Fall Bloom

that blond girl
with long long hair
is a color
of delightful luminosity
by a precise
poetic sensuality
of the tongue
tapping the palate
hitting the right note
manifesting a tone
an equivalence of a smile
in all worlds

She –
made of lustrous transparent rose skin
is a goddess of temptation
the curling ice queen
on a museum floor
manifesting nudity to
not believing eyes
once dressed up
in tightly packed dark clothing
unfitting to the straight torso

jutting out the shine of
her far away alluring looks
the porter of ancient nordic landscapes is her eyes
which you’d choiceless fly through

She – the divine breeze made to softly aerate
angelic locks –
innocence of youthful dreams

joy may you call her laughter -unheard – freezing time
rebuilding traces of an unlived dream

She is here today

to harmonize the thought chords
attuned by the subtle passage
made of blurry sets of colors and lines
flowing at a readable rate  
along the dark November backgrounds
of an intoxicated Sunday morning

Red is still red in the neon
as if too early to be awake
clock hitting the afternoon
wall of fame signs rolling lonely
to haunt ghosts of yesterday nights
which have never come alive until they got brighter than the stars

Dark that shall make the silhouettes forget and reanimate
the never starting and neverending play of zombies
looking for a pure soul

always somewhere else
failing to find one

Flashes of illusion swept by the persistent horns

to be replaced in their place
not as divinity
but as an administrative layer of impurity
All replaceable at once
while everyday stays the same
while everyday they think is different
except for the old man

the old man doesn’t think
wearing a cap
sits there outside
at the most invisible corner of an old theater cafe

He sees everything he has three eyes
He hears everything he has three ears
He reads everything always the same newspaper
turning the pages in the same tempo of this chimerical dream

I am being observed I know
while writing beside him
and he says silently :
I don’t wanna read yours
but I can read you
if i want to
and he attempts to go
many many times

while I write I wish him stay
as if keeping an admirer beside my words
an anonymous faceless friend
and I speed up as I walk fast with my pen I fly
and he gravitates back to his chair again

I want to finish this up quickly and walk away at once without even looking at him not even once
that’s the perfect scenario I think mixing up a reality to a dream
considering the urgent importance of this line makes me immerse and see nothing other than the self  but alas the traffic lights turn to green

and She – the profile of my beauty queen
holding a beaker to go
raises her head dancingly
arcs the neck
and in slow motion
throws a laughter to the air
whose weight should be a blissful wiege
for my loving looks –
made of a shape of a missing
of what I could have never been
– halving her pink coat in well fitting blue to her jeans

and she steps forward to fade away
leaving me chained to the glorious gravity
of this untouchable dream

on this invisible island of mirrors
which neither she nor anybody else has ever seen
but me

hopelessly sculpting now
a reflection of an illusion
made real
through the weight of these words
me is  a sad melody
of an autumn leaf
falling for her dream


why are you alone?

but I am not alone!
there is so much
of the blessed around me
and at these times
all of these
one by one
of me
but when I am lonely
nothing and nobody
can help
this also means
I am not there
and when I am not there
there is not a thing or a being
that can be there for me
because I am not there
you see?

this is about the
longing for the self
these are residues
it comes and goes
until that one and true self
is reinstalled
all you do is work with it
by keeping the one pointed
through lost and found
you work hand in hand
with the teacher in you
accept being the student
until you two are
inseparably one

writing about these
is no poetry
observing duality
is one step towards
the experience of freedom
the experience of the freedom
is a unification of the self
with selves and things
is one step towards the divine
as for the divine there is no
means of separation
it is one
an undefinable
subject of a
poetic being
of all united poetry

would that be a living poetry?

we will never be able to know
until we are it and when we are it
we will never be writing

She my love

before sunset at Diablerets

photo by Thouartho

Are you so near?

