poetry issues #18

Saturday, 19 May 2018 17:49


The May - June issue is out! Here you go:



American Football


Back and forth.

Circles disguised

in straight go routes.

Until you get things


things get you.

Until routes go straight

in disguised circles,

forth and back.




In Red


Those toes in the shower

I’m looking down to

belong to a Lynchian heroine.


They say depersonalization

results from violence

and I ponder over the form.


Do not knock, just enter.

Privacy is a luxury

only spoiling a good plot.






My friend likes the number eight.

It completes her broken parts

and promises the unity of one.


You will find her crouching

among quitting and lighting it up

on a white pile of unironed roles.


She’s the colour blue, as found

in nature: A wondrous reflection

of elusive light. A life of words.




Ode to Nothing


As a child I thought

I controlled the wind. Perhaps

the wind controls me.


Before great sorrow

the air stands still. I know then

something is coming.


Dry petals falling

like snow. Who’d have thought death would

be so beautiful.




Unhealthy are


Your stress relief habits

and the junk you eat.

How the world treats you

and what you think of it.

The screens you watch

and the dust you breathe.


But tomatoes won’t

save you from cancer.

Treating the symptom is

not the answer.
Wars will not be prevented

by treaties. And nobody likes kiwis.




 [You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]




Published in news

poetry issues #15

Wednesday, 01 November 2017 19:08


Since the previous issue was all free verse, there's a fair share of formality in this one: "Retribution" is a pantoum (which happens to be one of my favorite forms), "Northern Beach in Bref Double" a bref double of course, and "Coming at the Florist" a golden shovel. Poetry Issues #15, out today:




Memory should not be exercised.

Like a packet of quit smokes

it better remain undisturbed

in a locked box in the closet.


Like a packet of quit smokes

I hide your grayscale picture

in a locked box in the closet

in all-encompassing silence.


I hide your grayscale picture

mummified and fossilised

in all-encompassing silence

like an angry ancient god.


Mummified and fossilised

you better remain undisturbed

like an angry ancient god.

Memory should not be exercised.




Northern Beach in Bref Double


They arrived at the haven of bronze sun gods

and said: “We want five ships of fine sand.”

The pale seafarers got nasty sunburns but

were back home in time for the Indian summer.


They strewed it wavy, golden and silvery and

the children combed it by hand for better shells.

Even the fish came out of the sea to check it

when the workers headed home for hot supper.


Once, a lion’s mane jellyfish fell for a seagull

who was cruising the shore for leftovers at

a crowded spot. Before she died dehydrated

they both agreed the sea was their mother.


The children relished at the beast’s bad end

but a sudden limp burdened the seagull’s strut.


B Sides


Inside red apples fat worms inside the letterbox

a rageful cat inside dreams spiraling labyrinths

inside a struggling dignity marginalization inside

a deep-chest scream confinement inside unvarnished

sentences run-down desires inside the doll another

doll inside delusion the need to escape inside.




Sociology or That’s How You Rule the World


Your affordances will be reduced to one

as ecology will variate between

plastic A and concrete B.


As long as you let them engage with

stable fables peasants will trust

that one day they’ll be kings.


Turn sacred symbols into commodities

rob the fruits of their juicy essence

but give the natives beads.




Coming at the Florist


The iron door was left open by nobody

and the black cat assured me it had not

been her. Had I sniffed in the shop even

the slightest trace of evening rose, the

doubts would’ve dispersed. With such rain

it was hard to tell. But only my woman has

this sweet marmite blood that shoots such

piercing scents of love through the small

pores of her sweaty, rosy, cosy hands.



 [You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]



Published in news

poetry issues #12

Wednesday, 12 April 2017 12:15

This twelfth issue, whose distribution started today, completes the first cycle of Poetry Issues. It has been a full year of poetic expression and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I did. From now on the publication will become bimonthly, in order to dedicate some time to other works.

You can read this issue below:



April’s Fool


It’s a joke, all this rain,

and I’m reminded

only by date that this

is the advent of spring.

