The Ballad of the Forgotten Bards

Listen to the melody of

our worn tunes

and you too

shall find

truth.

This earth you step upon

will dish it to you,

a fine steak,

on a gold

plate.

As you wander tirelessly

and ponder on end

it'll strike you:

"Truth is a

Cave"

"In the Black Mountains".

Then you'll see

it's not the

steak or

platter.

'Tis the search, that which

provides the absurdity,

the sought after

truth, and 

peace.

So shall your life come down,

step by step, like a

reversed ladder

as it nears

truth.

Falling In Love, #3

Months passed, she did not.

There came times when I felt like I needed to be found. This was more of a grotesque fantasy though, rather than a need. It was the darkest parts of my soul, seeking to be hidden from what she might have offered: her love, or anger, or indifference.

So gloomily hidden that she should really look for me -- and in the end, find too.

This was not a chase. This was just a twisted fantasy.

Yet, I kept going to her, serving my being as my most precious gift, oppressing my darkness inside. Those quelled fantasies, however, would strike me at the most inapplicable moments, and I'd find myself swinging silently in the darkness with my unearthly wait for her to reach me.

This wait did not bring any solitude, nor vigilance. It didn't ripen me either. If anything, it just made me more twisted, dark, evil: hungry for affection.

She was the solitude that went against me. And, fuck me, I loved it.

Dream Come True

Dream, come true!
So true that
in a blink of my eyes
don't even think
about disappearing.
I shall hold you
and feel you
and possibly
tie down, too.
So perfect that
the flowers of May
blushing red or
sky blue
shall be jealous
of your sheer beauty.

And then wake me
to the smell of shy July roses
and the welcoming soil
after April's surprise rain.

Slowly dance past
my early winter fears
and late fall tears.

A step over there,
and a step over here
-- the impeccable harmony.

Decisions

Dark was the water; cold was the shore.

As the sleepy fish swam through the oily and dark ocean they wondered, quietly, what will be made of themselves. Where would this salty streams lead them? How about the ones that left the crowd? There were many things to think about and so little time to decide.

The places they'd see, the people they'd meet, the smiles they'd greet, and the lips they'd kiss. It was hard to think all these.

So, they just swam, knowing not what to come.

Maybe it was better this way.

A Poem for Those Who Are About to Fall in Love

Wait. Don't.
Just don't --
if you can.

Avoid its sheer beauty,
and welcoming arms
calling you for its
endless euphoria
and the dream-alike
reality.

Don't fall for it,
or it'd be very hard
to get back up.

In all honesty
I don't mean a word I'm saying.

In the end, my friend,
there's no such thing
as being "about" to
fall in love.
You're deep down
in that pit to
come back up
before you know it.
So, what the heck,
just go on with it.

Falling In Love, #2

And she loved me too.

With all of her fears she did. No matter how hard it was at times, or how disposable it seemed; she never let go of it. She did not always feel loved, but she never stopped loving. Every now and then, it might've not been expressed as well, but it never stopped existing.

This, I presume, made the whole difference -- for me, and of course, for her.

For us.

Exit

There it is. Right there.

You can just follow the alluring light through cold stone floors and hard marble walls and stairs that smell like urine. Who wants to be a part of this stinky, repulsive (and fairly old, too) place anyway?

Just look at the cracks on the walls. The marble walls, once white and fresh, now just worn old by the winds, tears, blood, piss, spit, crap and god knows what else. They now have the looks of an old man's eyes, telling you that the brain behind the wrinkles - although couldn't say and remember much - have seen a lot.

These walls, they have the most improbable beauty of the tears of a child stuck in war. These poor old walls, which reflected many lights and faces and dreams, now weep secretively into the night's muteness. The cracks scream out the painful truths, the enigmatic secrets, the burning questions, the soulful lullabies.

There's a sheer creepiness that attend to their ugliness.

Now go ahead and take the next exit. Leave these walls and floors behind. They're pretty much used to it.
















Thatcher Cook, New York City, NY.

Mountains Beyond Mountains*

The sun never shone
over the menacing blocks
of Berlin -- they had their
own lights inside,
so dim and weakened:
packed in the cement.
The hard edges never
really let the beams of light
to illuminate the external,
and angered by the fact;
the beams continued to
reflect from one wall to another.

This was a land of stone,
cold and hard and lifeless.
Each stone had the same look
on their faces -- solemn and judging,
reaching out to one's soul.
They screamed "Why?":
and man, what a scream it was,
so quietened by the soft hand
blocking the mouth
it had the sheer creepiness.




*Arcade Fire, Sprawl II.

Four In One

Fall

"Good, that's what I want too."
said Frederic Henry,
lowering his head
to his feet.

I guess that's what we all do. We just love to look down to our feet when we search answers. There just must be something extremely inspirational (or even philosophical) down there. Our toes tingling one another, moving in a haste, just like a boy drowning -- motion for the sake of motion. And then comes a moment where they finally stop, accepting the still and musical water into their marrows.

And I guess it is just that moment that gives us the answer. Or more questions. Or disappointment.

It's either that or we just like moving our head downward.

Spring

They say
"Seasons follow each other."
Well sorry, but this one time,
I'm planning to keep it with me.