sometimes I miss you
so much so
like a rose could miss deserts
on earth from a lonely planet

sometimes I miss you
without knowing who you are
what you are
driven to you alone – I am all you
the nameless

tears as if an orgasm
flush without knowing
clouds see that I am crying
I try to hide
like a little girl
tears of well learned shame
once knowing….
refusal of that shame
still there

refusal of my fall towards her sensuality
refusal to live her poison in me
refusal to wear her body
refusal to see her friends
refusal to be in her environment
refusal to all
that she refused about herself
refusal was there before she died

and before I got born
then refusal received acceptance for the whatever
then refusal could not bear it and died after her

she died
after seeing him
after leaving him
after losing her period
after losing her sleep
she went on and on
and on
non stopping
she let go off herself
down a mountain

she died
she let go off herself
she said in a pure land
before the gorgeous sunset
she let go off herself

ignoring all that
deteriorating body
she lost access to
parts of it slowly
letting it be used and misused
by herself and the unseen
that she recognized silently
so well
one by one
each one of them at the time
which I met at another place later on

before she died
she dropped her fears with his spirit
down a mountain path

I got born in her body one month after that event
three years after she lost her period
by my birth that body received a period again

it was a magical girl called Marie
Marie came to her two times
to teach her body the asanas

Marie gifted her an orange flower
for the asanas that she could shape her body in
by using her breath so naturally

new breath
a breath that I got born from
a birth that brought a period to this body again
an orange rose is Marie  
a celebration  
a gift of a rebirth – my birth-  

she the silly girl
that could have been the lover of the wind
I am now lost in her life
when trying to be as she
I cannot
she was gifted endlessly
I am not

when I write needlessly like her
when I eat what she likes
I call me sick in her life
yes that is what I am supposed to be as her life
I am alien to her
to her room – big room

she never dared to call it a house
as she just managed to camp there
hiding her fears everywhere
in betweens and corners
she was alone
all the time

her dream – only dream was to move away
but she moved away
from her loneliness
towards her isolation
each time she tried
she was dumped back
in a bigger emptier room
full of growing thoughts
made by her

she was alone
all the time
her dream – only dream was to move away

similar is mine
but to move in
to embrace this heart that I carry
I see a face to it
a sad boy lives in my heart
I saw his face yesterday
when I closed my eyes
a sad , angry boy

because she
she carried him as an … attachment
to escape from what she truly is
not allowing herself to be what she truly is

at first there was
a magical pink stone
which she found from the seas
rain – storm – to her surprise
brought the stone to her
from other worlds
where she in reality comes from
her grandmother told this once to her

the pink stone
the magical pink stone
she took from the seas
seas that she meditated to
seas that she bathed in
the pure salty water
seas that blessed her love
gave that pink stone to her
after a rain storm

the pink glittery rocky stone
was made of his heart in reality
he didn’t know

so that he could be with her
all the time
she could not understand how it kept its color all year long
she had a technical education
at the time she refused radically
to believe in  what was scientifically unexplainable
but she lied on that
all there was as knowing has always been in her heart
she always knew what needs to be known before proofs
before happenings
before school
before preachers
before words were born
she always knew

she always knew what she should do
she my love
she my true love
she the goddess of beauty
she the mother of all flowers made of stars
she the healer that lives at the edge of the universe
she the flower field of he

she said – it is proven
all stones coming from the sea
belong to the sea
for their beauty is mingled by which
they are being manifested as
but to her surprise
this one never changed  its color
it stayed as is
with her
all the time

maybe it was meant to heal her heart

so much aching
so heavy
so breathtaking
for such imbalance
she thought

I leave this body now
the universe does not deserve
the poisonous thoughts
produced by its heaviness

what she called
his lovelessness
was his love in truth

his lovelessness
was her own lovelessness
towards herself

in truth
she wanted to kill her fears
to be a match to the one love
in her heart
pulling her deep down
towards the direction
she so resisted to be pulled in

and then she let go  off herself

yes it comes and goes
her memory
her memories

I try to relate to it
activating some emotions just to study it
as if
as if
I am her

