Lane (es’es)
two-faced mirror
inside a deaf room,
lurking, geminus,
broad like a fox-ed tongue
or of a daily atoll
recoiling from monochrome chaos en route –
hollow be thy callousness

among us is a scar –
c-section in January
immersing our day in monochrome beams
which you assemble and reverse in-
to masks
shadowing our own taut steps
needing song
lonely’s ghosts
dialogues that work

and then
(O probrecitas) what
are we going to do,
with you beyond us
beside us inside us
masks barking day and night
with knowledge and vixened arts
from obscure tunnels in hidden rooms,
to celebrate…

marriage (’20 – ’21)
of Shion and Pseudologoi
sets-adrift in pensive voice
commands for a tree-headed dog
to snarl by theory
about how shadows lurk in empty shelves

ask me, strangers!

ascend, January, ascend!

and to begin (backs
arched) the dogs stopped barking…

Things I Do to Survive


Along the catacombs

surrounded by whirlwinds of dread

and howls of the killed

and the slaughtered and ready for testing.

– for in the final phase,

Some try to resist, an unplanned,

human, nature-provided ability

To shift focus and fear for the bare sense.

The optical ability enhances,

images of merry demons

A smiling dance around the iris.

The main phase then ensues,

upon the rapid degradation

of potential to maintain one’s own

I and in this struggle, the eyes expand,

bulging in fear,

staring at the monster,

the shifted human form

which has the same countenance,

but shaded and bloodied with lack of feelings,

whose disgusting, dry mouth opened and

utter the Kafkian judgment

This is where the compilation comes

of several entities

pretending to be friends, godsisters and neighbors

in one singular entity,

hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind –

and the following sudden departure of a loving being

comes in, a being that uttered a judgment

out of nowhere,

using the nature-given freedom of MAN to think,

to use a flaw in its mind map,

each to his own moral metrics and laws of fidelity,

The universal reality consisted of

no more than a handful of cigarette buds

and other than rage at the impotent God

who punishes the good and awards the weak,

something that cannot be known,

but merely believed,

It was soft, hiding spot

The ship of illusions that friendship was possible.

I owe you moments of bliss.

Whenever entering my head, with roots, the wind,

the breath of tropical sun,

I struggle to survive my friends, godsisters and neighbors

in one singular entity,

hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind.

to go in pairs and be bound to a pack,

somewhere out there, on the edge of the lost world,

its monstrosity, but also its shininess,

None will notice it gone, or even as having existed.

The light and shadow play will merge with the vile contours of envy.

doubt and shame,

A haze, a wave in my thoughts,

a vortex where they wallow

in whirlpools and abysses of the deeps

A vision of a lunatic,

a nightmare with a hundred thousand deaths.

Obsession with fear.

An attack of the innocents,

A finger of fantasy pointed at them, listed their names.

a battle not to disembark the ship of illusions

And when they stick a knife in your back,

Everything moans in bliss.

The cowardly lack of will of the people

to stand up against the dictatorship of the benefactor

And peddled at their flaws – I am trying to survive!

To barely get by

a mass of people, conventional shoulder-patting,

well-intentioned advice from good people

Soft, muddy picture,

Then the image comes into focus

and a zoom-in of someone’s eyes.

Then the eyes spoke with fiery passion

and that would last for ten seconds

or so on a movie screen.

From the upper corner an unseen ghostly hand

recording what is happening in the writing on the wall

holds a great feast, and drinks from the vessels

that had been looted in the destruction of the First Temple. ..

The terrified Belshazzar calls for his wise men,

But they are unable to read the writing.

Everyone who ever hated me,

eating sandwiches and sewing leather jackets

that I pay on a loan,

Then all of the things in leather, I cannot even recall all of it.

They filled my suitcase, set aside my things

in it as if they were laying

my corpse in a sarcophagus.

(Who are these people?

How come there are so many good intentions in this… )

This is where the separation begins.

The tearing to pieces.

The introduction of chaos.

The whirlwinds in the devil’s plan

from whose monstrosity I shiver even

now when I don’t give a damn.

