Don’t Stay in Berlin

You are so raw, so rough
You hand cream-less vulture, lacking
Any vegan ocean salt scented oxygen salve
and on beautiful callus they
Consciously weave their skinny hips, they
Bristle and buffer, they pucker up
Their backs like their lips,
Them red painted hills of Siberia
Sewn into you, you hand-me-down Istanbul
Smelling like garlic yoghurt and bulgur salad, as lush as yesterday’s pineapple squares purged from the sea,
Knitted into golds of paisley at your shore, where Pablo and Marlene
Grasp their final breaths,
Flushed here, from the West,
Where only the wolves and their mothers survive.
What are you, but rings underneath Russia’s eyes?
You carousel of world war dust,
Not more than an accordion of gay lust, dragerina boys and lesbian grans,
Strung and played as america’s favourite toy,
What are you, but the sound of long closed factory halls
And their moaning machines, copulating like cells of instrument oil,
Oh, the balls, the skin and the bells of Jeff Mills,
pulsing and dripping from the interior of a béton brut die,
Where we hide, like ghosts from our previous lives,
Leaning on each other, wringing and squeezing, my limbs and their fits,
Shuttered behind shades, between faux black leather and diamond blades,
vowing repeatedly to the bass of tomorrow and the smell of your tits,
Restless and tired, like the hobos’ eyes on every passing train.
What are you, you two faced whelp,
Secretly treasuring up timber beams like you are the sun and they are your light,
smudgy used Baby Borns, worn out ushankas, French paste-on moustaches,
gibbous showmen and impeccable faces with long, flowing, healthy manes haunting them – you carry them all,
just to build three super massive black holes inside of a Trojan Horse,
ah, oui, pardon, Trojan Cat of course, or, to be more accurate: tomcat that is,
With whiskers moulded from stained, green cinnamon stucco,
Hypnotically whistling of sun lit saharas, of Orient oases set on different planets,
of perfect skin and violet eyes,
making us homesick for wanderlust,
And still, you are so raw, you are so rough,
You are not polished, never preppy, not even genteel, you are like none of your brothers and sisters,
You burp and you growl, you laugh and you howl, you little abandoned unwashed orphan.
And still, we come, we come in hundreds, in thousands, from every scratch of this earth, from every worm hole we crawl,
Dancing to your nauseating song,
For we are the rats,
And you are the pied piper of Hamelin.
Have us now, have us here,
Us jesters in your yard.
We came for your love, and we stay for your music.

" Let me be alone. "
by Virginia Woolf, from The Waves (via violentwavesofemotion)
pharmaceutical-blackmail inquired I dig your writing... can't wait to see more from you

wow thanks…. I like yours, too, especially ‘I promised you wetlands’. :)

you are the rings under my eyes,
the dirt underneath my friend’s fingernails,
you are the herpes simplex
he transmits with his beautiful genitals,
or my mother’s plastic rigid back brace
silently and lonely
sitting on the leather couch
every night till dawn,
the whole living room depleted, just
you, as this milky off-white substitute for
a scoliosis
waiting there, emptily
you are the two crooked vortexes
on top of her spine
and you are the book louse
crawling down recycled
default summons envelopes I
try to let my thoughts
evaporate from,
every time after the realization
of your existence
gives me something similar to lactose intolerance

this was a year of no regrets, and of all regrets; of making love on trains, of gaining weight, of throwing plates in arguments, of MDMA drained midnight mcdonald’s burgers, of realising a silent overpriced cab ride through rainy south london cuddled to one of your closest friends is worth more than any saturday night booty shaking party you can imagine, and then again, any spontaneous after hours party dancing on the new linoleum pavement with your friends, wrenched with cheap dry gin, is worth more than any stupid family gathering of the last twenty two years; that everything you send out is coming back to you, one way or the other, like a boomerang of visible molecules, stretched upon your eyesight like lacking spectacles, that it’s okay to have an asymmetrical face or hearing voices of your mind on the underground, that a single glance from a stranger can heal you, farting in your sleep, Marshmellow bedsheets, windowless rooms, burping into your tutor’s face, letting your fingers stroke back and forth shakespeare’s words, ‘fear no more the heat of the sun’, india paper folded into origami birds, your friends moaning on the floor above you, their elbows scratched and rubbing against cheap carpet, it was a year of playing scrabble in psychiatries, of cutting out the toxic off your lives, of sick girls with sick eyes, of pretty angels with manly voices, of cats, and kittens, and adipose dogs, of quitting your job at american apparel, of reading shoplifting from american apparel, of replacing yellow virtual paper with white sheets and stranger’s naked backs, replacing ink with icing, fading tattoos, of milchtritt, of losing iPhones, a year in which edward snowden kept on being ignored by any pretty face you met, of collapsing on oxford street, a year of snow, of dry kisses, of strawberry tongues, of failures and lies, and in the end, plane rides and golden german sun showers eclipsing through the little bull eye windows on the passenger’s hair crowns like photoshopped halos, of returning home, lying in your parent’s living room smiling with teeth of an opium hazed pearl, hair unfurled on the persian rug as a hand-held fan, reminiscing the melting chocolate in your stomach, and being proud of the fact that your finger print is not kept on your electronic ID. fear no more the heat of the sun, fear no more the heat of the sun. clarissa dalloway spoke, your hands stroking back and forth woolf’s handwriting, ink capturing words of long-lost centuries which fly through the winds and the clouds and skies since 1527 like black birds dissolving from your friend’s painted bodies, hovering away from their shoulder blades, on someone’s arms, into the oceans, and caves, back into your room, like moths or like bats, slowly and gracelessly perching on your brick wall into a flowing font, reading fear no more the heat of the sun.