, and cry. I try, but tears wouldn’t flow, did I waste all the supply of this restoring liquid?

Whispering and wheezing, hissing in the language of the snake, approaching me, stretching its scrawny dying hand towards my shoulder.

I close my eyes and run. I can’t see the projection of my feet, I can’t feel the bottom of the shoe. I feel the sticky sweat raining down my neck, drop by drop it’s falling on the invisible soil, speeding my body up faster and faster, like a squirrel, like an eagle.

As I fly in this dark void, I look down to spot the ugly monsters, but instead, I see a field full of glowing lilies, with those familiar, colorful electric roots. They illuminate the surrounding void, creating Eden.