Photo Credit: “The Struggle Within”, Igor Morski

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Endlessly burnishing wildflowers

Endlessly burnishing wildflowers
forgotten by splattered times

of bloodless slaughterer’s design.

Waking souls lulled to long days’ sleep,

forced to steal robbed dreams endlessly

till winter freezes them to sleep.

In effect cut short dreams harden

frightfully, the nights frightfully

seem as long as winter in length.

Frenzied paced yelling, to end put

lightning in its excited place

awakening death’s silent scream.

Immortalized storms are forming

under the bitten tongue, they then

secretively bloom shade with sense.

From hiding you to dodge the knife,

no choice with the merit for me

to have ‘tween green eyes and brown eyes.

Knighted enemies eye alone

like Kings of the Night, shimmered like

white foot soldiers woefully,

heroic scream of blue lightning

pride’s flashes animatedly,

whoosing beasts move to foil its growl.

Hollering his disenchantment

steadfastly pitted against his,

bows to the trek’s will’s end at peace.

As those viewed in deathly silence,

perched like prey’s birds on the hilltop,

will stand still in the dragon’s sound.

There is no realm of pure meaning today!

My God, dead, but yet quick!

Death in itselfand Words above the world – a burning bead,

a heated hollow and a cry of fear.

Photo Credit:”The Great Red Dragon and The Woman Clothed In the Sun”

This Beggar’s Night

Like night, like death
be quiet, be apparition
grew near the nether region, from copper wires
at the bottom of the river, from the roots of the water
this wrath’s thrown to the ground
and brings a revolver to the temple
this anger defiled by isotherm primitiveness
this hunger of green blood; this night;
these combat boots, all horseshoes buried in the spine,
with breasts parted to the womb
this .. bumpy night; this night, this burping vampire
this …
a brothel night from the past
this caesarean section from the uterus of things
this desire for a world that is spit out;
four walls and a bastard, all that fever
and all around, emptiness, in the mud, among the pigs
through the seventh hole at the end of the flute
through rotten rags of sputum
this beggar fell into the mud quite fresh;
this night; this impossibility of light; her rotten rags
stained with violent shadows
her shod shoes – like open cemeteries
We buried her in that toga pulla and it’s all mud, and here are the rooms –
by which the brains in semidarkness rot.
these old scars, rebled
they did not spring in fear and trembling
They let Evil sing with owned words

Measuring life like measuring death
boiling wax from the nostrils of an enraged angel
a mountain that does not call upon god
but on Hamlet’s waiting.

Smoke and puking, a saturnine gob
muttering phosphorus
from fiery insomnia.
Firefly. Bursting. Eternally in existence


The motion of slanderer. The devil’s work. Letters.

Wild and born from vestal fire
Terribly undefiled
And born of a glitter of sand

The Devil’s tongue bubbled below the Eden tree
aserpent itself with a childlike wonder.
It listens listens

And quiet sleep and a quiet dream
with a grim black
to the bitter end, to the dust, in a lifetime, before waking up,
only for some breed of men
who put night time monsters in this simulacrum
Brought a voyeur into Awakening

and all our wicked and lucid appetite for useless life
With loss of Sight, who here is an Earthling, a
and who an extraterrestrial

From hell, from heaven, hieromonk apostate
yester morn us, And afterwards proclaims us blind
And when I jot them all down,

I will await my trial, I the spirit who follows her fate
as if it were the fate of an avenger,
my head on a stump, the only given possibility.

A dissonant interval. Music banging in the dark.
A calm before the storm.
Then all of the scribblings, those in my treasure chest
as well as my head, will be swallowed by flames.
Then I shall sing from the ashes and embrace the walls
as I burn half-spoken

Both the light and shadow,
both whirlpools and abysses
of the deeps, merge with vile contours of envy.

Fearless, doubtful shame wallow in dunghill
In the edge of the lost world,
none shall hear the truth, its monstrosity,
but also its shininess

Unto Innocence cry lies the reverberation
by the slanderers burnt in
Through all our mazes of Ire and Fire,

An attack of the innocents,
a finger of fantasy pointed at dire events
to avengeance a discord of (thy) listed names.

