Under The Armor

Under The Armor

Once, I saw a man standing by a lake,

Hands by his side, dipped in ache.

His alabaster glass skin glowed blue,

confusion and regret, a heart too true,

lit only by the full moon´s light.

He looked like a deadly wounded knight.

Around his head the nimbus of black hair,

like seaweed, floating in liquid air;

moved by unseen currents of wrath.

Small fish hid there, undulating plastic trash.

I cannot forget those eyes, white and cruelly blank.

like a carcass washed unto the riverbank…

A godlike face, innocent, then scalded by waves of time,

ripped by tides of passion, molded by crime:

laughing, weeping, screaming for atonement.

… I chose him as my opponent.

 


image from Animatrix (Peter Chung)

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

Poem by my weird grandma

WHERE

(this is a part of an ongoing project, inspired by my weird and stubborn grandma)

Where were you, when I turned to stone?

when I froze, white and empty to the bone

No angel led me on my path to the throne

Now I’m queen of  pain, so leave me alone

 

Where were you, when I burned to ash?

I couldn’t stop, bleeding out in a flash

An angel led me to my bed in the trash

I called it home, my never healing gash

 

Where were you when I changed my hiccuping heart?

scavenging for happy memories, tearing time apart

A word led my blackened wings to an unwanted start

And the angel turned his back, fearing this part

 

Where were you,  when I had nowhere to turn?

when I survived those I trusted, happy to burn

to light the way into the blue, dashed and stern

how to  drown in midnights, I’m about to learn

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

blessed

blessed

nowadays I’m blessed with wrath;

a poison filled hollow, a walking skin

puffy eyes of dark, lips parched.

they part to let the shadow escape

between tiny millstones; my ivory tusks

they let it slip, grow, blossom in space,

so it ripens to a fruit,  a shape, to a world

A world where souls do not matter

Where ghosts do not exist to be found

Where dreams are meant to be dissolved

in the past that died, sharing

the future that never comes

Nowadays I’m blessed with rage divine

Like a forgotten god, a flickering demon

with a milky stare, and wet tongue

licking off tears, blood ‘n sweat

easing the wounds of a false me

Nowadays… I’m blessed…

– with frenzy.

hole in the middle

hole in the middle

wish to wish the words will flutter

in the wind of  greed and hunger,

they will whisper for lust and rage.

in the back of your cranial maze

eviscerating the tiny peculiar voices

Unsaid the matter of importance

a sin just leaving it to ignorance

certainly there’s a prize to pay.

it’s your fault if you stay….

the craving grows,

the hunger howls…

Not enough.

Never enough!

 

 

 


pic by Robert Serban, Dacian insignium / war flag