At the Centre of the World

O, ‘what a piece of work is man!’
Reverberating throughout the empty hall
of the crumbling cathedral, stand
the inky shadows of a godforsaken ball.

Humans are fascinating, truly,
though he modestly walks among them all;
at times than nature still more unruly,
at times like the servants of her masterful call.

To whom and where do their rivers owe,
when the moonlight is colder than the drifting stone?
Why do they deny what they knowingly know?
Upon their innocence the bloody fields have grown.

O, what mysteries this world hides!
May one day he caress her undraped form?
Of valleys and mountains he politely scribes,
yet still the heart is a perplexing storm.

Do they the tears of cassis desire?
Why do we from our loves resign?
When all things must one day expire,
by fate must parting with embrace entwine.

Are you my friends the ghosts of my mind?
How should I know, I’m at the centre of the world.
Never shall we our own silhouettes find,
we’re all at the centre of this uncaring world.

Published in: on 15/04/2018 at 1:38 AM  Leave a Comment  

Be Careful of What You Wish for

Be careful of what you wish for,
for a boulder may fall out of the sky;
the unfeeling world hears no implores,
the mighty captain cannot the whirlpool fight.

Be careful of what you wish for,
for eyes see not the imps being lured,
when cherry drips cling to childhood lores,
widowed we are from our truths conjured.

Be careful of what you wish for,
your valiant quest shall no one impress;
though untiring you are for the love you swore,
like the thousands who fell, like your stubborn demise.

Be careful of what you wish for,
for wishes are not what’s in store;
though unyielding you are for the beauty you adore,
the story ends by a dusty seashore. 

Be careful of what you wish for,
for wishes our treasures like to tore;
for justice our ideal has in faith inherited,
injustice from the Sydney rumbles we ignore. 

Be careful of what you wish for,
when wishes we have grown to abhor;
in the growling of the trains and torrenting streets,
we pay for our sanctity before a no-exit door.

Published in: on 15/04/2018 at 12:22 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Cemetery

Away, from the noisy streets, away,
he enters the tall, solemn gates;
before him the mud and dirt encircle
the green shrubs and the engraved plates.

As the army, in squares they stand,
if Vulcan had blessed her sculptor’s hand;
yet the breeze greets him with a gentle embrace,
the scent of soil and cedar, no perfumer shall trace.

A squirrel gallops across the rocky road,
the sweet grass fed by our ancestor’s abode;
the starlings cheer in this gravely refuge,
jolly songs accompanying a desolate ode.

Two squirrels play on that grey, decaying stone,
chasing around on the trunks of forgotten bones;
his childish eyes wonder at this ragged cone,
reminiscent of guardians he had for eternity known.

He paced along on these dusty trails,
murmurs from the past spoke of unspeakable tales;
in our fleeting souls hide history’s stains,
our ghostly friends forged our earthly chains.

Monumental — are these tablets of abandoned names,
and one day his own shall be ashed in flames;
‘O is that you, the great Prof. Dr. Dr.?
And won’t the children sing of you, Herr Mueller?’

His trusty giants repell the heavenly fires,
his dead friends serenade with silent lyres;
the comforting air of this barren art,
in peace he again finds his forsaken heart.

Published in: on 08/04/2018 at 7:13 PM  Leave a Comment  


The greatest form of self-torture,
is not the inflicting of bodily pain,
for when eyes see but pain’s allure,
blood runs into a glass of champagne.

No! Not even Hamlet’s curse,
could plunge your soul into a fiery chamber.
When a poet savours the bitter rain,
his toxic heart blooms still bluer.

The greatest form of self-torture,
is artistry fated to breed an outcast,
denied by those resentful murmurs,
by His self-loathing, His wistful heart.

Published in: on 31/03/2018 at 1:59 PM  Leave a Comment  

Dark is the Night

Faraway, with sinking steps he paced,
the dreary sky watches over this land.
Lost, his spirit with the woods interlaced,
his heart grieves for a forsaken name.

In a whirlpool, with all his might he swims,
deeper he plunges into the gleaming abyss.
The livid air blankets this earthly brim,
tears suffocate in a self-consuming flame.

Heroic drums from a distance he hears,
reminiscent of a dream in quicksand.
Her glory or pain, neither he bears,
for a freed note is save a scarring bliss.

How shall he fall around a cursed sphere?
What beauty lies in this mortal errand?
When youthful valour has grown into fear,
when songs only memories shall understand.

Published in: on 31/03/2018 at 10:16 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Lost Gate

From legends your heroic deeds I have learned,
the cloak of darkness your revolution has earned;
the ethereal gardens of peace you have lost,
such is the enlightenment of humanity’s cost. 

