Melancholy pumpkins

#3 Melancholy pumpkins

Scrap these tunes, they smell of disgusting neighbour
notes as they wait near the table. They wait forever
until no one cares, they are tired and wasted just like their
mother. They pretend that it doesn’t hurt but are
slowly gaining weight, poor melancholy pumpkins.

Rhyme for money

#2 Rhyme for money

Sometimes I rhyme for money; my kisses always
free for the open hearts. In the towers of
TV stations, my signals, weak, get caught lurking,
suspended and ignored multiple frames per second.
I don’t meet anyone these days, high and dry, almost Radiohead. 

Symptoms of growth

Seriously Unimportant Series

September 8, 2012

#1 Symptoms of growth

Here’s to the ghost of ambiguous smoke rings,
no origin of divinity but gravity of swollen eyelids,
masturbating beyond recognition, the idle days
of early, mossy adulthood, greener than the slippery
exchange of stones, partly under construction.

Diving creatures

September 8, 2012

#16 Diving creatures

Exceedingly beautiful,
observations
glad you didn’t notice.
Cunning sky line
approaching
your neighbourhood clouds
and molten light,
freaking out
the creatures in their
silhouettes, diving
nose down into
the moving beams
of punctuality,
burning brilliant
in shades of emerald green,
hanging
from your window,
your face
and a synopsis
of city life.

Pride

September 4, 2012

#15 Pride

In every way
you are dimmer
every day,
no spark,
simply dead skin.
Affection knows
other worlds
to stain
and go past
midnight.
Envy your pride
in decadence,
in the eventuality of
sporadic emission
of thought bubbles
bursting into
nothingness
of a vast anomaly.
Alligators speak,
timid but confident,
snapping at
every coin tossed
at them.

As heavy as always

August 8, 2012

#14 As heavy as always

As heavy as it gets
shovel my words -
there’s nothing
sweeter than a goodbye,
nothing hollow
than these bones.
Stuck
to the tyre,
rolling on forever,
it hurts …
once
in every cycle.
The idea
breaks into
many yawns
of early risers,
unhappy
yet up every morning,
expecting
red railings
in grayscale.

Afterglow

August 5, 2012

#13 Afterglow

When they
leave behind,
their glasses empty
on soiled cotton,
tables glad that
they have left.
Only the quintet
stares,
at the cables,
lingering the melody
of a melancholy
verse. It’s beyond time
to hit the city roads,
smell the cheap nicotine
and crack jokes
primarily
to be forgotten
and repeated every day.
Beyond time
to look at each other,
in tenors and
sometimes even lower.