Kiss Me

A cigarette halfway burnt,

Tom Wait’s Kiss Me on replay,

An empty glass readied for its destiny,

A mouth still dry,

A decision to pour myself some cheap ice-cold whiskey, soothing an old soul,

A tired body and a sour back.


An old pen next to a forgotten book,

A look at the ring I keep in that hand,

As it swiftly brushed onto that pen, escorting it through a maze of memories of a writer.


A lone red rose was arranged.


The right music,

The right person,

A little wind coming from the window, touching the back of my neck, reminding me a little of your lips,

The sunlight lighting on the couch where I wished you’d be,

It was yet another Sunday; lazy, calm, but enjoyable, even if a little scary at times.

But I still managed to put some words down, I did try to write you, try and describe you.

But with each word I put down, I felt I was less basic, too poetic and criminally dishonest;


A familiar scent,

A haunting feeling,

A dance, some tears,

Fear and laughter,

Stories, a cup of coffee, a cigarette and more music.

I was helpless, unforgivingly unjust.

I could not write love, write about love, so I will write for you, and this is for you …


I felt like this is the best of ways to try and describe you.

I told them all I’m a writer, I claim that I am one but I am not;

I am more of a story teller at times,

I enjoy discribing life, and then telling the stories I’ve witnessed to the people I know,

All in the hope that one day, people will talk about me, tell some stories about me.

All in the hope that one day, you would tell these stories about me, about us.

I would tell you about my life, work, family,

I would tell you how I failed to write you,

I would tell you how I am falling for you deeper by the day,

I would tell you how I loved your earrings,

I would tell you that I loved how you wore them one day later,

You knew I noticed, and you still wear them.


This is how I been trying to write you.

Not the easiest at times, I must admit. It carries me away, onto a small journey on a trip of memories with you, how we met, how we came to expect of things. It was beautiful


As the best of stories that end up writing our lives, are the ones you never expect.


That’s how it starts, and for each piece I ever write for you, a red rose.



The Monster, The Singer, The Poet…

It was full moon when we all gathered as a bunch of strangers around a fire; we told the stories of old, we played the music we loved, we imagined the world as ours. And as the smoke from burning wood and burning tobacco and weed filled the air around us, the eventual burnt ashes flew in the air, laying some light on a stranger’s face, and what a face …

Through the rare, unsatisfying but brilliant stroke of light that landed on her face from the fire that separated us, I could see her hair flowing with the wind, making her scent haunting the fire itself and passing it through the flames to me. While she just sat there singing her own music; her music was what would rise to glory when you are reminded of an instrument, it was not the acoustics of her guitar, nor the improvised wooden drum, not even the sound of nature itself, not the men singing nor the women singing, here music was everything and above everything.

Her voice, her smile and her eyes…  everything about her hammered me to the ground, I couldn’t move. The writer in me ran riot in my head, the lover in me failed to hide that smile, the monster in me wanted her all mine, the singer in me was inspired, the stranger in me felt all lonely without her, the poet in me already wrote this poem, the real me just listened … and listened … forever, as the air blew a handful of leaves to the ground, and the burnt wood cracked a little by little as if nature itself acknowledged her beauty, putting all its forces into escorting her sound.

She simply described everything about us, never dictated a single sound upon us; we chose to fall in love with her, we chose our own feelings, our own sounds … she satisfied every single man around that fire, and every single woman.

She smiled at me, flipped her hair, and I let her go…

And Then She Smiled

She brilliantly abducted everyone at a blink of an eye; she was the memory every man in that room dwelled upon, the future each of them wanted. He saw her walking in, like the only moving element from a still picture, perfectly painted, perfectly written. He for once took his mask off, step-by-step walked toward her, and they simply danced, as if he was dancing with murder, one sweet murder.

No longer the man of old, no longer the masked writer writing sceneries of lovers, he became the lover, while they all watched, while they all became the writers.


… And then she smiled

The Death Of A Poet

The sweetness of the morning upon the water as I row just before sunrise toward the shores; the exquisite smell of the earth at dawn, the smell of leaves and flowers of the wood, the sound of waves breaking on sea-rocks. It all conquered the stillness of her hair, the sounds of regret, pain, anger and anguish.

The memory of her tears managing to find their way past her eyes, and the way she looked at me and just smiled at me, the way I saw her rise to breathe, and then walk away; it all haunted me.


Today as I walk past that seashore, I cannot but remember the scene that morning, the only scene I fail to describe. She stole the real poet in me that day, hid it someplace where only she knew what it meant to be evil; as I am he who knew what it was to be evil, I was evil.


