Literature, Poem, poems, poetry, revolution


There was a suicide planned for both of us but wasn’t executed

You are mental

Yes, you are

she said

You are just insane

Fidel Castro

Drag queen rebels

Transatlantic, trans-human

No, I am not a Vatican spy

And I’m sick of the insults

She added, typically upset

There is a deep hole

after your departure

Your velvety voice

was promising peace

You disappointed me

with your hostility

But now I am sitting here

In the district block


and not in Britain

Where I fell straight into the war
into the epicentre of the revolution

And I am bored

And I feel blind

Walking through the bushes
of lilies of the valley
without blinking

and everything seems meaningless in this matrix of things

And there is a new fire
whatever I touch

And people eating each other like animals

It’s the time of apocalyptic fury
on both sides

So let’s hide

Maybe forever

Let’s wait for the storm to end

And meet on the other side

When the slaughter is over

If ever

Art, Culture, literature, short story, stories

Suicidal thoughts in Barnes&Noble /Immigrant Stories/

Immigrant Stories

Suicidal thoughts in Barnes&Noble.

When you are an immigrant, you are a cultural – nobody. That’s how I feel at least. I try to squeeze myself, cut myself, change myself, convince myself, but the only thing left is the emptiness and boredom of lifeless existence between the shelfs of Barnes & Noble, looking for an inspiration, for something to move me, to connect to my empty self. The days, the past, the now, and the future blend into a long, tasteless, boring vomit, divorced from any meaning. I don’t remember why I came here and what propelled me to take this unreasonable, stupid step. Maybe it was anger, I don’t know. My mind doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

Suicidal thoughts between Barnes & Noble shelfs. Suicidal thoughts in the Barnes & Noble elevator, suicidal thoughts on the Barnes & Noble first, second and the third floor.

Art, Culture, Dark moods, Poem, poetry, stories, Uncategorized

Deadfall. Prose poem.

Stuffy, ghastly hot day in New York isn’t promising anything good. In the evening, in between the stale air one after another mad yells and screams are exploding in the tiny apartments on my street. I am wondering how many murders were committed tonight. And there was a war in my apartment as well, which made me feel absolutely deserted, but strangely light and philosophical at the same time. I wasn’t thinking about murder though, although I did feel a new kind of cold hatred; suicide always felt like a closer option according to my nature. I looked through the window. Why isn’t anybody balancing on the roof.  Why are people so quiet and enduring this hatred which trickle from every brick tonight. This silent hatred in the middle of nothing. Cruel, cruel evening. I opened a window again. Somebody, a wild tiger is tearing someone’s guts. Just here, in front of my eyes, on the pavement. I see it, I look at it, but really can’t do anything about it. The night screams. I need to close the window. I hope I will not wake up again.

Dark moods, Poem, Satire, Uncategorized

Piper methysticum or death.

Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee? –

said Camus

the guy who didn’t love life

too much

I really can’t make up my mind

should I kill myself or have my Piper Methysticum tea instead?

my illegal nectar

in this sad and absurd place

from where I came

It’s just too much today

the door of the world is closing

why should I be hopeful

and lie myself to sleep

that tomorrow will be better

but it never is, not here

Should I kill myself or wait


fear daze connection lost


silent hatred

Should I kill myself today

It just hurts too much

to be in New York tonight

where nothing seems to go well

but at least my illegal tea

is free at this place