25 09 2018

It took me so long, brother. So long but I finally found you – in a smile, in a wink, in a twinkle in those stormy eyes.



Spaces of silence

3 08 2018

Spaces of silence – are deafeningly quiet on this Thursday afternoon. There’s a banging sense of calm in my head, bouncing off the walls of my skull, ripping through arteries and tearing at nerve endings in my brain.

Breaths come short and shallow. Oxygenated is something I’m not. It’s like the walls are closing in, pressing against my skin with their transparent, silent, firm, and suffocating touch. How do other people survive life in this wasteland? How do they breathe once all the air’s gone, sucked out of this negative space?

Underwater – but only in thoughts. Drowning in a sea of anti-matter, deep and dark like the ocean. Head’s spinning with an empty sense of panic, and there’s nothing, nothing, nothing… to catch you when you fall.

We all crash, all the time. On pavements never dreamed, on surfaces never seen, felt, or heard of. But we still do, we still crash, we still suffer and suffocate and…

There’s something quiet about the fall. There’s something silent on the other side of pain. There’s something unsettling about the void, something that lurks in the depths below… We know not who we are after dusk, who we become once the night falls and our feral, hidden selves go running through the streets, dodging dirty, orange stains left on the pavement by crooked rows of old street lamps.

We all hide in the shadows. We all sleep through the dawn; the reckoning, the purifying waves of light that leave us speechless, scared, and barely functional.

I won’t tell you anything anymore. I won’t open the shutters for anyone.

Some of us were meant to live in the shadows. Some things were never meant to see the light of day.


The grind

31 07 2018

Keep saying my name until the morning light breaks
Keep saying my name until I break on your edges
Keep saying and swaying and straying
On the other side of a million edges
Far beyond the quiet of the morning
Light that seeps in through half-closed curtains
Golden like the summer and rose-tinted
In the budding urbain noir
That forgot its grim getup for a day
And exchanged doom for another mood
Another glow, another life, another self.

We were just messing around
In the gentle light –
Painting with colours of words
And touches, melting away as the
Hours passed us by, turning into days
Turning into time that flows below
The suffocating fumes of the Styx
And finds better valleys beyond
The thousands deaths we die every day.

Because every day’s a burden
If you let it pull you closer
To the point where your heart stops beating
And you become but a spike in the statistics
Of others, as life ticks away
It ticks on
For the metronome never fails to click,
Even when words fail you, it is very much
Business as usual in the urban jungle.

Even when the numbers don’t add up,
Even when you’re on the other side of boredom,
Chewing your lips and praying for a quiet death,
Even when the clichés slowly gnaw away at your bones
And leave you half empty under an ocean of fear,
It is anxiety that makes you feel vaguely alive
And it is your misery
That makes you click into place in this weird
Planetarium of red dwarfs and other dead stars.

You conform
You conform and it’s all over.
You’re a beat of a metronome
A click in a dozen
A spark stomped out
By the feet of the crowd
Breathlessly trying to make it to work
On time
Like time meant anything to them anymore!

Time’s just the number of work days left
Before you die
And the papers you’ll have to sign
The nappies you change
The shopping lists you write
The holidays you take
– But only to Spain,
or maybe Tunis –
And the same cold body
You fuck every night
With boredom and indifference
Fit for the funeral of a distant relative.
Cousins, twice removed.

This is the urban life –
Oh, my friend, this is the dream!
But only if you never peek beyond the horizons
But only if you play it safe
But only if you let your spark go out
Before we could set the world on fire.

Before you would leave this little room.


Autumn skies

22 07 2018

There’s something lazy about the morning glow
About the cords tangling under his table in a mess of
Blues and blacks
About the way he looks at you through half-glazed eyes
– Greys drunk with the fizzling yellows and oranges of the morning.

His lean, pale body splayed over a sea of graphite covers
As a feathered hat sleeps its heavy sleep under the table
Cluttered in pieces of a life.

He plays. He’s an artists with a passion, a hunger for life
And heavy hands that would fix anything if there were
Enough hours in a day for him to get around to it.