She’s the only woman that I failed to describe; so I’ll leave you with that for now

The Lover In Him

As I looked at love from my rear view mirror, driving to my car’s speed limit,

I simply roamed the world, providing others with the freedom of the lust I lacked.

My face managed to peak into that sight from time to time,

And there she sat with a different man; she whom I too loved unlike the rest.

She sat there undisturbed,

Holding up in her hand what has the character of a mirror, while her eyes glanced back from it;

Glanced as she sat, inviting none and denying none,

But I swear,

And I swear I could feel her eyes smiling at me.


That moment I was no longer the lover of old;

Underneath these possessions of words that never failed,

Cracks now revealed persuasion of lovers, curses,

Gasps of dying laughter of a young man, and an accent of haste that now defined my life.


I thought I changed, but what makes your heart beat a little faster,

What makes us all tremble and shake while smiling,

What makes us all grab onto life a little harder,

It never truly changed in me.


What was needed for me to write the world on one page,

And sing the world with one melody was suddenly satisfied;

Her scent reaching the back of my neck,

The sound of her heart beating a little faster…

It all brought back the all but dead lover in me.

So here I am, writing the world,

And I swear,

And I swear I could feel her eyes smiling at me.


From the landscape of water or from the exquisite apparition of the sky, or even from the company, it was a recipe for a night that reminded me of what I lacked, and the journey that could not fail, but failed.

We all felt immortal; the present and the past, we were everything about that night.

She will always be what lacks in every other woman I know…


They say the magic of souls is by those inaudible words of the earth, and when we undertake to tell the best of all souls, we find at times that we cannot;

Our breath would not be equivalent to our lust,

Our words would not live up to the story

And our music would simply not do us well.


I swear I see what is better than be told, it is always to leave the best untold.

Unfound Lover

He, less guarded than ever,

Danced silently to the chants and music of the livings,

Strumming the memory of her beauty.

He, exposed and possessed,

Roamed a world of faith that never balks.

He, alone, carried the most charming of all women through time,

And time alone is without flaw;


She was the poet in him, the writer and the painter in him,

She was the lover, the passionate and the hater in him,

She was the monster in every song he sang,

In every laugh he laughed,

In every dream he had.

She was divine to him, and has grown out of him, and may grow out of him still.

It is not her who gives life to her beauty; it is him who gives life to her beauty.


But she, there in every soul he crossed a path with, never seemed to exist. He looked for her in every drop of ink he shed, in every note he played, every smile he shared with a stranger, every sip of wine he sipped.

She was a monster in the making, a monster of his own creation, fed more and more by his own lust.


They say time alone is without flaw; he created what time is to life, and he is yet to find her.

The evading memory of a young love

Rooms are full of her smell, shelves are crowded with her scent; I breathe the fragrance myself, know it, like it and want it. I miss it… this would intoxicate me also, but, I shall not let it in.

This is not a perfume; this atmosphere has nothing to do with her perfume, it actually has no taste at all, it is odorless, it is only for me to forever acknowledge, it is what I am in love with, my own little secret, and I am mad for it to be in contact with me.


Only the shore and dark colored sea rocks, have witnessed what I am carrying around of inspiration -The beating of a heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, a few kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around the arms. The play of shine and shade around her hair, helped by the breezing wind, eddying what words were echoed by my voice- while we escaped the full moon thrill, playing the song of the rising, where the sun eventually meets the sky.


I still remember… it is the evading memory of a young love, a painting now dry, old, unseen and unknown.

The vast composer

The sound of my shipwreck guns loudly,

The moonlight glazing the razory icy water, uncovering drifting pieces of wood.

Water was too cold; I should have never anchored here.

I tried and sneaked a look where my ship was heading;

I could hear the burst and howls growing fainter and fainter.


I had no options, but to give up on all of this. But in time, while my eyes were ceasing, I found myself closer to the land along a scattered crowd; not one was washed to land alive. I spent the night picking up what was left, laying them in rows just under the dark.

When the sun finally hit my face, I could see that I was only a reflection of reflections of all those faces I helped around the mud, dragged, chained by the ankle, detained from running, detained from escaping, and equally as lifeless.


My plan was always to try and roam around, search for some kind of a living. And as I walked apparent city after another, block after another, my hopes were kept high with the scenery of a few walls drawn on by what seemed to be recently human. But all I found were phantoms singing chords left by vast composers, formless, free and sound, seeding sleepless creatures at the shaded cities, and lifeless creatures at the lightened cities, with a proud music of storms blasting free across cardboard buildings and cardboard streets; whistling a strong hum of vastness and death.


