Twitter 1

Still, distill your style,
separate darnel from wheat
to eat all word weeds.
Find the essence, the pulp, the perfume,
so that words can fly.

Twitter 2

Filter your thoughts,
sieve clear, concise terms,
use the straining net, this pan.
Pen your message in the purest, finest gold.
Shine forth.


Nude pure words, the ancient ether,
in search of the dark matter.
The quintessence, what God breathed.
When you love "I love you" is enough.

Quote of the day
"I tweet, therefore my entire life has shrunk to 140 character chunks of instant event predigested gnomic wisdom. & swearing." 


GBR altar

high outspot the gods quarrel to rule,
long ago Jabal Tariq,
where two continents kiss in humid lips,
proud place in which Iberia shame lives
together with your kings, the monkeys, free,
guarding that rock, bathed in blood,
facing the ocean and the sea.
Your destiny was written
in your name.

Air gate of cultural knowledge,
flanked by two pillars
the strongest man on earth sustains.
Your perforated entrails
keep secrets from the past,
voices talking about treaties and treasons,
whispering legends
of brave heroes and mean sovereigns.

Beyond you,
Musa and Septa lie
caressed by the waves.

Spanish shieldmaiden,
willingly captive,
captivated by the perfidious giant Albion.

great British altar,
always, always plus ultra.

  ✍Quote of the day
“The sea has testified that Africa and Europe have kissed”
(Miguel el Portugués, “Poemas y canciones para el mal de amores")


Pastry & Poetry

This land is hard, sour, a bitter desert,

but I want to make the sand sweet for you, love.

I want to be your favorite dessert

and conquer your palate with my taste.

Dust to dust. Lust to lust.

A different menu every day

for I don’t want you to get bored,

a delicious dish,

a new secret recipe,

so that your tongue will look for me,

your mouth will water for my flavour,

your lips will kiss my feel


I will pass through your throat

like a crazy suck appeal.

Lick this floating island,

this meringue on crème anglaise,

a French delicacy.

Try this heart-shaped cake

so skilfully I made.

Pick up this little cherry

and enjoy its round soft core.

This pair of iced profiteroles.

This tempting crescent moon.

This great petit soufflé.

This fabulous plum cake.

The magic texture of La Pomme,

its harlequin green sphere,

its silver leaf,

the inside surprise of its ice cream.

One bite...two...three,

until you’re full

- if you’re not yet -

with my culinary creations ,

to end up

with a little touch

of black chocolate and coffee tips.

A sensual feast.

Crème de la crème.

You dans le ciel

if not already blown out to hell.

It all my pleasure

to please you, my sweet tooth.

So posh. So snob. So sooth.

You, my yummy-yum.

Me, your night dessert,

your wildberry jam,

your rich bonbon.

Hot cuisine.

  ✍Quote of the day
"A boy doesn't have to go to war to be a hero; he can say he doesn't like pie when he sees there isn't enough to go around. "
(E.W. Howe)


An Apollo, 

a penned Pollock,

a lyric Shostakovich,

with letter-strokes

he writes in abstract verse

absolute pieces, note-like syllables,

in a unique symphonic way.

Pure poetry,

say those who can’t grasp a simple concept,

but like to look as “entendus”.

Pure rubbish, say his detractors,

mindless critics, lazy public.

He mixes terms in a diabolic game,

scoring lines in rhythmical sequences,

forming musical sentences at will,

so that misconceptions can be right

and wrong at the same time,

on this one or the other hand.

A puzzle of orchestrated pieces,

a cocktail meant to inebriate the senses,

to enjoy it or make you dizzy.

A teaser one may love or hate,

but will never leave you indifferent.

Beautiful sounds,

on purpose with no specific meaning,

yet readers try to understand the inexplicable

- A bleeding cross.

- A red flower.

- A murdered X!

- Windmill blades.

- A dying dancer.

And he laughs at what they guess

for he meant...nothing.

No nays or yesses.

A may-maybe if you are lucky.

At last

a sincere someone has appeared:

- No idea what it is,

but bells are playing in my ear.

It’s not a carmen figuratum.

It’s not concrete at all.

So, so hard in its simplicity.

He plays the lyre in lyrical verses

and you may add the final touch,

using your voice to sing aloud

his magic stuff.

Try to join him

with your harp or violin.

The winner in the end…?


Abstract verse.

  ✍Quote of the day
The spirit of an age may be best expressed in the abstract ideal arts, for the spirit itself is abstract and ideal.”
(Oscar Wilde)


He's home

Strong walls his arms are, marble veins.
Steel windows his eyes, starring the sky. 
Silent floor his feet, the prophet’s gift.
Solid roof his head, painted in gray.
Safe beams his hands, ivory carved. 
Secret door his mouth, prudently shut.
Stern stairs is words, leading to the Word.
Stone pillars his legs, firm and straight.
Stylish fireplace his heart, inflamed in love.
Stable house he is, keeping still.
My strict stave.
My standing lamp. 
My supporting strut.
My stiff foundation.
No matter where we stay
he’s home to me.

  ✍Quote of the day
“Because home is where your heart is. And one heart can work wonders when it's beating strongly. And the sweet fairy tales can become true”
(Georgia Kakalopoulou)