(in madness no one has a funeral!)

With the paddle through the storm
so through the head to reflect,
so through the heart to perceive;
the sea gulls aiming for heights
and pirates gulp rum in their feasts.
Oh … you…so conceited veins!
Through the blood blossoming flock…
stiff facial haired shed hot tears,
by the shore the bastards raise
the dead, courtesans spread legs
in waves, hands’ applause in fun!
It’s an old clown, who throws
up the tower from the sand’s
to see (in madness no one
has a funeral!) Are they
by chance living with the dead?
In consent, smile and weeping
have victim, and hindered sword
to freedom has been frenzied
in the hurry of Nature
to lay hands (spineless graveyard!)
While the storm shivers through eyes
oppressed. The grey face bleeds
beside the bloodstream figments,
images of the mute flow;
the city dogs are foamy.
A thirsty slayer in gold
sees Omnipotent logic.
Editor: Obinna Eruchie

C’est la Guerre, It’s the Sun and his name is Hellion.

Belgrade, in the fierce heat of the sun.

image: https://fineartamerica.com/featured/heat-transfer-andrew-kubica.html


Start dying, my dear!
start dying
you’ re not going to cry, are you?
weep and stand back
be good, my dear
What can you do?
C’est la Guerre, It’s the Sun and his name is Hellion.

You’re trapped, got frozen, grow rusty, as iron.
surrounded by other little corpses
so gentle
gentle angels
your life became about extinguished eyes,
light of death in devouring mouth
always sink down evil and heavy
a cursed figment.
And now… now mirrors have become very sensitive.


All my life I’ve been brutalized
most victim of domestic violence if you must know
my injurious torment stretch out to fullest pitch
All that is left is ashes, a trembling hand, a creature
lightning a candle, it’s artificial light, it’ s like a skin replacement

at the point of breaking.
I snap myself out of the dream
the creepy wake-up feeling
as is known to all Sleeping Beauties
It is reality, illusory, dark, terrible thing
though.. nothing but a distraction.

The sun is bringing one more misleading day
through and through venerable Saint
spewing hopes and epics for significance of living

This is deceit produced by daylight
we’ve given up dying
in the arms of the slow death of life, again,
no more than
a striking caress of maladjusted mind, a dead apostles
a drama fragment, the driving force, strings, melodies…
We are devils of our own blood
Holy kunt. You were the Bringer of Sun!
There are thousands of deities that can ensure respectable name for
a brute.
but only one hellion that bringeth good tidings,

too much for a man

who is rising in my verses

built into eye, buried fingers and many feet underground


What was that eerie sound I hear, is it the rattle and hum of innocent wind, kind and insane?
What else could it be?




No, it won’ t take long
be good, my dear
What can you do?
C’est la Guerre
C’est la Guerre
C’est la…  Guerre


Weather forecast: The coldest days are expected

Vanity on the fox’s trail, “The Darkness will understand”

Vanity on the fox’s trail
Behold, a miracle!
Supposedly one-sided at instants
Suitable for a scrambled moment
The martyr and her daughter who wash their feet
Tasseled with nails instead of sandals
Conversing silently.
Anything but sough
Shores and scrapings fantasizing
Daughter do you wish the powder to slip you
To disturb the onus, non-being and tendrils
Wistful across the stones you overcome
Blacker than night
You fear there will no longer be vertebrates
It is the third hour in the night After

from “The Darkness will understand”