Diomededae

We are the last…,

everlasting light,

moor far and wide,

greener than war,

two souls collide,

a rapture, a fright…,

yesterday’s morning 

Delight…,

but who would disown?

a wayward Son…,

his coat is black and white,

see the birds…,

they are flying,

the crows, albatrosses, 

seaguls like your fathers nose,

a long and hard goodbye,

a war in your name,

the Mystic fight,

Peace of our time,

rest for a moment,

a moments notice,

white sands 

like papers of Infini,

for honor and all his friends,

the Death of a Merchant,

he is the merchant - death,

like all great kings of old,

and old were his songs,

before the world

and all its suffering,

there is love

and there is kindness,

so sick of its vileness,

its pile…,

a Strohm of turpitude,

we survive,

alas - we thrive,

a noun in the woods

with an axe and a beard,

birds live in it,

create nests,

have babies,

we dont,

so we dont follow,

a stream of patterns,

laughing out loud,

structures of foreign…,

affairs…,

what soil is your father,

ashes of yesterday,

we saw a great white,

peripheral vertigo,

a slow quickness

by his part…,

to undo,

what can’t be 

undone,

so a writing lies

like a visage, 

a pastiche,

on his tomb,

its stone,

a quiet guardian

of teflon night:

“Be vigilant”.

Alanud

Toidu tegemine on räpane kunst,

nagu ka armastus…,

aga sind õgivate pilkude varjus

nad keevad…,

“Õige magus!”

nagu uue elu algus,

puhas, nii puhas

on valgus,

oled Alanud.

Da Soul

Art is a fickle fiend,

she rumbles and tumbles down…,

a whirlwind of forgotten dreams,

a staircase of lost and found,

hmmm, I wonder - me…,

the wanderer (scapegoat),

and some crumbles of foreign…,

just a touch, a small, small,

now it calls as a fish to the land,

mouth open/close…, fiery chasm,

Da Soul,

and a little bit of that sweet,

sweet pain relief…,

down the drain, (water) -

splish-splash,

and a few musky n cute…,

gentlemen, maybe,

and, and, and away we go,

they were angels from there…,

from then,

a sweet, mmm,

so sweet pain relief.

Mezzanine Dreams

*

The deep melancholy dream,

escape the trenches of Sycily…

by the Thorn and Sound,

silently wiggling -

this is a Monsters ball,

creed of a Madman,

mad as a Hatter,

to the Hull and Platter,

seasons change,

water lilies by the stream

somewhere near,

… and who could deny your return,

home of a wild and mezzanine,

the Byzantium of your time.

**

Why wait and wither…,

while the going gets tough,

who?! - bereft the winch

would then sound the alarm (forlorn),

Love like a muddied water -

a brown god (or goddess),

***

to the wreckage, my brother,

death is just another path we must take,

and to conquer its domain,

sooner not later…,

its Zombies paradise, a park…,

a walk through the meadow,

another silent stream of a yellow river,

beat the Lonely Drum,

of lifes imperviousness

and the other one (in quiet thought),

Remembrance…

****

we would be green…,

and beyond green,

to touch the Unforeseen,

as All has touched you,

not with compulsions

or wrinkled teeth…,

bouncing against one another,

like William against Blake,

to the throneroom!…, -

Whats he mean by that?

No idea (worth it),

*****

and with that my dear gents,

…, and ladies of the night,

we part ways…,

Light turns to Day,

and creation is just another,

of Frosts roads,

by the sailing of the seas

(Liquid Landmasses)

Andromeda and Aphrodite,

I am Cetus, or maybe Perseus,

(who would know),

violently I boast with my magic

and swords…,

until you arrive -

my son,

until you arrive.

“Until you arrive - “ is a fragment of a story told by the Golden Lion to the Sea turtle while visiting the Great Halls of Infini.

It recounts the remnants of the Old World and the destruction of Time.

Told by an unknown author who might as well could be the Creator itself, hence the subtle hints of different myths and poets of those times and the Knowing.

More about that in the future and Chronicles of the Unadulterated.

The House of His Moods

To give greed greeds due

and by it be free of it…,

a pasty warrior of words

and spells and wholesome

deeds that some misread,

to some mismanaged hound,

a dog of fearsome…,

nay - a fickle meaning,

who in their right mind…,

show me one with the right 

mind,

but there in the farthest corner

of that scorched land,

The Hand of God,

saved from the sword

with bells and whistles

and the beauty,

to help him leave 

this hollow nest

where there are no 

birds voices,

no echoes and woe,

here we be - the lost

and loud,

the unsolemn,

a sand, a rain, a sea,

the quiet storm

and souls that sing,

intermingled with 

cherry blossoms, wind

and boggled eyes 

of the newborn child.

The Mass of Many Things

It was a damp and curiously sunny afternoon,
two of what couldn’t be together,

as a peaceful act of vengeance…,

trembling trees of unforgiveness,

we swallowed each moments nectar

and it made us drunk…, of life,

of meaning and the mass of many things,

lighter than a feathers touch,

it was too damp and too sunny…,

curious - I might say.

Then time went by,

men sat on their crooked chairs,

pinetrees were smoothly waving 

the cold mornings goodbye…,

as something was left unsaid,

a lovers touch, a souls kiss,

a Devils handshake…,

and the wrinkled newspaper

thrown into dumpsters pit,

regular irregularities.

Old Pinus was a dancer,

he placed baby trees with such care

as holding someone close to his chest,

as giving his heart piece by piece…,

all that was heard was a calm sigh,

nothing more was born that day.

