Healing time

It is the awkward tic tac

of the snoring clock,

that marks the nights

you've been alone.

It is the patronizing

tic tac of the clock

that forces your life

in a rude mode.

It's the tic tac song

that wakes you up

and curls up your dreams

the same lulaby

that cures broken hearts

Its now not the same clock

or not the same tic tac 

of an awkward clock,

but a healing sound

that always walks forward,

without looking back.

Picture: unknown

I wonder

 What would you do

if I tell them,

to all of them,

if I tell them,

all those sacred secrets

you want to remain

abolished,

far out of the way

of those amateurish frogs?

what would you do then

If I send

If I sell

your reputation

and let it flow

and go and fall

in procastinated tongues?

To hear every-silent-word

now croaned and croaked

in the highest voice

telling the truth about you

your mischievous mind

and your stone heart?

How would you feel then

if you wake up

and you find out

that every-lie-carefully-built

is now gone

and destroyed

into pieces

of rough materials,

shelled by

the best missile?

How it would be

to see you paying

as much as I paid

alone

for all OUR mistakes

as much as you deserve

my sweetest revenge?

Painting: The Triumph of Justice by Hans Von Aachen

Twisted Scream

Sick and tired of love

and hate and sex

and love and hate and sex.

And all the things around

and all the things which round

and round and round

around everything which means

nothing meaningful to oneself

when one is lost

and lost looking for a muse

that sleeps and dreams

about the perfect love

that loves sex and hate

when hate and love and sex

and love and sex and hate

become then no opposites

but different ways

to the same dreary place.

 

Picture: Scream by Vakhtang Kakulia

An advice for pre-lesbian chicks

I don't know what was

whether her perfume's touch

or her long hair's smell

the spell I was trapped by --

titanical ocean waves

of pleasure disguised

in a new way

that claims

to be secret

to remain

in the most unusual place.

Hidden by the sheets

I woke up

of the sweetest dream

I ever had.

We brushed our hair,

make-up our face

and went out

back to world

as simple friends.

No kisses aloud ,

Neither hugs nor

hanging around

hand on hand.

Satisfy yourself

with invisible glances

But don't think

that she is going

to call you back,

to worry about you,

to care about your life,

your health, your mind.

There is no place

for comprehension my dears;

we are as bad

as they are.

Picture: El columpio-Raymond Monvoisin