1. a bird to pick my brains
    to help me understand 
    the origin of this rage

     

  2. Love will be…

    a tickle between my neurons 
    a word teasing my taste buds
    Silk over and around my finger tips
    70% cacao to my nostrils 
    autumn to my eyes 
    Winter by Vivaldi to my ears 

     

  3. Randomly on purpose

    There are ideas
    hunting my nerves;
    carving each bump
    after each goosebumps felt.
    Hunting my nerves.
    Carving each goosebumps felt.
    Hunting and carving.
    Hunting and carving?
    My word selection process
      pushes me over the edge;
    hunters bare guns in their hands,
    sculptors bare chisels in theirs.
    I am both: the killer, the artist.
    I am neither as well;
    I’m merely a writer 
    allowing a killer and a writer 
                    some room on this spread.  
     

     

  4. Thrift shop book

    I sit here and I wonder 
    as I read this heavy book
    why did you highlight 
           what you highlighted? 
    why did those phrases
           resonate? 
    I sit here and I wonder 
    as I read these heavy words 
    do they have a connection?
    are there echoes of what was lived?
    I sit here and I ponder 
    as I examine every word

     

  5. They say we are all taking up an adventure
    All I know is the end of my road is inevitable
    I might have to walk for miles or metters
    all I want is not having to go on by myself
    I don’t know why I can’t let love in
    I’d like to understand the reason why my heart beats

     

  6. I had no idea

    sidewalks were still used

     

  7. After the shooting

    And what happened next?

    Well, everything was silent
    we both went our ways.

     

  8. Dexterous this child is
    at holding a cigar between his index and his thumb
    ripples of smoke fly across today´s print
    what will tomorrow’s bees feast upon?
    today’s nourishment has been malnourished  

     

  9. To the rhythm of blues

    Your hips
    Leading my hands
    East and west
    I feel your breasts
    Pressed against my chest
    Our lips are close
    Your hands are closer
    Our eyes shut tight
    Our breathing synchronised

     

  10. Why would we fight?

    Those who believe are blind
    Those who don’t believe are heartless 
    And the enemy will always lack eyes
    and will have already sold his heart

     

  11. A Rain Forest
    His heart
    A Bulldozer
    yours
    future comes

     

  12. art Gallery

    Concepts are hung on walls, displayed on shelves, deliberately placed on the floor. Maybe we should all be dead. There are no people to avoid; it’s early in the afternoon. As I look around I pretend to marvel as my eyes meet the photographies of an artist whose pseudonym I will, for no reason, keep secret. Green trees. Windows. Love-seats. Lamps. No people. I retreat myself from the edge of an abyss to meet a blimp which direction leads to a day of a previous August. I saw that day’s projection in between two neon lights intending to illuminate the gallery midday; They did, however, illuminate a portion of my memories. We said plenty of things back then, we did a great number as well. It was a happy birthday, now it is just another anniversary.    

     

  13. Motif

    If there are thoughts we should control
    Mine ran away some days ago

    If there are ways to keep on sight
    Mine are nowhere to be found

    I am crooked tree
    My branches chosen to hang swings

     

  14. A lawyer’s work

    Waves of spring flodded a crisp white coloured meadow
    -Fairness fails to meassure its presence often-
    said the now-colourful meadow’s lawyer
    -if we were to give each season what each deserved-
    Kept the lawyer on going
    -we would allow winter’s white to stay
    We would push spring’s colourful shades away
    Since the blue hue conquering today’s atmosphere
    Does not mach the tone of any flower, not even on a petal
    Therefore
    I beg to delay
    The biryh of a season
    Whose beauty would go unnoticed-

     

  15. Tanka #1

    mortars cracking down my bones;
    marrowless bone dust,
    off it goes along the wind.