I still remember that first sunrise
That you shot at me like a deadly glance.
Oh, you are vanilla sweet and wise,
I listen to your history and dance.

Now you wait for me
With your premature spring;
I look up and see -
Green is a good thing

Because you smell of color green:
Of some forbidden grass and wet leaves,
Steamy passions and spleen
Of thunderstorms that the sky heaves.

Mister Twain was more than right,
You are a southern belle or beau
Wrapped in blossoms, a fine sight.
Wonder why my answer is a "no".


Berlin, the Beautiful*

Going to Berlin
Wearing hopes in my hair
Chills on my skin
A promising affair

I know there is a man out there
With a white hat on dark waves
Guitar music for a low fare
And sometimes he misbehaves

We'd sit by the Spree
Because our dreams are warm rivers
Too cold for Wannsee
Please... don't send the shivers

He'd write a new melody
Heard in my eyes
Score written on my body
That readily flies

I'd make up some awkward lines
On a sheet of blue sky
A transparent poem that combines
My sigh and a nice try

There is a place for museums in this city
High-brow culture at the zenith of fame
Our twosome is art, too, mad and guilty
It's a moving sculpture of a flame

*cultural references intended


What if

What if you land on my shoulder

Like a wind-blown petal

On white linen or a towel,

Leaving your shadow on my skin

For a couple of seconds

While the pollen would stay forever?


What if you land on my lips

Like a cold raindrop

On a humid summer day,

Long enough to give me the taste

Of clouds and heavenly spheres,

Not enough to still my thirst?


What if you land on my mind

Like a little bird

That chirps about wondrous forests,

Miraculous trees of life and death

And nests for secret lovers;

The winged one would fly away,

Its songs – a lasting sound of thoughts,

Though never reason enough

For the bird to turn around.

Plucking from a Phoenix

Do broken flower stems
Strangle the blossoms beneath?
Do hidden or lost gems
Have  sharp and wounding teeth?

Do bleeding animals
Attack the weaker lot?
Do falling petals
Make the grass rot?

But when we have fallen on the ground
And chunks of our souls cannot be found,
Why do we pluck the feathers
Of the birds inside of others?
A loving heart is not a phoenix,
Its clock of forgiveness ticks.

On Tornados and Sprouts

Silence before storms, they say,
And silence afterwards, I feel.
I wish the tornado would stay,
At least the madness is real.

Grey dullness stops the growth of branches,
Buds of inspiration remain tight;
I need extremes and avalanches,
A blazing day, a freezing night.

Leaves of juicy, splashy pulp,
Shaken off and carried away,
Fierce, raw emotions engulf
My creative sprouts and play...

The bruises may be sour,
Licking them could burn my tongue
Even at the very hour
Of creatively playing along.

Their Eyes

When I look through their eyes,
I see more than my usual tale,
Uncover hidden fantasies and lies.
Trying to fight back - I fail.

Eat fear of truth like daily bread,
Bury myself in a romantic world
Where daydreams and fancy are fed
With a fork and sometimes - a sword.

Imagination is both shelter and pain,
A dangerous escape to a foreign land
That I desperately long for in vain:
The irrational cannot be foreseen or planned.

Getting lost is a part of the game;
The only way out is their sober eyes.
Take a glance - I'm not the same,
This time, a worldly rule applies.


Give me the purification
Of the marine air and whiteness of yachts,
My love of the sea is glorification,
Holier than ecstatic vows and oaths.

I create idols of seashells and sand;
Each prayer is a roar of waves
That stroke the humid piece of land,
Eating cliffs, scooping caves.

Salty breeze clears the mind,
Pushes through, permeates the limbs.
If that hurts, I don't mind,
The pain will leave with the winds.

And the rest is just a wreath
Of seaweed, soft and clingy,
Adorning my breasts and beneath.
Memories alone are stingy.

The Train Station

train stations smell like farewell
in the color of chilly morning air
seems like everyone manages so well
why couldn't I just calmly stare?

our way here felt like two weeks
those twenty minutes must have been a delusion
is it raining on my cheeks?
tastes like salty water - surely pollution



Blooming lilac! Out of breath...
Why so soon, you fool!
Storms will bring you death,
The wind is too cool.

Five-petal lucky charms
Won't make you immortal;
Blossoms in your arms -
The weakness of a mortal.

- We better die in reckless bloom,
In seductive sunbeams and flirting breeze,
Only to meet our bittersweet doom.
The perfume will never wither or freeze.

11/16/2010: II

Hastily, nervously, hurriedly,
I found my way through nail polish.
Eye shadow and perfume, accordingly.
A house inside of me to demolish.

Those bricks will fall on the ground
For me to tread them down on my way;
I'll listen to every frightening sound,
But I will depart, arrive, and stay.

The scent of night mingled with edt,
Internal ruins were set in gothic dark,
Yet we will kiss and drink tea,
You'll smile and make a foolish remark.


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