Then there he was, and out of nowhere, he just struck my eyes; while black drops of paint soothed all around the floor at his feet, he kept on drawing pictures of familiar faces, of the world I still remember from where I come, of what turned out to be some imaginary masterpieces, made out of scattered desire.

As I walked toward him, nothing but my footsteps were to be heard through the calmness of his world; he took a glance at me, and started walking away as if I was the black snake of the old moaning world. I was well capable of following him, but I was detained by his work as it turned out to be formed all on a huge piece of cardboard, on top of walls where pictures of naked men and women at war were carved deep, now forgotten, hidden and unseen; Pictures of countless phantoms standing around an immerging woman with blood all over her face, standing right next to the body of her son, shouting: “Go ahead! Dig up our king’s coffin! Unwrap it from its grave-clothes, set it up, and glue those bones that will not stay. Clap that skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull”


It was my actual world on that wall, where disgrace and pain always hung on our souls, where unnecessary wars and fights were nothing but a statue of stain in an irrelevant time. Where we were nothing but disregarded cardboard faces in a big cardboard city; they own our lives, and we will be able to hide for so long before they harvest us for the souls we have left behind.

As for him, he’s nothing but the vast composer we fail to see, he’s but the server of our thoughts, the creator of our world; creating the place where we come to accept what a shame of a truth we are.




The image of the woman moaning her son, is a paragraph taken off a piece written by me. “click here, or on the ( ) in the paragraph to go to the related work”.
inspired by Walt Whitman.

Him, the end of a story

This is the end of a road for a Story Teller, the best of them all, one i was lucky enough to know. before you read this one out, and in case you haven’t read the earlier part “Him“, i suggest you do so first.


When there are no more memories of heroes, and when all life and all souls of a man is discharged from a part of the earth, then only shall a soul, or the idea of a soul be discharged of the earth. And for I am the sworn witness of the dauntless soul that is raging with a flash of defiance, I shall tell you the story of the man left in him;


While the perfect story teller of once, was still failing to let go of an unanswered pride, telling the stories of a younger man, perfectly crafted in every crack on his face, the scaffold was set, and his soul was readied. Only blind witnesses handcuffed by their fake pride, and strapped to their feet with lead-balls made of their own will, were to sit there watching and waiting for their unnamed hero to pass onto other spheres.

To him, the only variant was the length of those gaps in every story, all those silenced moments between every word, every justified extended breath of his.


Unlike the apparent, perfectly hidden to most, this ancient banner -now barely holding- is still alive in him,

The perfect story teller is still alive in him,

All diversity, war, beginning, and now ending is still vocal in him.


The cause is asleep, but the strongest throat chocking in blood strongly standing, is the proof of a race, where the dispute over a soul ends.



The show passes, all does well,

The great speakers are exiled, they lie in distant lands,

The story will rest untold,

Those written words will never be read,

Nothing will change.

And life goes on …

As he managed himself around the maze of keys way past midnight, the joy of unlocking his door and making it home after a long day of the usual life, was overwhelming; although on this occasion, it was hardly convincing. The first thing on his mind was earning some sleep and rest, but between him and his bed stood a bunch of stairs, that never seemed this mighty; he stood there, inhaled a breath of air, and you could see tears building up in his eyes, as images of the unforgiving life was storming through the mind of the young teenager in him; one self that through time, was taught how to rest unseen to the burning eyes of the outer world. An art that he mastered to perfection, covered it with lavish masks of rotten, half-peeled and rough-cut skin, that he refused to let go of.

He bowed, and found himself resting upon the wall, slowly sliding down, reaching those same stairs that stood against him; where he sat, and gave space to his silent soul to go wild in him.

It was soon when he realized that behind this great mask, a wasteland was in the buildup, where not only tears, but also laughter fell unseen. Memories were engraved too deep and were never to vanish; not a single wish, nor a single scene, nothing was to be forgotten, every regret, failure, moment of fatigue was never to be forgotten. It all managed to find its way to a place where nothing was left, all hidden, but never forgotten, just sitting there, waiting for the right trigger.

While his soul was kept busy, he simply sat there watching the sunrise, and realized that somehow, life finds some ways to show you how beautiful it can be …

… and then, it was just another day.

You said there was nothing left down here, well I roamed around the wasteland and I swear, I found something