And I envy the trees.

They seem to possess

the right time for everything:

Like clockwork they go

through winters and springs

accepting, always in majesty,

each turn of season that I

try, strong-headed and vain,

to manipulate and command.

You refused to hold my hand.

Life Without Temptation


I didn’t die nor resurrect

at the age of thirty three.

I’ve lost my chance.

And now I watch myself

mature to death –

an unappealing apple

without an Eve’s hand

to save me from counting

how many meters

before I hit the ground.



Pestered as they were by what happens next

they left their sentences undone, hanging

annoying as fruit flies, unsure of their direction

overwhelmed by the vast possibilities ahead.

But once, fueled by a whole night’s drinks

they raced into the pink-gold dawn that painted

all their hopes anew. That’s when they learned

that language is redundant when your soul

is smooth and it’s not only youth that burns with instinct.



I don’t have to tell you

that we are not what we seem.

You know it better than I do.


Your chatoyant eyes reflect some

passion you dismiss. I have proof

in the shivers I get when you come


to have a coffee under my roof

and rehearse your staged words.

Still, I hear nothing but the truth.


It must be an augmented chord,

what tunes us in each other.

Life before you was a chore.


I’m a moth heading to the lantern

for what is love but death, dear lover?

In Therapy


Most days I don’t remember my dreams.

It’s just that I often wake up with a sigh.


I’m quite hard and detest looking back.

Cicadas and lilac skies don’t amuse me.


In my youth I grieved imaginary deaths

far as I was from the need of an afterlife.


I found purpose in the half-time. I was

meant to be the eye of the universe.




[If you would like to learn more about the Poetry Issues project, read this.]

Published in news

poetry issues #11

Saturday, 04 March 2017 16:21

The distribution of the 11th issue began today. Read the contents here:



You, Yes, You


I’m scared of your dark potential.

It unwinds serpentine

as you avoid collision and

– god forbid! – correlation

with other bodies on the street

all too efficient from having had

brushes with perceived fiends

but mostly eager to possess

a shallow pride you defend

by throwing tantrums of

unchecked greed and insecurity.

The Wanderer



often comes

in strange shapes.


Californian vineyards

and Australian seas

I haven’t seen you.

I don’t know if

I’ll get a visa for my dreams.


Of all the things

I left back home

I miss the hills.

The Drama-King


“I’m alone,” he cried

and pulled his hair

in desperation

from the small seat

on his high throne

but never looked beyond

his own reflection.



On the up side,

I’m not afraid of darkness

anymore. Horror

found me in broad daylight

and the hand was known.

In the Inside Pocket


An item or two of no importance.

An acorn or a corner of a leaf.

A marble and a hair clip.

Found poems meant to guide

and keep us grounded

respecting that we once

were children too.

By Your Sickbed


To attest the fact that

“our life is not our own”

I invent bunches of meaning

and lay them clustered

in the functions I perform.


I can be described at best

as mediocre or even arrested

in a wild adolescence of feeling.

But being given




at efficient action, I twist

with abandon the wet towel

that will cool your forehead.




[If you would like to learn more about the Poetry Issues project, read this.]



Published in news

Poetry Issues #10

Thursday, 02 February 2017 11:40

Poetry Issues has just reached double digits! Enjoy this tenth issue right here:





The breeze stirs and then it moves us forward

with tangled hair and whirling splintered thoughts

and locks us in the chase of portentous

shapes in the low clouds. The soft grass writhes to

break free and its crystal prison of frost

stays relentless in its albinity.

But there is something in the lengthening

of light and the sonnets of the swallows

that travel from the lands of velvet warmth

that begs me to endure and join the strife.

It’s in the slight murmur of the willows

when the grey skies push upon their backs and

instead of lamenting they sing: “Perhaps

this isn’t such a bad month to be born in.”




Bus Commuters


Not the servants of a dark empire

of fast-drying concrete and steel

with hands and faces worn


by the tiredness

of a joyless looping life


but princes and queens

of flourishing kingdoms of the sand

with peach orchards where horses run free.





