If I was, with my imagination,
discerning through the voice the kind
or the monstrous spirit in every living being
(with whom I would converse),

That same imagination discerned me the existence,
of the unused prints of such melodious,
and yet so unloving,

Voices not yet revived,
which are yet to rush, buzz, roar and call
the dark, unexplored worlds

Threatens to suck in and pull
the fear unclear, mixed with loathing,
walking integrals made of blood, meat and malice

All of humanity towards the corpses of eons,
the polyphony of murmurs,
screams, roars

From the purple mouth of the Dark,
creaming, maddened medusas
with horse necks and with bodies of the bull. . .

Who scratched the disc of Dark,
who flipped the pages of the atlas of Death
who, hungry for red meat,

Search and grab,
swallow, storm, crush with their feet
bodies dismembered and the transcript of antique nostalgia

Dedicated to the wiccans and the undead,
on the slopes the pierced the grounds,
like forks into soft meat

Stretching far above the tips of malicious temples.
as well as Belobog proposes to the Boogey,

With her scary face and open jaws with no teeth.
Hercules searching for Persephone,
but, the drama one, not the lyrical one!

When the sky is bloated with gray clouds,
and the rain does not drip drops,
but bubbles like cursed membranes….

Did they have faces?
even if they did, those would be dark curves of circles
in Nothingness itself.

Tzap, poof, abracadabra, doo!

The bravery of authentic existence is a choice.

The poet is the one whose mind and heart are puzzled over things, many of them gave up.

The poet, as the last Mohican, with his art, connects immortal to mortal, in the garden of the separating paths.

The poet suggests that the beauty of the spirit of the only permanent value in relation to which everything else does not matter. It never dies and the only shining at all times
as the moonlight that with its splendour breaks the blackness of the night.

Even when it sees the dark, and when surrounded by darkness, the poet offers light.
His poems are a conscious choice by which the poet moves the boundaries of the darkness pushing him out of his world glittering path to anyone who wants to see and do not tap in the dark.

Poems are prayers with which the poet boldly breaks false, dormant peace calling for awakening and liberation from grotesque characters whose zombie-like existence kills the liveliness of art and spiritual creation.

In the rousing kiss of the poetry,  the creator is ready to play their life convinced that only the beauty of pure artistic expression can win perversion.

Through the depth of their poems of which will not give up the poet shows that the bravery of authentic existence is a choice.

The poem must be an impeccably solid structure. It must be – solid.
The poem is a work of art. And the act must be closed in itself. This must be impeccable.

The one verse in the poem has several blind streets, signposts and goals than a writer ever succeeds to create a dozen pages.


The star-shaped polygon

Let’s see behind the disease, dementia, raptures

The star-shaped polygon

Is the manifestation of our sensibility

Of images of all the teachers and relatives

Who stole the follies of our will

at the end of our search for insight, trust, and compassion

Let’s strengthen our bewildering defences

Let’s rule Dantesque inferno

Let’s preserve our mysterious secrets

To be gentle but persistently questioning yourself

Towards the futurity


Its fluid.. time of chaos and madness?

Apart from misinterpreting, did I just say that out loud?

Not just the emergence theory of odds and ends

As one devil of a long time crouches in the shadow

Made by the cybernetic for the sake of lust a fornicator

Quite different from pornos no class pimp

What does he know about pain, haha

While taking apart our new vertebrae

Azazel rolls back his eyes, the better to see us with,

Fiddling with our scorched spine

He survives, he processes, he adapts, he metabolizes.

The light – brown spirit is the last little turd

In infinite brilliance

While his inner worm of

Lust is devouring and tearing him up

He will eventually become

Plain, gelatinous turkey

Just one last forlorn wish

To  float eternally,  out – of – body – experience

In a never-ending chain, very much out of the way.


No meat, no tears, no rotten teeth,

No frog’ s breath,

No decaying holes,

No sweat secretion,

No wrecked drops of self, ever!

Just cold cold floating turkey lingering

in Time and Space