The honourable citizenry slandered.
and the quill’s wounds scream
These eyes of mine get me to the windowsill,
while sweat drips onto the dark maps
in my enraged cranium and the ink spills.

For it is all written. Their claims.
In my sleep
Irritant, gluttonous tongue of the serpent
to craft a tangled state, to down with this living man
through the scales of slander, and those letters…
oh, such letters!

For all, it had done and for all hast not done
That I did a mightier service to stumbling block and weep
of something magnified, nesting nowhere in my spirit,

for it appeared in the clearest,
nigh-apathetic shape based on true love I once felt

And in those letters I openly,
helplessly and naively checked all
…through words and pictures
opened the tense mind, through the heart, stabbed
As leans in crawling pincer

A beastly howl of the desperate,
undiminished, swim through the similes
But said Prowler of the Desert:

” Picture Cupid dipping arrowheads
in phenylethylamine. It is poison,
to undergo the mournful shades?
Why is thy sight pedestal on the top of earthly kingdoms,
a Carpenter – Shephard, crowned ruler of all artists,
The hell is this damn wooden bench!
Two massive bits glued together and a piece of plywood…
…plywood in the middle like a cork!”

Among the mournful, mutilated shades?
Anything but lights, carpenter’s fashion as a guide,
Consider, if to count Apostles be pipe players
did a ditty

for numerous books in a single passage,
a secret of that slanderer trash whispering
behind the scenes, with a filthy rag
and uttered verdict, razor-sharp.

Observing through eyes unseen,
that silence tears through applaud,
at times shrugs and as if shaking
of a stone, then like exhaling in pain,
The motion of slanderer.
The devil’s work


Lye thus unpitying kingdom crushed
offered up as a REPLACEMENT does,
Perun himself spoke to me,
or an Arab Djinn of sorts
I got the Serbian and Arabian war gods mixed up.

Seizing the first
Seizing the second, distorted drunks downing that final glass…
of poison.

– If only plastered cinnamon and rose perfume onto her moustache- it’s cold, even for the disconsolate when lifeless living
clenched a thiyab al-mounadamah…

or whatever robe of striking colours,
seized with its claws.
if robbed by a mysterious fever,

hardened backs bent, scared and careful
of the impending knife strike,
like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.

as if those of drunks downing that final glass…
an option

And now the moon errands in the doomy pit
Behold Dat and Dis, the wicked spirits
galloped back through time
moon teeth corrupt to their roots and bloody..

Too well I blind and rue the stare at me
with a flaming eye.
Aflame in anger.
The moon has nothing to do with it.

That with sad, enormous chunks of time
Has lost us blocking the thorough research of vile

By right of Irre, diabolical actions,
By right of Slime, rash must go behind
By right of War, taken out insidiously
By right of a lipstick-wearing actor, taken out comically.

By right of treacheries, idiocies, taken out vigorously
From fell to fell descended Iscariot’s slanders
to set asag – disease of the benign red shores.
Strongly to enumerate a hysterical wretches
in muck of mud and blood –

In horrible destruction only impurity essences
The hours of night taking away a restful pistol
my bullets are ready, my drawers are gone

House of Freaks

I went towards the timeless ocean of temporality,
to the very beginning, on the shores
of cursed waters where dead faces grinned

Speak will I not of the terror I saw upon the rough-hewn coast
may evil see you, black tooth bite you
and fume its pungent breath into your soul –
they pull my sleeve, pull me with them,
as I scream and fling stones at them,
and whichever I reach out for, they kick it hard,
and this lasted for a while, until they fled.


As is the circle that gone around this heat
I walk like a sleepwalker, through memories.
who may they be, they whose violence can’t be undone, like filth
which nature makes all roundabout in this sick land?

Whose land is this?
The witch smacked her hands together,
demons came out of her evil eye,
and I woke up, seeing it as round and round as the sun.
A dark glow was white in the newly-born day.