There is a longer

space between your words and mine.

We are diverging.

Just Watch


The history of

mankind is nothing but a

plucky fist raised high.

But now the fight is over

the color of our new couch.



Trying to rectify the wreckage

caused by the rectangularity

of the wretched electorate

the pious asked the rector

who exclaimed that there

was nothing to correct.



She ordered the surgeon

to remove her organs

and take pictures of her innards.

He was then asked to put them back,

and the money was good and the life

was tough. “I don’t understand,”

she said later, ignoring the sore

while her eyes still searched

on the photographic paper.

“My liver looks perfectly fine

but, where is my soul?”

Student with Purple Glasses


“And where do you dispose

the oil from the frying pan?”

She asked the landlady,

sincerely worried about the lack

of environmental planning.


There was a halo of smoke

rushing around her platinum hair:

“Just pour it on your trash.

It’s excellent sauce

for the lunch of the seagulls.”



[If you would like to learn more about the project, read this.]




Published in news

Poetry Issues #9

Thursday, 05 January 2017 16:29

Poetry Issues #9 is out today. You can also read it here:





Shambling in his old-man slippers

out to the humble unkempt garden

he checked closely with the first dew

in the hanging cheap-blue plastic net

for puny craters on the smooth lard

planets of seeds and dried mealworms

to see if any sparrows had come

or if he would spend the winter alone.




His Greatest Act


He had the mane, alright.

But with the untowardly stretched

pink satin shirt and strassy pants

none of the kids could really tell

that there was an old defeated lion

and not a great illusionist trying

to escape the burning iron cage.




New Paganism


We are so eager to become

nothing but bodies

freed from the hold of endless excuses.

Carnal pleasures aren’t for the fainthearted.


We are so eager to find peace

in the white noise

of a hangover brain. We aren’t ashamed.

This is only a primordial ritualistic instinct.


Quiet people are afraid of Chaos

but they seem to forget

that he gave birth to their cherished Day,

that wry officeholder with the glowing teeth.




The Gigolo Triptych




She dismissed it as

disruption. A waterfall

in a dried up land.




He lowered his head

as his hands smoothed along in

search of her wallet.




She invested in

a more trustworthy asset:

Church-cut dignity.




A Love Story


In the heart of the city

that doesn’t have a heart

I followed the lamplights

for one last time.

The oracle had told me

that a black river ran

through you

and hope had to cross it.

I paddled up the mucous dream-stuff

up to the city’s poisoned hills.

You were nowhere to be found.



[You can read about the project and find other issues here.]

Published in news

Poetry Issues #8

Friday, 02 December 2016 17:44

Something appropriate for the festive season ahead: Poetry Issues #8:


A Viewing


That house was shivery –

a perfect scenery for Ibsen’s ghosts

yet unfit for a life denying symbolism.

I opened the closet and feared

that the walls would fold upon me.

The knobs yielded shaken by their own

drive to be taken away by a stranger.

Even the light that washed the living room

felt artificial – planted on a painted sky.

Across the street the century-old red bricks

reflected like props fixed on rough beams

resisting being blown off by some eastern

wind accelerating from the northern sea.




The Reindeer Season


Wrap your gifts with caution and don’t forget

the love. Contrary to what’s expected

after a certain age, you may indulge

for once in the high art of not giving

a damn about all that time has taught you.

Try to embrace the world’s firm delusions

as in insistence it keeps on turning,

hoping and buying, elaborately

hiding how all that keeps us human dies.

Let’s cannibalize on that. For here comes

the deluge of the new, and you have to

contain and fabricate the birth and light

– warm and wistful interruptions to the

circle of the coldest, darkest season.





Thus we name the end

when it’s as slow as tango.


The deep snake pit when

we are halfway down the slide.


The fast, shallow breath

of our shredded, fatigued lungs.


The long agony

setting on unsettled sleep.






“It deteriorated rapidly.”

“What did?” She asked and

suspended her pointer mid-air

as if checking the wind.

