Slaughtered kittens in a cold machine

the smell of slaughtered kittens,

their copper innocence,

their soft wails for affection.

being cold in the old car of a stranger,

going somewhere you don’t want to be.

this metal skelleton of our world,

it wails from its hinges,

it bleeds at the seems,

it tears my heart away,

my heart was outwards anyway.

yet, I wait.

yet, we all wait.

Blinded by the dark

I only learned to catch the hidden

I only trained to hear the slaughter

I only know to watch it happen

to the human kind.

and what is human left, it sits quietly

it moves honestly

it unravels in simple steps, but not

to the hunters of the dephts

of a Story.

There is nothing more sad than being

blinded by the dark and humid mark

of only knowing how to see

that which is not human

that which is destructive

that which is not for the beauty of life.

Don’t let yourself blinded by

the gruesome delight of being higher

than everyone else in the corner of

self pity and insight,

bitterness with no light

to be held.


While there is beauty in complexity,

not always beauty needs to be complex.

You are not a story.

Your worth is not the intricacy of the narration.

You do not have to follow the line of the story.

not everything needs to mean something.

Sometimes, things can just be.

Sometimes, it is simple.

Sometimes, it is boring.

Sometimes, you can take life as it is.

Hands of an old hag

I’ve got the hand of an old hag,

crumpled skin, dry as a rug

let out in the rain

to wait for the sun,

for too many times.

And still

I reach with my fingers between stars,

my ruthless electrodes

shock wave, after shock wave, after shock wave.

I touch the dark between their fragile light,

I bite the rays of cold from afar,

checking for gold.

why don’t I see their shinning

won’t warm any side of this earth?

Just like little match girl,

I light them up before my eyes

and dream of better lives,

while digging with my toes in fresh dirt.

Why do I let them see

I’ve got my matches and the cold

when they were only asking

for a smoke,

a sterile flavour of the fire

that could never warm.

Illuminated stars,

they walk like Mars

and speak as Hermes would

of noble deeds and feel good

fairytales and set the mood

for kindless strings

and careless binds

you try, and try them, although

you should know they’d never hold

no matter how confident and bold

you step on them.

you’re not an acrobat,

but an old hag

with starry eyes,

cold hands and prayers in the night.

Exit sign for the blind

I’ve never left you a way

out of my truth,

I’ve never really opened

any door for you

Blind people shouldn’t guide the blind

to find the right path

through the woods

of their mind.

Every time we meet

I draw for you

an Exit sign.

Every time, a new one.

I set you free, I set you free

and you don’t see

I’m willing to be kind.

Outside of your eye, I am a sideglance

I am a sideglance,

a point outside of your line.

I now steal back my stare and dance

outside of your eye.

I now gouge out my soul

and run back on the stairs

of tiresome weariness.

I so, so wanna rest

and cover my eyelids

in peaceful, feathery darkness

and not see anyone.

I now run wildly with my choice

and leave behind the restless toy

that was my mind.

I run with reckless joy,

just for a while.


I paint,

I do it every day.

I slap a splash of sticky, yellow paint

onto your face,

and I believe myself

to be the frail

child in disgrace.

All of your faces, suns and mirrors

of my own,

I see through sour waves of

vapours, woods-

the rainbow of my moods.

I paint again,

I do it every single day,

‘cause otherwise,

how would I know

what in the world

I feel today?

A bucket of water from hell

Drawing the tail of the letter J is like

dragging a bucket of water from hell

today, like a mouth of hot air,

sizzling hair and a well

of scissors in my hands.

I don’t know else but being

drawn to this drowning bet,

or if it’s fear what I’m pretending

not to feel. It’s nothing, yet.

It’s a missed step on a steep staircase,

a breath drawn out of you when hearing

the screeching loops, an old cassette…

certainly Human, I forget

how should I walk, again?

Then, try to hold my lines together,

I want to make them end.

I want to let them rage and blend

instead, I witness and witstand.

He seldom laughed his true laugh

Trying to dip my words into this water,

Still as a glass, dark as a fountain,

Knots of

Ink-smelling thoughts everywhere.

I am a worm

Under the grave

Of a brave-hearted clown.

He tried to spell the truth to a town

Of people who smiled at the smile painted under his eyes,

Yet lips fell still when he seldom laughed

His true laugh.

The jokes and trembling dancing moves were

The disguise

In the steps of Cassandra, there he lies,

As only half

He was deceit,

And half was wise.

Glory whore

Children high on steroids of the mind

and body kind,

We’re sent into the world

only prepared to solve

the task at hand,

given command,

Never to ask,

Never to understand.

We turbo into this expectation fuelled joy,

nobody wins

with only wins in thoughts.

We only want our muscles to extend

The end, contract and bend

the way we’re taught we should.

we power through, we grind, we hussle

just like our mocked ancestors would,

only with eyes glued in delusion

and lies of ego to the Self

that we know more, we’re more,

we are the core, the peak and the end,

How we ignore!

The dent is there,

the glory wore.