I allow myself miss as she misses
ah so feelingly
but I do not have a story to remember
it can be anything
I just see the energy of it
the potential
I just see I am not she
while using this body
I just know I shall not need to descend
to waste time

the now is different
although may look the same
could look -the same- to her eyes
the now with these objects that she was so much  scared of

I wonder if she even once had
the now

maybe not
maybe yes
then maybe she is all the healing flower fields that I am born as

growing  all along that one side of the mountain
the highest one in this universe
changing my colors ceaselessly
as a true match
to his iron love
I unconditionally blossom by
on and on and on
as one.


new eye / wild mountain flower



Photo by Alin
written by Alin
written to commemorate all the courageous love

the Writer

I am the writer
of a story
embodiment of the I
so the story..

who is there to disprove me
if not the I?
I say I am the writer just
of the I of the story
but not just the I


I visited
a land

of silence

a land without a word

I would not write
I would not talk
I would not think
but be just
it went there as such

All things
made of sound
like sound of a word – of words

when I was
I too was a sound

muted to be disqualified for any thought
celebrating a symphony of postures

of the dance of the things
made of sound

in which I was a thing
among things

an incomprehensible uttering of truth
made of knowing and feeling

invisible and muted to the seeker

I remained a part

I became the I apart

and only then
the writer penned


Photo by Alin

Number Palaver

There is a number that knows itself
Logic has predicted its numberness at most
but logic does not know to what it matches

Within its coordinateless space
beyond the mind
the number has formed itself
at the expense of fixing
a masterpiece about a lover
made of the shape of one’s desire
becoming that one pure desire
of and to and for  All

or simply invisible
known to none
temporary silhouettes
silhouettes collapse
about their
barbapapaic nature
to the unknowing

what you call


the combination of chosen words
made of letters
presenting duality
between me and me
made of the sound of the form of one’s
ever changing body in one’s mind

in such frequency that
when one reads
one connects one to one
( like in maths –
and a bit more complex than that
considering sensual feedbacks etc 🙂)
and transforms
almost vectorial  to

some resulting frequency
of an irreversible altered state
and a doses of future changes
but such occurrence cannot take place
when once known


such occurrence takes place
if it is irrevocable of the finite shells
of time

a true joker
has a pure skin as such
through a veil of pores
nothingness floats
towards its knowing
keeps oneself as is
unknown to all the separateness there is
Thus the program forgets
*(:D = thankfully)*
or runs infinitely  at a place :
‘this could be heaven and this could be hell’
as in Hotel California

you should know for yourself
if you wanna make it love

If you not
It’s then someone else
It is always someone
as reasoning goes

it is a manifestation of the self
a contextualization of a narrative
as story requires
as story unfolds

I always remind myself to
keep up to one reason just
which eventually are no words
but sound or silence of
a reflection on an expanding
surface of a bubble in pure
unfixable color

words of preconditioned unoriginals
manifestations of self adorations
what is there to be said or heard or grasped?

when All stories are the same?

Shaped extensions of one source
sticking out repeatedly to tell one thing just
expanding the bubble
within the bubble and the bubble

to be heard
as big as a

en route exit as scriptures call it
but am I gonna be able to hear it?
(or you or us … )

the Gatekeeper / Only If

I found myself in this program today
Not questioning
Why Why Why … Self Pityingly
I just observe the sky
from where the sun shines

Pale blue lightness resembling
a warm summer day from childhood

sensual memories
without physical cravings
… as I used to do
some years ago
before I died
because I died

Ice cream flavor
without needing to taste
disappearing in the wind
with complementary
delightfully mixed in the suggestion
of the flavor
as if all one thing

of girls
of boys
of moms
of dads
of lovers
of ages
a pass of delicacy
of joy seeker crowds

the sound of my unlived
… what?
Colors – ?
All observed now from a distant star

A few changing clouds here and there
always changing but always staying a few

I reminded to myself who I really am
as I learned yesterday
and yesterday
and yesterday

