Fragile things

With people
Doubtful about my actions
Whether I was stoned or not
I don’t smoke up
That’s the truth
But it’s okay
I have learned
That marijuana helps us
To explore our brains more
I can do that without any

humans
None will understand it
The theory of existence
It is here
Somewhere they cannot access
I was happy
High on good times
Good people
Talking about shit we will bury
In moments
May never come

I wonder what will I do
If I was stoned
But I guess I know that already
Found the truth about unreal reality
Where we live
It’s too narrow
My head might expload
Stuck in a fragile body
As he says
I cannot name
I spill words
All over the existence of this moment
Will never exist
I am a fragile woman.

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Headlines

What’s the news
Of a newspaper man
Getting up early morning
Running around with a bicycle
Carrying junk
Stories from yesterday
Some buried truth
Some made up lies
Five bucks for dead trees
What’s the news
Of a news paper man
They keep changing
From older rounder
To younger leaner
The Rusty bicycle stays
The same
From yesterday
The newspaper man
Must have a story
At our morning cuppa
Late evening road side snacks
On cupboard racks
Sometimes news are too old
Sells on weight machine
The weight machine must have a story too

Fist full of hope

Sometimes
I want to earn a loads of money
Cars and choppers around me
And people bowing
Stopping cars
Bending laws
Sometimes
I feel poor
Sustainability is not enough
When I am in a crowdy compartment
Of a local train
Full of sick people
Weak and old
Trying hard to get up
Get down
Missing destinations
Holding their shaky knees
Trying too hard to hold themselves
Together
From falling apart
Failing
Stuck in trains

I wish I could stop the train
Run it backwards
I wish I had a lot of money
So I could escape the train
Of despair

Train goes both ways

Is it okay to love snakes
And the smell of carbolic acid
Keeping reptiles away
The left side of road
Was drenched with the aroma
Of phenol
I have heard people from Africa
Painted their walls
I have loved Africa too
Like the other side of the street

The other side of the street was occupied
By a dapper dude
Foreign for the local place
I am foreign for it too
Looking at each other
Unknown he was I have seen it all
Fashion is old for me
I am into antifashion
Concealed under my swanky t-shirt
And Parisian hair
I was enjoying the smell
Of my favorite carbon bond
-I had to catch the train

Gloomy Sunday

After a failed attempt
Of having my last smoke of the day
My tired body couldn’t wait
My windows were full
Illuminated with late night people
Having their Saturday night talk
Stuck in the dark street
Plundering my tiny window
And my good night smoke
I fall asleep

Something woke me up
Maybe the new cold
Or the sound of still moving blades
Of my fan
sooner or later I have to stop
In darkness
Night owls went to sleep
Leaving silences for me
And my cigarettes
At my windows
I looked up
Lighting my late night cigarette

Something has changed
I could listen to my smoke
It’s inarticulate voice
Silencing the the silence

It was already the gloomy sunday
-I checked my phone to confirm

Fall Winter

I have always wait for November
Not because of my birthdays
I don’t really care about it anymore
Or ever did
Somewhere
In the cold wind
When October ends
And I forget to close my curtains
Letting the mist come
Making me cold
I curl up in my bedsheet
Half asleep half awake
Half looking for a thicker quilt
Half enjoying the first cold
November is coming

My mum didn’t know
I would come
Early like always
Or the first sign of it
Being premature
Ready to face the world
It rained in chills
Making it more cold
In summer land

November is coming
I could see it in the horizon
In my favorite faded filter
The trees are vanishing
In gray mists
Someone soon will close the windows
Of my favorite window seat

-Maybe I don’t like November
I like waiting for it.

16 Southern avenue

He thought
I was falling asleep
In between his cozy blanket
And blue bedsheet
I think It was blue
At least how I remember it
An old cracky bed
Covered perfectly
With aromatic bedsheet
Washed off memories
With costly detergents

Somewhere it was stuck
In lint balls
And in mattress
I could smell the dust
he thought I was falling
Asleep
I was falling in love

Someone said
Dusts are made of dead skins
In an old house
Bookshelves covered with people
Long gone from home
I wasn’t looking for books
Leaving his bed
Leaving him confused
I found my ghosts

I think he is gone too
Leaving his skins behind
Somewhere in the mattress
Under a newly covered bedsheet
Or in books
Impossible to read
Someone else will come
Covering them with smell of detergents
Overwhelmed by the palace
And marble table
The quiet balcony
Hidden behind the flame tree
Alone
Unaware of the ghosts
Stuck in the house

My friend
I think he never knew
I was good in bed too

Bad poem

White flower blue flower
Did you return home
Somewhere in a watery Street
I was waiting alone
Yellow leaves green olives
Long digested chocolate
Wrappers floating with me
My red boots how did you forget
I rhyme or don’t rhyme
The sky will be this gray
My favorite October sky
And my favorite word stay
White flower black water
Did you find home
Somewhere in watery train
I can give you some.
-make love

Blank pavement

I tried to write something short
For so long
I no longer remember time
And wasted so much digital space
Writing debris
Gushing words
Out of my jaded hand
I could have done something better
Buying nail polish
Holding hands
Stroking my brother’s back

Hands are funny
It touches everything
Even hearts
Putting it in by pass
You can hold it
If you try

If I try
I can write
Something without words
Maybe I have done it too
Somewhere while walking on the street
Letting my hands hang
Worry free
Something started with a smile
And baffled steps
I think legs has better stories
Than hands

Cheap cigarettes cheaper tea

Have I ever referred to the fact
That I hate coffee shops
I hardly know any of those
Jazzed up in a colour full city
Bringing joy
Grace
I listened to people’s declamation
Of aromas
And digitalised grains
Of monochromatic blues
Clinking porcelain plates
Wrong knives and forks
I don’t have any table manners
Demurred eating with dessert knife
And serving fork
And the bourgeois smell of brown coffee

Some places even allow us to smoke
Big filters small cigarettes
Empty packets of same ashes
All killing us
I never liked passive smoking

Green tea doesn’t really look green
So those love birds
Sex birds
Somewhere in between
Watched them all the time
Passing those coffee shops
In a tin can
Moving van
I almost reached home