Yet he who bears your enemy’s name,
a tale be told of what is, not ought;
slaves we ourselves make in our lavish cave,
to worship a façade of a sacrificial plot. 

My dear old friend, we meet once again,
your love I had foolishly denied;
as the pages fall onto the forsaken plain,
beneath the heartless heavens I survived.


The master of deception wears no liar’s mask,
the light she hides with a starry cast;
her words have enchanted our mortal hearts,
on an unconditional quest of doom we embark.

A promise of truth sings the magical airs,
emptiness we embrace with our anxious flask;
how beautiful seemed her illusory flairs,
to our innocent souls the loves they scar. 

Falsehoods we impute for our corrupting lairs,
an incomplete map makes more travellers fall,
The evil minds we shun for evil’s heir,
true immorality is a mere mind in the fog.

To see truth as a disciple of a truthful thought,
is to play the devil behind a fanciful door,
‘I trust you, madam; but I believe you not.’
Uncertainty haunts under the tyranny of god.


At last, this insurmountable gate I have lost,
I hold the flames that you have for mankind fought,
beyond the montage of the heavens I rise,
ripping a piece of his oasis from the skies.

Crumbling, breaking, before me the croissant lies,
as I sip my chocolate before this wintery night;
this flesh of perversity I humbly consume,
savouring my gluttony and my enticing perfume. 

All the worlds live but in our mortal hearts,
under no pretence of fate shall a human being chart;
the goodness of evil, my dark angelic court,
is no more absurd than a swaying mort.

Published in: on 16/11/2017 at 4:10 PM  Leave a Comment  

Bell Towers

The cool breeze brushes my shoulders
in this early Autumn afternoon,
as I work at the desk,
listening to the shy birds in the garden,
and the gentle rustling of
the branches just beyond the windowsill. 

The bells at the quarter hour reminds me,
like an artist’s brushstrokes,
the flourishes of life that we
have forgotten in this reckless age,
the beauty in which life’s motherly hands
has always draped us,
though our wandering eyes
have bypassed her elegant sweetness,
in their reach for the artificial glamour
that boredom has conjured.

So for a moment,
please forget about all your troubles and the prosaic affairs
— forget the weekly schedules,
the incomplete lists, the calling acquaintances;
forget the self-inflicted quests,
the righteous ordeals, the unknown future,
and the non-existent past… And simply look;
look at me, and saviour each moment
of our life shared,
of our walks along the creeks in the silencing rain
who shows us the grey ruins of an ancient battlefield,
where the remnants of a castle stands like a lone hero,
weathered by the sands surfing the desert wind,
protecting the woods where fairies live;
saviour each moment,
of our café pauses through historic towns,
our quiet nights of secret murmurs,
our light-hearted anticipations for each other.

The beauty of life would then surely unfold,
and she we may already see in our mind’s eye.

Published in: on 07/09/2017 at 4:37 PM  Leave a Comment  


‘To be, or not to be?’
In those tragic fates it seems,
the will of mankind are like snowflakes,
interestingly they dance and sway,
to the rivers they return and fade.

No longer is he —
the youthful vigour lost in history’s stain,
like the abandoned orphans in a cathedral,
whose cries not even angels hear,
until another Autumn comes,
when the lost hearts fall.

Near hell’s gate he stood,
yet another trap he was summoned through,
in the face of the most deceitful,
even the purest soul is lost.

How can a child be so cruel?
O it must be humanity’s cost.

In pain he is reborn,
as a black angel,
with wings dark as the abyss,
and a chest heavier than nothingness.

Such is life’s price,
to face the grandest mistake.
For each mistake he makes,
innocence grows into wisdom.
Is such wisdom’s price?
A dark heartless crate,
floating in the cold Alpine lakes,
in an endless soul-wrenching ache.

Published in: on 18/06/2017 at 11:07 PM  Leave a Comment  

Lifelessness in Chaos

With every true contradiction encountered 
I am all the more insane.
With every heartless degradation received 
I am all the more corrupt.
Until equilibrium; or until death.
Published in: on 10/04/2017 at 1:50 PM  Leave a Comment  

Dream Note N.8

Mark this as a new dawn,
where joy hatches out from chapters of despair.
As my ghost returns at each misty morn,
my love grows beyond my bodily lair.

Yet again you have haunted me in my frailest hours,
where darkness intoxicates the bitter air.
You have brought me the sweetest flowers,
keeping my soul from the unfeeling flares.

Published in: on 24/03/2017 at 9:53 AM  Leave a Comment