Dragonfly dragonfly
with wings blue as the day
give me back my childhood
the heart and a ghost of love
take me back to those days of insanity

whatever is at child’s hand reaching
innocence, fallen at last
pitiless love to salivate my drawn-out days
seven wonders and more… more
with time to reconcile

There was a time each day was replete with splashy colours.
we gathered together to fly afar, above.
in the waters of our golden streams.
There was a time when you sang a song
the beautiful kiss of our precious dreams.

There was a time I dreamed a dream
Of a pool of light where rising sun sleep;
where no woman weeps
no friend’s betrayed
so, we met again and again

Seasons passed with a malice wearing silence
like a wicked thief in his wolverine gallop
I played on my own accord for a year or two
but swift enough to return to the shores of my childhood,
against time-worn pompous carrion

But flew he did! No pure drop of ta – land!
I fell at my feet as I were dead
a little dancer I never knew – a flower called peace and innocence
the missing, old age dump enemy.

The ice of prime survived my pain
the impressionable fall into the pit of pleasure-seeker.
so charm is all, but doomed and burdened call to find
the happiness on earth where happiness thrives

By all means, still, I hoped always be found
and I howled to the undisturbed tides, torn

“Give me back my dragonfly!!”

Somewhere there you held my soul
to hold me close as I grow old
and I knew that I was dying for so long
and I knew I was going to regret…

… that you never let me touch you
My unfulfilled love.

The confession of a prisoner

If, when walking this city B.,
while moonwalking in its inverted glory
all I can see in my blinded sight is red fibre like
the resplendent body of blood dawn
the soil hardened overnight,
teeth chattering, and great dark clouds ran across
the threatening skyscrapers
and piled on snow falling in the form of slosh.
such a music… like myriads of bell towers,

You call me names, like… humdrum deaf prisoner
you may leave a tiny Tim poem to posterity,
like she swallowed a handful of ecstasy and that
she imagines all of this happening in a roomful of mirrors – numerous
Slime’s books in a single passage,
a secret of that trash whispering behind the scenes
Of Slime’s city, there is no place to get to

Still, I keep walking
Along with endless noise of impossibility,
bemused faeces and insane homeless people,
their fingers numb in the wind, extending their hands.

After so many years, only impurity, enormous chunks of
time blocking the thorough research of vile and
concrete, diabolical actions, the trash behind the curtains is
part of the show, taken out secretly and insidiously by a
lipstick-wearing actor.
So many treacheries, idiocies, drives to criticize me, destroy me, I,

I…I totally matter!

So I paint its portrait, feverishly shaking
A tyranny of the gut, this and nothing else.
The drunkenness of hate, this and… whatever other
mad souls think
the day in the day of chronicle
of irritations
that will forever remain silent,
Unfortunate in its own way,
dragging other boring grey days with it.

One written page, one bullet fired,
one rebellion squashed,
one decree.
Beyond the veil of blazing sullenness
Time is ticking. Space dying,
Loud, empty, but their eyes do not match their grinning teeth.

I become a stumbling cave dweller surrounded
by whirlwinds of dread and howls of the killed
and the slaughtered and ready for testing.

This is how a soul starts getting vile
a replica of an ancient corpse stumbling about caves.
with hidden knives, they were taught to use
to pick the victim’s innermost
layers of brain cutting their cingulum, with pleasure.
a hellish butcher with bloodthirsty pleasure
craves blood,
reading all of my innermost desires and fears

Inside was a real-life zombie land – wrinkled faces, pale as if robbed by a mysterious fever, hardened backs bent, scared and careful of the impending knife strike, like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.

Not a single NOBODY.
Nobody and somebody.
Nobody there.
All is Nobody and Somebody.
Knotted in

Like those birds forever trapped mid-air,
shot with an arrow of the final reaper on earth.
The old Gods are dying of laughter,
Either the asylum or the sword remains.

Winter idyll

Blow blow winter wind
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
wild-eddying swirl in her sharpened face
and, bleached, fresh buds of white hiding place
moving on softly line to line

The half-stripped trees and this pale air
hides hills and woods, river and heaven,
I, zip my farm at the end of the garden.
winter idyll.

I agree there is some sweetness in its white cruelty
so, maybe one day it will be
a beautiful place
Until then, the echo is still
devoured by a frosty meadow languor
Perhaps one day it will be
such wonderland place
Until then,
a crisp of winter’s night’s
coated in white shirt sewn from a black cut.