In this awkward drawing room

that orange vase felt familiar

as a tip-of-the-tongue word.

“His health of course,” said

the visiting niece, sensing that

something was off. “Oh, that,” she

smiled and her gaze followed

the curved loops of the passing birds.



The Victory of Existentialism


The sly ancient mind

first in linguistic novelty

ripped essence out of

the hull of existence

frantic at the knowledge

of its own impending death.


But even millennia after

the invention of religion

and its comforting visions

a dying man still holds onto

an increasingly difficult life

like a toddler that despairs

over giving up its diapers.




[Find other issues and read more about the project here.]

Published in news

Poetry Issues #7

Friday, 04 November 2016 14:28

The seventh issue is out. If you can't get the printed version, you can still read it here:




It’s a beautiful day, outside

One of the last, if not the last


Before a heavy winter sets in

I like to think of windless autumn


Days as rare, and endangered

They make the wait more puzzling


What am I waiting for – perhaps a force

To make me – step outside



Family Values


Happiness was a bottle

of iridescent soap water

meant to burst in bubbles

on my mother’s marble floor.

She was annoyed and banished

from our common home

what she saw as stains.

She, who mercilessly counted

good times in fridge magnets.



In Flight


I looked suspicious.

My heart was in the hidden

pocket of my bag.


I forgot to put

my breathing mask on before

I turned to help you.


Falling, the dancing

lights on a welcoming sea

told me I belonged.


Pain was the red paint

on Claude Monet’s poppy field

in Musée d’Orsay.





Our joys were made of plastic and fluorescent lights.

Raised by chip factories, we’d grown virtual feet.

Our time was running out like early morning coffee

and patience was the throbber on our loading screens.


Raised by chip factories, we'd grown virtual feet

and the first impact with sun-smelling turf felt strange.

Patience was the throbber on our loading screens

until we paced for hours in bleak waiting rooms.


The first impact with sun-smelling turf felt strange

but it shook off our belief in confined square spaces.

Until we paced for hours in bleak waiting rooms

our experiences had the depth of all-inclusive tourism.


What shook off our belief in confined square spaces

was the flawless animation of detaching yellow leaves.

Our experiences had the depth of all-inclusive tourism

and we just couldn’t get higher on computational speed.


The flawless animation of detaching yellow leaves

while time was running out like early morning coffee.

We just couldn’t get higher on computational speed.

Our joys were made of plastic and fluorescent lights.



Dinner for the Wolves


If I were a daube de boeuf

at an intellectual dinner table

would I find purpose and pride in

being eaten and praised and escorted

with pinot noir straight out of Burgundy


or would I try to crawl off the silver plate

daring to blotch the too white linen

and then straight off into some

drain leading to the gutter

where I would call out

my revolution?



[Read more about the project.]



Published in news

Poetry Issues #6

Monday, 03 October 2016 16:12

Ladies and gentlemen, Poetry Issues #6 is out:




The Screw


It was waiting for me, on the kitchen table

full of suggestion and gleam. It wanted

to be pressed hard on the wooden floor.

Its whole body begged to be twisted.


My moves were decisive. My expression

said it all, in a low grunt of womanly power.

Dominant in nature, I didn’t mind the sweat:

It validated my consistent, punctual effort.


I thought we were aligned – reciprocally

understood. But in a moment’s glimpse

it snapped, and rolled under the low couch.

Now, I have to find myself another screw.



The World Scaled Down


When I was fifteen, we lived on a lane

of big fir trees and low, curtained windows.

The lonely man on the corner once bought

a little cactus he placed on the mantel.

Passing by for school I waived at it, as

some children will befriend anything.

Within a few weeks I saw it wrinkle

and shrink in monumental misery.

I felt the impulse to knock on his door

but still feared the myths plaguing people.

“What kind of person let’s a cactus die

of drought?” I asked my mom distressed one day.

“The kind of person that also kicks his blind dog”

she said and turned to bake food casually.





