Money and Media

Money and Media

Money is one sinister god I used to prayed to

Me, the kid with the broken heart and  faulty hue

Struck by the currency of freedom and power,

It’s not my  conscience, but my hands I scour

That’s me, on the day I was born, with a black halo

eager to meet my  maker,  without value or credo

In the night, I dream of  ‚never enoughs‘

I dare you, try’n grab me by my scruff

My god grants, gives, takes and demands

I refused and he took me to the  bad lands

 

I’m praying to a different god now,

That’s me, giving her my cash cow –

Me, the sinister kid with the broken briefcase

Smiling, the lens sticking into my happy fat face

promises and cash spilling out, unto the masses

This is me laughing, crawling  to a party of chances

I can’t stop the itching, watch me rehearse bigotry

Media, my goddesses, free me from human dignity


Pic: iStockphoto

poems by my weird grandma

poems by my weird grandma

VIOLETS

Violets, violets in the shadows /

let’s tell truth / if you must

violets, violets beneath the gallows /

Upon my hazel stick / I trust

turn three times in the shallow grave /

turn three times in midnight’s way

 

violets, violets in the shadows /

let’s tell truth /if you must

violets, violets beneath the gallows /

the east wind is not just a gust

the white widow bird calls from the  fir tree

seen and heard only by those, who are free.


(This is a part from an ongoing project, a series of short stories)

 

poems by my weird grandma

poems by my weird grandma

THE LITTLE THIS

 

a little this / a little that /my sweet parsley hat

big and bright / red and full with dread/

blood from a river / made into a muddy mushroom

come here lavender guest /  life always has room

 

a little this / a little that / my sweet parsley hat

sticks ’n stones / flesh ’n bones / fire  ’n fat

for the stars will  shine / nearby the rose  will chime

come here,  you boney lad / pay the ferryman the dime

 

a little this / a little that / my sweet parsley hat

cling unto the magic hour / cling like mad

song of black birds on leafs / rustling like a trick

cling unto the bright / my happy  little tick

 

a little this / a little that / my sweet parsley hat

empty that red bag / empty it from all the dead

twinkle my ivory tusk / I got  drunk on fairy mead

run faster / beat that heart / beat that snakehead

 

a little this / a little that

now I give you my parsley hat.


(This is a piece from my ongoing project, a short story, or better a bunch of short stories); pic by Author

Love, isn’t it?

Love, isn’t it?

All deadly things possess cruel beauty.

For soul, a hungry fire, consuming duty-

for eyes, charcoal and diamonds,

for voice, a guttural growl, then silence.

For skin, a hot summer night ‘n bright stars.

Light headed music oozing from cheap bars…

All deadly things possess magnetic pull.

You bite trouble, poison just a mouthful,

better you nibble, or lick…. Kiss! Try’n inhale.

Immune to that rush? Don’t worry, you’ll fail.

Tingling under your fingers, a nervous tic,

Lips on lips, teeth meeting with a click…

All deadly things make you sincere…

So greedy, so wolfish, so ready to disappear.


Pic: Love is the Beast, by ROMANS

…old enough.

…old enough.

I’m old enough, to wake up with pain,

old enough to confess my love in vain;

old enough that my opinion doesn’t count,

that I worry, an irresponsible amount…

I’m old enough to wake up with regret,

with all the small things, that make me fret.

I’m old enough, I got graying hair,

old enough that I’m soaked in despair…

It carved wrinkles into my face,

under my skin,  it took all the space…

I’m old enough to hear my dreams dying sigh

I’m old enough, my tears have run dry…

 

 


pic by author, flower seller in Funchal, Madeira

murderpoem

murderpoem

… The truth that,

my blood is black,

my heart a stone,

my face made of paper-

and you´ve rewritten me,

written all over me.

Your words

your ideas,

your damn will…

Every time you etch my skin

with your dreams…

You´ll find me quietly,

writing insane laughter,

and hot tears, silhouettes –

of rage, passion and murder.

But, if I´m not killing you…

who did I slay then?

 

 


pic: White Mask, ArtofAviya, DeviantArt