Holly bush

Holly bush, holly bush,
make me feel joy
in red blooms.
Holly bush, holly bush,
my fingers bleed
with your pricks.
Holly bush, holly bush,
you fend off
witches and ghosts.
Holly bush, holly bush,
protect my home
from lightning strikes.
Holly bush, holly bush,
sweet Christ's thorn,
His cross wood.
Holly bush, holly bush,
male needs female
to look good.
Holly bush, holly bush,
you feed
thrushes and blackbirds.
Holly bush, holly bush,
poisonous berries
for all men.
Holly bush, holly bush,
making chess pieces
and walking sticks.
Holly bush, holly bush,
your pure white flowers
adorn the spring.
Holly bush, holly bush
your sticky bark
trap poor birds.
Holly bush, holly bush,
Christmas coming
in your boughs.
Billy Bush, Billy Bush,
you make me feel

✍Quote of the day
"Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, but which will bloom most constantly?"
(Emily Bronte)


The monster within

control your instincts while awake,
man, tame yourself
for the beast is free while dreaming.

- Sleep, sugar.

The lion roars.
The wolf shows his teeth
among alcohol vapors,
tobacco fumes,
sexual incense.
The creature's secreting cold milk.
That grimace cut in marble,
that facial laxity,
that curling on the upper lip.
Only the quiet night witnesses 
your most intimate secrets.
Wet white linen.
Unconscious tears.
Twisted limbs.
The moon's made you her prisoner,
her unconscious slave.
Let your nightmares flow,
hunt you, catch you.
Cry out in despair.
The Sandman's not there!

Afraid of your own nature, man?
Who can blame you for being mortal...?
Feel no remorse
for all creatures have got a dark side
they can't get rid of.

Till dawn,
in his wild territory,
while his tired master's lying,
man's monster is free.
(Weak Samson, 
your wicked lover's waiting
in the dark to get your whole strength)

In front of the mirror, man,
before inventing romantic verses,
mind that salty reminder of saliva,
that dry gunk , those green boogies
in the corner of your eyes,
and thank God for your pure soul,
for that running water,
for that mystic soap.
Shave your filth.
Save yourself
from the monster within.

"Toned & Sexy
using shake weight",
says TV  
in the dining-room.
A young yawning woman 
stretching herself.
Smiles. Muscles. Masks on.

once more under control.
Dust to dust. The world is safe.
The poet's up.

✍Quotes of the day
- "Being unconscious is the ultimate disability."
(Jessa Gamble)
- “There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure."
(Charles Dickens, "Oliver Twist")


Dirt helps flowers grow

Behind the toilet door
romanticism has got a hard way
to go 
among human aromas,
happy relief
and pathetic noises.
For God allows diarrhea
as well as amorous sighs,
and spirits should poo 
perfumed songs
Satan tries to emulate in vain.
Hell is full of assholes.

In the toilet
all carnal truth is revealed
in raw reality, in decayed flesh.
(In the other room
mom celebrates her baby's stool)

Holes. Breath. Sweat.
Humanity stinks.

But...sometimes the poet
- poets poo and pee too,
same as Popes, same as Kings -
sitting there to console himself,
finds deep inspiration
to fight his pain,
his daily frustrations
in such an absurd place.
Trousers down,
he misses his pen
to fill the paper roll
with ethereal verses
while tears of joy
soften the crucial moment.
How would his dear Emily
look in these circumstances?
"Thou, my everlasting rose."
"Thy perfume inebriates my senses."
Her pale face would turn red
with constipation.
Would love resist this vision...?
"Thy queef maketh me sick."
The thought tortures his soul.
Rotten written,
inspirational fact 
in total solitude.
What a waste of rhymes!
So sad.
So productive.
So and so.

Voilá, Rodin's Penseur!

Poetry, same as God.
can be found everywhere,
even hidden in such a putrid room
where anonymous profanities
adorn the door. Shame on you!
The poor poet always trying to escape.
Toot tones. Toot tunes.
He envisions his lover like incense sweet.
Love's lavender spray.

"Flush when finished, please."

Public angels.
Private beasts.

✍Quote of the day
My spirits soar on high, 
Inebriated with thoughts so pure.
I now can fly, 
Nothing is obscure.
Spiritual healing is taking place, 
As I rise to heavens realms.
Beams of joy cover my face, 
Nothing can me overwhelm.
I have seen the heavens gates, 
Beautiful light paves the way, 
Music sweet to soul and ear, 
I have nothing more to say. 
(George Bernard Shaw, "A Dream")


The shot

A future slowly
painted in passing clouds,
lying on cosy lawn
he sees a life blessed with happiness:
kiss smelling roses,
his girl in wedding white
and children coming, growing up
along the years. 
Heart  smiles in lips
drawing the beautiful curve
of ignorant innocence.
A black flying flock
diameters the sun towards the north...
The dangerous border, 
the wall's not high enough for wings.

Noon. Hunger. Mom calls.
Clouds fade away with his dreams.
A short walk to the door.
An eternity in between.
The unknown enemy.
A shot not meant for him.
Sometimes angels close their eyes.

What did it gain? Nothing.
What did it kill? All.

Bullets can't reach eagles,
only their nests.

✍Quote of the day
"Finishing a book is just like you took a child out in the back yard and shot it.”
 (Truman Capote)



Inspired in Ingmar Bergman's "The Seventh Seal"

Knight and death.
Let's play chess.
Chase your queen
before she fails.
Dressed in black
the plague spreads.
Pray and penitence.
The cross of Christ.
The  cry of the child.
Guilty innocence
for foolish afraid.
Lust forgives,
drink to forget.

Life is acting
along the way.
In milk and fruit
simplicity smiles.
The chalice redeems
in familiar peace.

- I will never forget.

Peals of thunder,
trumpets awake.
The macabre dance.
The exhausting crusade.

- God, speak to me!

Can't see the devil
in the witch in flames.
Ghosts and anguish.
The squire's got
his feet on the earth.
Beauty's mute, sir.
The infinite beach
where actors are safe.
Fear the blow
of the sickle blade.
Who to blame
when no blood is shed?
Husband and wife
meet as strangers
after a decade.

- Can see you in your eyes.

Fay or faith?
You can't escape.
Eternal silence...
are heavens empty?
Night and day
wanting to believe.


Who wins the game...?

✍Quote of the day
"I was afraid of this enormous emptiness, but my personal view is that when we die, we die, and we go from a state of something to a state of absolute nothingness; and I don’t believe for a second that there’s anything above or beyond or anything like that; and this makes me enormously secure."
(Ingmar Bergman)