In a way, it was a rite of passage

to qualified motherhood:

The fantasy of the steaming

fresh-baked bread and

the lemony glove next

to a matching apron.

And before that, the satisfaction

of the kneading hand

in slow motion, suspending

particles of flour pushed away

by the fluffy dough explosion.



Terza Rima for the Unhappily Married


You think that war is the ultimate carnage

that wakes in a man the blood-thirsty beast.

Wait ‘til you’ve seen the perfect marriage.


Wearing white in their coming-of-age feast

lies choose almond cake and harpsichord tunes

that you dance to, when your better half insists.


Cagey comfort turns you numb and immune

to the slow death of your once-flaming lust.

Soon you learn to mask silent rage with croons.


Absurdities bullet out of your mouth just as

last-minute, habitual lovers appear alluring

under the flattering light of a compulsive past.


To the downward spiral there is no ending

until you cry “revenge” and make for the landing.



The Hysteria of Fräulein von R.


He would press my head’s cross with his thumb

and instruct me to remember. He put on

such a show

with the pretext of conjuring up

forgotten memories. Once,

he turned me into a puppet

with his induced somnambulism

just to prove an argument.


He was so full of himself.


To get rid of him, I pretended

the paresthesia in my legs had left me.

He was contented, proclaimed me cured

and freed me of his presence.


But on some quiet nights the pain returns

out of the blue, as strong as ever.





[If you want to learn more about Poetry Issues, check the press release.]



Published in news

Poetry Issues #5

Thursday, 01 September 2016 14:24

The September issue is out now. Read it here:





In sarcastic punishment

the word hangs from its hinges

like a rusty sign turned upside down

flapping due to unstoppable winds

in the flat desert sands of civilization

losing its meaning like it never had

personal history. Its essence hovering

projecting wraithlike visions

of what might have been.



Evenings with Grandma


Among the reassuring roundness of buttons

in the churchly silence of the haberdashery

I examined with the stern brow of the assessor

treasures in mother of pearl and carved ivory.


Along the hollow spools of silken thread

that tied me to nothing but minuter tints

of damask red and cobalt blue, I contemplated

on their amaranthine possibilities for coalescing.


At home, I danced away to the airy scissors snips

and the fast, unsteady beat of the sewing machine.

On the pincushion I did my little voodoo thing

wore a thimble and pronounced my pointer queen.





An acute change of

wardrobe. Never seen flowers

thirsting for the sun.





From all the ghosts that

haunt me, the ones I fear the

most are still alive.



A Break-Up in Late Thirties


She tried to gather her thoughts

in a single confrontational sentence

while the children slept in their cots.


She dressed the table in blue polka dots

brewing on her need for acceptance

as she tried to gather her thoughts.


She cleaned the fridge and paired the socks

but her eyes never strayed from the entrance,

while the children slept in their cots.


She decided, dusting her chipped teapots,

that the cheap ones have greater endurance,

and then tried to gather her thoughts.


Under the louder than life kitchen clock

she thought she heard a car in the distance.

Meanwhile, the children slept in their cots.


Petting the faithful, warm-breathed dog,

the only male who was still of assistance,

she tried to gather her thoughts.


Her husband came at midnight and brought

a loaf of cold bread and a bag of repentance.

She was waiting with gathered thoughts

and the children still slept in their cots.



The Monks


For forty years, in utter silence and candlelight

the three of them worked copiously in their cells

with the tomes of hellenistic philosophy.

Their indoctrinated quills were ablaze

while copying Aristotle’s unmoved mover

and Plato’s conforming form of the good.


But on Epicurus there were long pauses

for there was a worm in the heretic’s words

eating out the apple of unquestioned devotion.


The hegumen kept his raven eye on them

sensing how they shook their fatigued heads

in dread and understanding. The rest went about

their common business of trade, intrigue, and prayer.


Longing for the Garden of their secret faith,

in their deathbed they didn’t call for priests

but for one of the agriculturists, and asked

for gardenias and lemon trees to be planted

above their unsung, shameful graves.






Published in news
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