But I sit by his side.
I sit by his side and tell him to stop, to stop
Living vicariously through other people. Because
His life can be greater than all of theirs, fuller and
More meaningful than the mental checklists that
Held him captive for such a while.

In life, we forget to do things. We miss appointments
Then turn up to others that were never made at all,
Stepping off the platform and into the carriage
Of a last train that has no destination

Just overnight cabins, beds and Tiffany lamps,
And a murder on the Orient Express
That never quite gets old
However many times we stab ourselves in the back
Or let others do the same for us.

There’s light on the other end
But only after death
And if we only take a breath and submerge into the intoxicating
Rot of life
Only then do we die a death worth living for.

It’s an autumn song.

One that plays in my head.

About two lovers and the great loneliness of those who see beyond the curtain

Of bronze-rimmed, golden leaves

And watch the horizon burn

In a mix of reds, yellows, and golds,

Setting the land on fire –

Swallowing the Sun.

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5 07 2018

It’s a scarlet kind of night – somehow everything seems to be made of velvet. Somehow everything seems to give off an ominous glow. The lights, the glimmers, the mirrors on the ceiling; they all make me deeply unsettled as we step on stage and the music skips an octave, just to settle into an unfamiliar rhythm.

You hold me by the wrist. Still, steady, and a bit freaked, you laugh into my face and spin me around under the sickly glow. Macabre – is all that crosses my mind as I lean into your chest, just for a split second. Jagged shards of intimacy run under my skin, slashing at the tendrils below. I don’t want to dance. Not with you, anyway.

But we spin and you touch me in ways I never wanted to be touched.

I let you. I want this to hurt, I need, need, need to feel something. Anything. Anything at all. You need to hurt me and I need to be hurt – this is not a kiss. It’s a bloodbath. I taste it when we kiss and you do too; a hand locks around my throat as you bang my head against the closest wall.

There’s a split second of silence, and then it bursts out of me. Pearls of laughter roll every which way as I melt into your iron grip, shaking with excitement and joy, blind drunk with adrenaline. You look at me with hungry, hungry eyes. Empty, black, and hollow. Not much has changed, after all.

That night we rip each other apart. For a minute, it’s almost something – but it never really is, apart from a list of awful excuses and pills that melt under your tongue as we kiss. I once swore I’d never do anything I can’t be the best at and you still do drugs so much better than I ever could.

You go pale white for a moment as it kicks in and I bathe in your sickly glow. You’ve always been my yellowish, cracked streetlamp of a Moon, hovering over my head like the ghost of past sorrows and aches. You’re every time my mommy hit me. You’re every time my daddy left. You alone sustain my sickness and I can’t get enough of your nauseating, creamy aura of decay.

Darling, what has become of us?

When all is said and done – you whisper into my ear –, there’s still the quiet mercy of death.


Védett: Thorn crowns

5 07 2018

Ez a tartalom jelszóval védett, megtekintéséhez alul meg kell adni a jelszót:


4 07 2018

He never changes – not in ways that matter, anyway. He’s still got his crooked smile, careful manners, and that silky half-whisper that nests in your ear and caresses the small of your back.

Have you missed me?

Every day. But that’s something you could never, ever, tell him.


He stares for a while, looks you up and down with a clever twinkle in his dark green eyes, searching for signs of fear, of falsehoods, of time.

You look like there’s something you’d like to say.

But you shake your head, gently, staring into your drink with such quiet stoicism that he leans forward and rests a palm on your thigh.

Forever in between an apology and a heartfelt fuck you. That’s my girl.

Was your girl.

Does it matter?

Does it? There’s no telling where the lines are anymore – drawn in the sand, they’ve been swept away by his pale, gentle hands.

We slide. Just for a while but we do, staring quietly into the flame of a lonely candle casting shadows in the room.

It’s been 10 years.

Feels like yesterday.

And then there’s silence. Just silence. Soft, and sweet, and maybe a bit loaded for a Wednesday night. But it holds the moment together, pushes me into my chair and draws out the sensation as he touches my hair gently and smiles.

We remain – silent, and present, and very, very still.