A new level

No more the stars shine bright
in the icy waters of hope
and strangely dark are the whispers
that rustled the ancient leaves
mockery of exotic memories
flagging in a mere static of a vast,uncluttered
universal mind of a sleeping baby.
One wonders what lies beyond and more
the alternate truths.
and the immaculate,absolute lies
of glistening lips and seducing
ebony eyelashes;enchanting aren't they?
myrid foxholes and closed alleys
just a flicker of my eyes
and i sense a murder,a betryal of soul.
no two pages fold exactly alike
no signs of life.no sighs.

Megalomania

The stellar heights are intimidating and so are the sacred depths.A wishbone would be helpful.The dark secrets of the ancients always facinated me.Secret societies and their facinating rituals have an allure of their own.Either this or the simple cleanliness of machines.I love huge factories as much as i love ancient castle-relics.A walkdown in the factory of my dad when i was 7 is still vivid in my mind.The place looked so beautiful in the night,with sky high roofs and lines and lines of machines.The place that looked so dead in the night would be throbbing with sounds and click-clacks in the day,throwing out stories and predictions and encapsulations and all.The smell of the ink was beautiful and i wanted to hug everyone who invented any damn machine.A world inhabited with machines seemed a perfect utopia to me back then.I have grown more selfish now.it has to be just me,me and me and the whole damn space.

Envy

I am envious of anyone who is better than me.Anyone who looks more handsome and there isn't any resemblance with me,anyone who can write better,anyone who can make music better,anyone who can invent,do math,make beautiful paintings,or have more balanced(or even more eccentric)behaviors,is like an enemy to me sometimes.Those are the moments of lunacy when i want to be ALL.they don't last long,but they do come and go.it's strange and confusing.

Look ma! No sun

Anything which is sad has no right to exist.Anything which is ugly must die,without rotting.I am in a state of mind of peace and my thoughts are destructive.The world,if I were a giant,would have been my playground and I would have loved to kick and annihilate buildings and people alike.I am tired of poetry as it seems such a waste.

The winds blow with a dead ease
a wicked calm seeps
and forever the echoes scream
a long deep well.no ends
Where are the heavens and hells
and where is Christ
hanging loosely in Gucci underwear
a passion thats wasted.
Techicolor leaves which we crumble
everyday without remorse
a large buffet is laid
without heads without thoughts
Beware my masters I am tired
and I will explode the myth
on a dreamy sunday,i'll kill you all
and never wake up from my unborn dream

I like writing bad poetry sometimes and I still can't botch it ALL.I am not displeased with it,it's just in my blood not to mutilate something completely.A sudden thought just came into my mind.What if there was no sun.There must have been life,somehow from where? I don't know but lets say there IS life and NO sun.I would be so happy.Beautiful sunless afternoons.Let people die of cold.The bodies don't smell foul when they die like that.