Monday, May 26, 2014


The heat swallows me slowly
I cannot resist
melting on its tongue.

Thursday, May 22, 2014


Just a question in between
What kind of person plays executioner
In this game called life 'n death
Come, let’s fool ourselves a bit more
Who turns the knob
Who gives the injection
Who deserves to be the one
Who hits the red button
Does she dream of a bonus
When crossing the line
Like others dream of death
Let me tell you something

That red button isn't red

Monday, May 19, 2014

In the corner of your eye

You pretended to be
all grown up, when he left to realise
he wanted nothing but
to come back.
You said no
and you meant it.

What counts now? seeing
him with her
in the corner of your eye
the illusion of a future.

Sunset graces you,
your dark room an orange chamber.

You can taste the light, penetrating
the buds of your tongue,
it will not be long
till even that 
is but memory


She sits next to you and to the fan.
She switched it off
on purpose.

She cannot take the noise and tumbling,
transmitters that jump
from ear to nerve to cell to thought.
rotate in her head,
you without switch
- she cannot find a single button.

My friend, you are
I am frank, you are
not even yet a friend.

Doesn’t it feel good
to know that something
might transmit, shouldn’t
you leave it
there, forever.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Habit. Fine.

One tiny step
At a time, I read,
Is how to change
Habits, one day
After the other
Until 66 – that's 
The day when effort
Turns into new
Habit. Fine. Step

Sunday, May 11, 2014

A deeper voice within

A whisper inside his head. I heard it. Navahos conferring with ancestral ghosts. A dream that both of us had when we did not know each other yet. A woman came to me, white hair, gracefully bowing over my head. I instantly knew - gentle persuasion - what she had to tell was of importance. Things started tumbling, gliding, I ended up where I had never been before. Was this part of the dream? Life doesn’t happen, it becomes true. For some it is blasphemy, for some a deeper voice within. A thread weaving itself into beautiful reflections, colourful layers in adamantine ice. What will happen when it starts melting? Too many questions to answer, who can be consistent. I remember this woman who lived next to next door. I was told she was mad, hearing voices, locking herself into her head. Once when I was little, I rang her doorbell. She didn’t open. She must have thought I was someone bad. She had lost her husband. I had lost my shoe. I had brought her some food, but she wouldn’t take it. It could have been poisoned. The street where we lived had a water canal. In winter it froze and we skated. I had learnt it by shoving a chair. I would skate in front of her house. We all would. We never asked questions. By now she must be dead. Suddenly he starts believing in angels. I know it because I heard the voice inside his head. I start wondering who of us is mad.

I didn't even press the play button

I like the blue in the painting. It’s not even a painting, just an illustration. I like the blue and it doesn’t matter what it depicts. A ferry drowned in an ocean. People hanging in rooms captured with a mobile. I didn’t watch it. I didn’t even press the play button. All I did was scrolling slowly over the feet of those kids. Keep calm and stay where you are. No one came for rescue. I imagine a fifty meter corridor connecting blue sky and darker blue bottom. Locked inside a giant jump. Locked inside my head. I didn’t even press the play button. A filmstrip flickers and all I can do is liking the blue.

Saturday, May 10, 2014


The biggest challenge has five letters and is almost driving me mad - F O C U S. 

Fool Osofist Crumbling Under Scrutiny. 

There are these creepy freaks with creepy smiles hiding behind shelves. How can I focus while they are hiding? The other day I fell asleep over work. When I woke up one of them stood next to me, watching me sleeping, watching me waking up, watching me. I told him to back off. Now he pretends to be busy, wandering between tables, magazines and window frames. He must be really busy, he hasn’t changed his shirt in three days. 

There is the other one who always wants more. Text, references, conceptualisations, finish it. I gave him everything I had but it was never enough. Then I burnt out and he complained that I was empty. Now I make tables about cognitive dissonance, negative capability, ambiguity and complexity. Dynamics determine the pace. I respond contingently. Blank paper is non-boundary and … please, could someone tell those freaks to stop staring at me?? No, I am not from France. The coffee shop is closed and if there is one thing that is certain then that I need to focus. 


The centre of focus is a black hole and it can be nailed down in three words: Why a PhD? It sucks me into dark dimensions. At least now I know that it is too dark for me at the bottom of insanity. On Facebook someone tagged me in a mass hysteria. I can choose if I want to add it. But once you are in it, there is no way out. It’s all a question of relative direction. I could quit of course, but is that a choice? 

The other question is that of reward. There is never enough, so what is the question. The question is how to turn never enough into a sufficiently meaningful answer. Impactful and so on. Beyond the business case. At least it should make some kind of sense. We all have too much anyway. Not sense but stuff. I tried to get rid of it, downsized as much as I could, all of it had to fit into one suitcase. But there is this void spitting things in front of me. I don’t dare to walk over them while thinking of civil war and innumerable innocent victims being killed and all of that being shown on TV and youtube and spreading on timelines and being commented, liked, shared and retweeted. Creeps everywhere. 

Being politically correct is only switching off the TV. But then, how to choose the right programme without zapping? It’s unlikely that at this time of the day anything meaningful comes out of it. For that we would have to create new channels. That does not get done by itself. Such things need to be dug out. It requires dirty hands, sweat and brain substance. 

I keep fooling myself. About black holes and academy. It’s all the same sludge. Someone switched on the blender and it all got mixed up. I’m trying to make sense. I’m trying to turn sense into words and words into tables and tables into action and action into sense and all I do is switching channels. Without a TV.