Here she is. Cathedral front porch.
The Gilded Angel, the entrance hidden
the hour’s missing
under the golden light
and with the body of cherubim


I do not want to enter damn thing,
but facing the cruel world in the beast,
fear came over me, it swore at me insanely
and gave me a smack on the cheek.


While I quivered terrified on the accusing wind,
and at one moment stopped,
lost in the light
of the merciless machine which kept chugging,
non-stop, looking at me vengefully, demanding more…
my skin is sensitive, it will not endure this.


Perchance evokes from its lofty perches
aflame in anger in House of Freaks
time is ticking. Space dying,
on display for carnival patrons
step warriors clad in leather armour, their axes bloodied
with a wicked howl of the wind
More and more near approaching
human chicken tarred and feathered
“We accept you, we accept you”

It took my hand and got me in.

Look. The sign is crookedly placed!
in front of the church!
all of this clowning around,
this house
this wire
this fleur-de-lis
all of this is wrong,
instances inscribes threatening riddles
forcing a finger into the joke
above the shield
a royal crown, with church gates shut!

Where, where are you taking me…
what misfortune is this?!

Perfect enemy/Prayer

“Perfection is the enemy of good”, Voltaire

Take from our minds
the mist has strewed
and let us sung the piety dew
that stood and costs.
all away.

for sad storm spare the morning skies
in oh, so, a voice both calm and shook
and let our foaming winter fall
and hear the beauty
of the birds that call perfection

is an enemy.

… thy beauty of thy dishevelled lost
take them, hear them, strike them
vessels of fraud,
fly away,
let anyone’s revenge fear.
lo, mount the stairs to the boiling pond.
the fringe the cringe, breathe through

And out of the great rage
make the balm floam from
innocent’s fleece
persist til tongue was black at drill.
let sweeping rain numb sobbing wind
let shire of cloudlet a pen-and-ink
speak through the luckless wight
The terror-stricken itch
within the fire which blood fatigues
o still, so the voice of calm
Take out from our souls
vroom and grace in triumph
no worst there are nails downward
the middle state between – self – illusion
Had long consumed shot
More speech will not, nor fire fangs sheer and
frightful waves, to give relief of
the heart, the heart dissimilar no well then
lull pitched grief and
dwell in cheap shell
fathomed by whirlwind spere
of tympanites in captivity
life differs from his commentators,
end death and
Of forgers semblance
In the echoing day
each day comforts to our sleep.

Sing and fight us
through our terrible lives
of satires obscured on the martial ground
My gods heave, murmuring, beards long
a name to fury had shrieked
a name to
ages cursed with crowned liver
delighted with immortality
Prometheus, I feel your liver
stretch wide the lips of immortal fire
Eaten daily the amorous bread.

As I have come into a dust bowl
With phantoms
yet dripping church moorings
with a cypress hate to weep
let the gentlest voice to game deprived
to burn upon night-foundered infamy

freed mind by this latter
humankind’s nothings
the infamy, on this side of attenuated corners
lies a portion of the penance

Take from our signet
divine, music, philosophy
incontinence, all distempered advances
of humankind enlarged prostate

and let us fight goodness with perfection

for sad storm spare the morning skies
in oh, so, a voice both calm and shook
and let our foaming winter fall
and hear the beauty
of the birds that call perfection

is an enemy.

and let us fight goodness with perfection
to rebehold thoroughly learnt
false note
sung by profound chimaera
as the vile misfortunes,
Behold the worm and huddle
in the cruelties committed
the spectacle of humanity
of smoking ashes

and let us fight goodness with perfection,

The conclusion
smote, begin
and that is
But existing (time) vanity
perforce the perfection
who has, and gives
still redundancy.
And that is perfect.

Recovering Empath of Narcissistic Abuse – The Core of Evil

“They are pure demons from hell sent on assignment to destroy human mankind or turn beautiful souls into apathetic monsters like themselves”

When you come to the core of evil you will find nothing – paraphrasing Thomas Aquinas

Tia Collins, RN, Psych, Recovering Empath of Narcissistic Abuse

BIG BIG MISTAKE. You are voluntarily and intentionally throwing yourself to a den of one huge hungry lion.

