‘in the madhouse a man kisses the walls

and dreams of sailboating down some

cool Nile’

I have this book open at page 93.

I don’t know why.

It could have been another page

even another book.

if it belongs here


should you consider

finding a knife

and begin carving the letters

of the thing of tomorrow

on that table in front of you

we are all arms around the world

and we share the flesh

and it’s going to be hard to explain

why bukowski decided to write

‘the dark is empty;

most of our heroes have been


it is opposite of the page: part II

of his book Burning in Water

Drowning in Flame

was he dissatisfied with the idols

that humanity has been able to cough up so far

was he frustrated with the incomplete answers

that savants have left after more than

2500 years

we are left in the dark

as to the reason he decided to title

part 3 of that book:

At Terror Street
and Agony Way

imagine writing

‘it was a splendid way in Spring

and outside we could hear the birds

that hadn’t been killed

by the smog’

as a subtitle to your third chapter

was he implying

that it’s a miracle

that the morning is not stained

with our mumbling

that the evening is not polluted

with our parades


the last page

the last three lines

state unequivocally

I will never understand men

but I have lived

it through







we need to talk

anti poetry

I don’t love you, poetry.
I’m filing for divorce,
don’t know what happened
we met on the streets
I could not resist her
and now I cannot come back
to you.
Her name? does it even matter?
Oh she’s commonplace, boring
in fact. But she’s straightforward,
ubiquitous, and superficial.
It’s plain reality, chewing gum,
being hungover, to laugh.
It’s paying for bus ticket,
putting on socks, turning
in bed. It’s blinking, jerking
off, bruising a finger, the
smell of burnt toast.
I’m sorry, poetry.
I loved you once,
but today I have
bad breath, indigestion
and a disheveled beard.
I just need to read about
bombs, dollar vs euro,
I need to google:
3-day weather forecast.
It’s going to be alright,
life goes on, we’ll look
back on all our bliss
with a dry smile.
Let’s not make it any harder,
I gotta go out and
buy some cheap wine,
be alone, yeah
be alone.




dumb poet

It is no hard task
to sit with a book
& glass of wine
all night
waiting perchance
the end of all events;
patiently becoming
dumber by the words
and wiser by the wine;
serene and slumberous
in the certainty
that all things will perish
today, next morning
or in a thousand years.

Poetry Blog

black wine

Wine Poetry 2011

I have closed my eyes.

In a mouthful of wine
the afternoons like throngs of mice
running hungry and wild down the gullet of
my absent body.

I taste in a nook of wine
oblivion- as a room
where existence breeds
in orgies of secret (and sweet)
mechanisms and laws.

It is all there with bubbles and stain.

My eyes are shut.

The coasts of my routine
full of drunk mist…
the departure – a breath – as a gust
of feeble constellations.

The sip.
Abrasive but fleeting.
Like the burn of a glimpse of sun.

My eyes are melting in black wine
while I drag the contours
of the untouchable world
into the invisibility of my sleep.



Poetry 2011

from the urinal

pee poem

I’m a starry sky
staring down a urinal
yellow piss
but isn’t it cute enough
to be a golden stream of light?
I have a nose, mirror!
it’s sticking out my fucking face
I’m ruined
the candle is going out
and there is so much more drink
to saturate the clouds of my eyes
I’m at a part
ending this exercise
of absolution
chirp, chirp
a tongue on the roofs,
I have a fantasy
you see,
wet, damp like the grass
or the epiphany of flight
my lungs are tired
a mouthful of beer
to exist
and in some room,
to sleep.

Absurd (Drunken) Poetry

town drunk

Artist beer drinking

It feels good
not being an artist
no language to impress
philosophical thoughts on cheese
a bit guilty of the next beer
depleting bank account

it feels good
to walk on snow
so crisp and pure
drinking the next beer
getting drunk
and all the rest

it feels good
to see the snow
my cold breath
dunking beers
and all the rest

if feels good
to have left Berlin
now just a town drunk
not even a





busy living

reality hallway

No reality,
reality does not satisfy me
and it hasn’t tried hard enough
to sugar me up
I need alcohol
to soften the rough edges
of futility
I need chemicals
to inebriate the chemicals
of my brain
only then
is reality
I can


Modern Poetry

at risk

Drunk Nihilistic Poet

I had to be prepared for anything,
I knew well my predicament
of being the embodiment of some rebellion
without a cause, or possibly,
a very vague one,
I was set to play this role
till the curtain of my life
would set and finally be able to rest
from such a demanding performance;
nonetheless, I had to be prepared for anything
this urgency to be sporadic, risky and insane
would take me tonight into another dark alley
another hidden hour in the middle of the night,
wherever I would end, I had to be ready
since I had no choice
but to follow through with the command
of fate,
even while I see the strings over my head
puppeteering me to go here or do that
I cannot resist
for the strength of the strings is greater
than my awareness of them,
so I bid farewell
I leave into the end of the night,
as you could say,
to the disfigured events of nighttime
the ghastly stars
the only witnesses
to my rampant


contemporary poetry

Nothing ever happens (Part 3)

Bar Poetry

At last, alone
a new bar
quietly staring
at the incongruities
of a Friday night.
A whole sofa for myself
noise and smoke
chaos in small doses
— slowly letting the booze
sink in
as I begin to feel
like an invincible dragon
ready to scorch the night
in one terrible yawn
of boredom.
Not much later
I got up and headed home
to drown
whatever was left of this life
in the substance of

nihilistic poetry