I looked up and saw a seagull circling the sky
in the same tune of the song in my mind
and wished it won’t disappear
out of my sight
only if it could stay a little longer
and longer
and longer
so that as much as I knew that it knew
it too knew that I knew
by ‘that it knew’
I became it

knowing that it too wishes me out of this program
by the reasons which will become methods
accomplished by my beingness (I ness)
It comes and goes
disappears behind the blue curtain
A blue curtain that resembles the crystals of my true home
where sun shines metallic pale
making shelters from ice in which we recharge

comes and goes yeah
and knows
who I am
it has all the patience of the universe
with his love – generations old
ready to crack a crack at once
that will serve as the gate
one feather
to fly up

‘my feather’
he used to say
lovingly jokingly
making the small girl angry
she wished to be wiser than a feather for him
but I am sure
we both had the same image in mind
I only know now

the gatekeeper
and I

He died too young
I was too young to understand where he went
except for what they said

I believed in what they said and I was right to believe
he waits for me there beyond the clouds
that’s what they said
Jacob the gatekeeper
the lover

the shape-free fountain
the key
gifted knowingly
I shall keep my promise
only if I dare
to pass

only if …
that simple touch

yes only if

A Trail of a Smile

Is it you or is it me or is it our destiny
that the weather changes whenever I contact you ??

‘but I am gonna come man
I am gonna come this time
no matter who or what
cause i know it ‘s a set up’

‘like that impossible scenario
of the nationwide delay
or the sudden flat tire
or our burning fire
for dinner maybe -remember?
and we both knew
what needs to be extinguished first’


I have a friend
i know
and we celebrate
in all facets
the change of the seasons
once or twice a year
physics that leaves
a  trail of a smile
at the corner of my mouth
lingering until the next time

he tells stories of fume shapes
that blows in one or two
and fades
as the daylight

more of a focus of a moment –
a surprise
about its visibility
an appearance just
that the daylight too knows me
when I am not afraid to be
what I truly am

stay if you want to
But No
you know me not?
and your new flower
beautiful  she is
and tomorrow

tomorrow is future

I wait in the cover of late night
at a station alone
so peculiar
the sudden appearance of a pigeon
the only not sleeping one by my side  at that time
travellers of
one vertical one horizontal line
but I know why
I smile inside
seeing me smile
from somewhere else
feeling this body
like once in a scary dream
I said “hey but you are dream”
and quickly woke up
but now I am still awake

it also knows  why
‘it feels good’
we know for a moment
then forget
a moment to celebrate
to be kept  alive
for others
to visit and experience
the information preserved in that
seemingly matterless shell
it is a memory thing
you gotta be free to forget
and create
and fully be what you wanna study
without losing the awareness of your thousand selves

along the earth’s curve

Sandwiched through
two cloudy loaves
made of breath
I observe
the purest of blue

one nudges a sharp line
gently from below

draws her dream silhouette
an imaginary residue of slopes

the one who allows me
to miss you now
when I am away from mystery
and because I am mystery
lives in there
uninterrupted as a dot
where planes cross
to create dashes
same color as the mare’s tail

the one above on the contrary
is as unpredictable as
the contours of the flowers in cotton fields
where you would be the breeze
to jolt the atmospheric

as the indigotic immerses languidly
she gets bluer than the blue untouched
at the end of the suggested tail
deeper and fiercer so as not to disappear
but leaves an echo
of its trail
in your mind

soon that will also be shut
the port to and of another realm

the whitening molds subtly the shapeless
pales the light to an analogous fluid
all sharps – lines – flowers – fields melt
into an underwater blurring sea life
where creatures are so small or just hide
not from us but from contrasts

slowly darkening  we forget
about ourselves and the girl’s dream fades
she forgets

the you and I
becomes tuningly unimportant
we know so well now
it is not for us
illusions of light
of reflections
are just about
other worlds far aways
night falls
along the earth’s curve