To expose a narcissist is like forcefully snatching the “security blanket” from a baby. For the Narcissist this security blanket Is called “The Mask”..This can frighten the Narc to the core, bc they DON’T want you to see who they really are..While you may feel justified in frightening a Narc, it’s not wise, because they are very dangerous..They can be unpredictable and won’t hesitate to do the unthinkable.

The Narc may see this exposure as a threat or perceive it as a “Narcissistic Injury”..This May cause the Narc to begin to rage(Narcissistic rage)…If this happens RUNNNNN AND DONT LOOK BACK. The Narc can go to the extreme of abusing you physically, verbally, and emotionally. Like a hungry lion, he would attempt to tear you apart without hesitation.


The witch grandmother song

Not far from the witch grandmother song
nymphomaniac and satan
In the cloud of thought, the voice and the body merge.
who wanted death
to the grandmother of north-eastern Siberia?

I could not dream
because I was never awake
I couldn’t believe it
because I knew I could not stand
what I saw I felt, with experience

Just like you will thank me
for I will not bring
my story
my life
Tell me: thank you for that.

Because we do not go through the minefields.
that does not concern us
complete innocence is not among the martyrs
but between the oppressors and the suspicious faces.

A red vigilance spills
scars that are stuck inside.
and collected at a point
that will blink deep inside of me
the only thing more perfect than a poem

Until the water went out
I washed my blood and stones crowned
In my name
and I’m there
and one – no.

Now that´s what I call a threat! (the excerpts from my semi-fictional autobiography, Inscriptions in the darkness, Intro…), inspired by true events and characters

I will translate this demonic inscription in all the world’s languages because I want to at least post this to them on the internet, for them to see, a part of the inscriptions in the darkness, for them to see that I am still alive and kicking. Hurry up, I tell myself, hurry, make it tonight, to the first crack of dawn. I have to do something, all of the dinosaurs resting in me, being revived in that final clench of humanity for me to trick them, to expose them to all humans to see.

Before I kill them all.

I will kill them and this shitty cage will be torn down. The cage they put me in.

Fighting them is impossible. Their world survives, their red eyes are aflame with a glow of a killer’s sword. They chop off heads, eat limbs, and all of it together, as per a deal. They are so well organized that they shit and piss on us, they cut us, so-called normal people, us who also shit, puke, get disgusted, moralize, read Plato, shake after what they do to us, fall to pieces – and they do not stop. But we shit, moralize and read Plato like humans. Not like a…

A cult.


How many are there? Hold on, let me count them. Five. Maybe more. They network…I don’t know. Let me see… Maybe three. Does it matter? They count. They know the exact number. They know how many of us men remain on this earth. They come for all of us. I…

When they die, maybe there is some hope for humanity.

Tonight, around 1AM, somewhere in Arizona on an online platform Seven Teacups a consultant awaits for me after I told him, a few days ago with a howl nobody could hear, that I would end it all in order for him to convince me that I should live, and I have been preparing to tell him this story and I know that, just like my mother, even with his professional upbringing, he will tell me – Do it… Terrified, stunned.

Nobody would believe me, nobody will believe me. Not even him, because is it really possible to believe it?

Let’s go.


They mold us. When they are done, they use us as manufacturing material, they stuff the remains of our mind in canned food. This way they change the genetic structure of the Chosen Ones. Scientists! Scorpions! One living human system upon another – they transfer the universal genetic code, they intertwine hereditary material of pure, living instinct and submit to it friendship, love, affection, and humanity.

Then they group themselves in chains, they synthesize their stinking fluids of ancient origins in human genes. Thus a gene of wickedness is made.


Of their method, wherein he helped me, in part, to work it out, that it is about a particular type of implanting self-possession which is dictated by a trigger, like a revolver trigger which tears down every cell of the HUMAN IMMUNE system.

It is a corpse – a scientist said, former gravedigger, long gone. Or maybe even turned. At any rate, one morning all trace of him was lost.