You aren't going anywhere.
                                      Erm, --
                                           hopefully.

Keeping your head down like this; it is hard, it is tough. Thankfully, you're there to lift it up. My neck was kind of sore -- mind using your magical touch?

I mean. You're here, right?
                                     Then please close the door.
                                                                            Or don't. They can see. I don't care.

Winter

Cold and ice,
and finally --
some peace.
Oh, I'm already bored!

Now is for solitude. Now is for the vigilance of the unknown. Sun came up, went down, came back up, and went back down.

All I remember is some coffee cups and empty plates. Oh, and the noises: laughter and that sizzle the forks make on empty plates.

Those, and your hair tickling my cheeks. My breath getting lost, my face dissolving into a dark oblivion.

It can dissolve for all I care, I shall hold the vigil.

Summer

Temper is rising.
Now I look into sun's eyes,
and its rays, piercing through my lost face
boil off the questions.

My head, I suppose, is a poor bastard. Never asks questions, never gives opinions. It goes down when I want it to, and it only comes back up if that's what I want.

And I'm truly an ambivalent individual.

Poor thing, jumping to one direction from another -- just because of me. Or you?

Epilogue

"And in the end,
the love you take
is equal to the love
you make."

Seasons passed and she did not. She had it all in her. Welcome. Oh, you never left?
You never will.
                      Erm, --
                               I guess.
                                         I know.

Low Tide

He had a big fat face
which was mostly occupied
with a big fat smile.
(But only most of the time.)
His widening cheeks
and expanding lips --
looked like a threat, rather
than a welcoming smile.

He did not attract
he did not create impulse
he just smiled
and oh, man --
what a fucked up smile that was.

Look Alive, Sunshine

I hated to see her frown.
And it was not because she had
a beautiful face
that glimmered as she smiled.
But it was that I
was so selfish.
That inside myself,
deep down where
all the fears and tears lived,
something was broken
whenever she decided to
lour than grin.
And I wanted her to smile
not because for her
but for myself --
it was just better.
Way better.
So I tried to make her smile
but failed;
and the radio banged:
"See --
heaven's got a plan for you."

High Tide

In the mornings she was calm --
all cold and distant and stagnant.
Her face, as indifferent as a wall,
and she did not seem to realize
how beautiful and desirable she was
as the sunlight played tricks on her hair.
The rising sun, it seemed,
sent all the beams it had
to that dark brown mess --
jealous of the beauty more alluding than itself.

However, as the sun said goodbye,
leaving its place to the dim moon,
she rose.
And with every step sun took down,
she swelled:
bigger and bigger and bigger;
until there was none
but her own.

Now came the night
and now came her smile
and only now
her brown eyes twinkled and
sprinkled light around.
Yet, the indifference was still there.
And she damn well made sure
that she was there before you,
and will be after you.

Isolation

It is the wish

to be different from

the regular person

strolling regularly

on the regular street,

that makes us different,

and subtly

isolated. 

Heute

Und Gott macht Bier

und Hamburgers,

as der mann walked through

the Brandenburg Tor.

Der mann screamed:

"This Bier is tot,

it has no fuzz at all!

Und this Hamburger?

It is just schlecht."

Yet der mann never stopped

drinking or

eating or

asking warum or

crying to Gott.

Rain

He always loved
the pattern raindrops made
after hitting his tiny, round bedroom glass
-- of which barely let any light in
during summertime.
He loved the sound and splash
at the hitting instant.
He loved how determined,
and blunt,
and consistent the rain was.
He loved the cold
creeping up clandestinely through his biceps --
conquering each cell
on the conquest to capture the heart;
also admiring how his body
reacted spastically:
stuffing and squashing and quelling inside,
creating a wave of heat and
fighting against the cold.
He just loved sitting there,
in that little, calm room, middle of
the life and razzle and dazzle.

And although he couldn't cry,
it was not because he did not want to.
(He would cry for not being able to cry,
if weeping was an option.)
He loved how the sky did that for him,
letting out all the emotions, smothering and soaking
his pathetic soul.

The Search

As though I loved scratching my belly,

exploring the depths of my soul under the baby fat,

I always admired TV bodies.

(We all subtly do.)

Fit and tone and attractive.

And there was a gym,

where I started to ran

for that very purpose -- striving in pain,

believing sweat
is the weakness leaving my body.

However, as the sands of time dropped
from the ancient hourglass,

one by one, taking their time, 

and gods of destiny wove and plotted

what is yet to come for me,

thinking each step meticulously,

I realized that I wanted to run even more,

seeking after what made me run,

and getting away from it

with each step.

Falling In Love, #1

I loved her. I did not really now why, but it was not for her big breasts, round ass, beautiful face or lovely smile. I loved all of those as well, but those weren't what really drove me every morning through corridors and heavy doors and cold walls and shiny floors to get to her. The urge was so much deeper, and it was rather the ambiguity of its source that made it so sacred.

All I knew was that I loved her and that was enough. Yet.

Reluctant Mornings

It is either death,
or hope, or coffee,
which can help you rise --
especially in the mornings.
And the real sad thing is,
you can only make-do with the third one
for so little time and
the second one runs out too damn quickly,
making you in need for the first.