Two or more of us died after that,

not from mnemonia or other written diseases,

but something of a more spiritual kind,

a souls journey…,

the spaces between the visible 

and invisible,

since non of us knew the issue at hand

and even if it was truly an issue…,

we wrote it off as something mystical

and never spoke of it again,

just perceived each our own change,

in heart, body, mind and soul,

Old Pinus was there…,

as all of us.

Some of those days passed by with extreme speed,

like a catcher in the rye…,

to our very own Eye,

just as we were about to be born again,

from all that moss,

covering the rocks like small hats,

Remembrence Of Things Past,

not in times convoluted space,

but of love and life,

that the Mother of this world gifts,

the aspartame kiss…, 

Neon dreams.

Full pledged flag hand,

holding the sun in its wake,

oh what a sight to behold,

and a memory flooded 

the gates of Tartarus…,

as we were walking all rivers,

with the flies, birds and the bees.

Saturday

the 17th of January, 2026

As it should be

The night is young…,

as it should be,

thoughts linger for a moment,

as saying “Stop, hold me more!”,

we are young trees,

world as a forest creaks…,

in its wake,

truth be told…,

this is a moment’s peace,

nothing lasts…,

and it is good,

as it should be.

Ignited North

You are the soothing sound of silence,

when the first snow has fallen…,

crystals of some foreign planet,

faces looking up, souls inward,

as a bird of perpetual flapping,

enigmatic existence…,

that is how we met…,

true travelers of ignited North,

small prayers on small acts of kindness,

sun on top of the moon…,

wind gushing through your fence,

trees all dressed in the servitude of Autumn,

we are truly wealthy beyond measure,

beyond all accounts…,

as a harbinger of solitude,

the slap of future over the face of mankind,

there is a ghost following you,

whose ghost are you?…,

as a kid, smacking lips together,

different tastes of certain spices,

like a train blowing noise with smoke,

chuggin, n chuggin to those distant lands,

where there grow a wild, wild trees,

and bushes, and berries, and beautiful women,

as to say: search for me

and I will show you beauty,

and search we did,

as to answer that foreign call, that God,

echoes of spruce falling in the mist of winter,

soon upon us with its purity…,

a sky so creamy as a flat white coffee,

your neck fighting the urge to push that head,

push it for a tiny kiss,

just for me, just for fun, 

and I remember your smell,

took me a long while to fade those roses,

the terrors of not knowing, or knowing too much,

all flew away with the birds,

flowed away with the stream, a river, 

crude rain over the gray Mountain (singing our song),

you were there, always,

as Nature is to all things, 

until remedy came not from friendship,

but solitude of togetherness,

as a bleak flex of steam cleaning the inpurities,

we cleansed our souls by the mere presence,

that was all that was needed,

no more, no less…,

Exercitatio Anatomica de Motu Cordis et Sanguinis in Animalibus

An Anatomical Exercise on the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Living Beings

or how we thought of it…,

the one and only true carcass of inspiration,

we - the uninitiated,

by the vast knowledge of infinite space,

monsters of time…,

William Harvey thought…,

a thought and nothing else,

just like a wind on a barley field,

he scrubbed the mystical,

the silk thread of light,

the momentary speck of God,

a creature so true,

so true and violently indulgent,

like a sand moving in the desert,

dunes so eloquently dancing,

the innocuous touch of gold,

stream of that someone’s son,

we stretched the form,

and it sang the universal tune,

notes written by some creator…,

lost between time and space,

barely breathing…,

a sleeping giant,

come to wake the world,

and all it desired,

was to meet it’s maker,

a prison of mirrors,

far away land,

the Self and I…,

he thought,

soon the birds and the beasts,

beautiful sense of losing,

amped by the notion of good will…,

towards the unimaginable,

beyond the norm…,

there he could mold and be molded,

we was he and always will be,

purest of snow…,

white is the hand that feeds,

broken heirloom of a broken heir,

there I will build my kingdom…,

of kindness and sorrow lost,

there I will be the forever more…,

Will-o-the-wisps

A good song is its own reward,

as is death, a poem…,

a wild night out,

when the eagles, the owls,

shadows in the mist,

misleading whisps,

they a-leading a traveller,

through the lonely,

the idle ignes fatui,

where are you going?

a sweet solemn,

we the Father, the Mother,

now we a boating,

bloating, boasting,

for you…,

your attention,

fast…, cry,

act now,

for your time is short,

no time true,

a ladle on a swollen…,

bucket of…,

we the Great 

Underminer…,

all the old,

newer too,

soo. (Estonian),

the few…,

becomes the many,

what evil emanation?,

never evil,

it is functio,

a similitude,

Naue Tempera,

to be reassured,

of rescue…,

and he filed,

the fangs of longitude,

Middlemarch,

provincial la Boheme,

a subtle node of indiscretion,

it didn’t mean it…,

of a lake, a river,

pond of Pontius,

a quiet epitath,

whisper of words,

uttered in completion,

never completed…,

so never uttered at all,

this is a song…,

the Opposite

They said life was supposed to be fun

and an easy ride…,

yet to you it isn’t,

violent acts of your imminent Nature,

seeds from the Underbelly of Kraken,

that unconscious part of Society,

Here we Be,

Here I laid,

Here I’ll …,

as the thorns of Rose,

killing the sight with tremors,

She, as a plaque of colors,

humming the tune of your…,

pre-determined exit, (Existence)

to a Heavenly sphere,

a knifes edge,

dull profanity,

something not working,

as quite…,

an horrific-prolific prophylactic,

soon to rise for the occasion,

like that ancient tomb,

from sand and Dune,

to meet the Hollow Men,

the stuffed men,

filled with straw, (Eliot)

Oh how I wish to see you win,

not just…,

but win big,

go home and be born again,

instigate the new Order,

out of the Chaos of your doing,

…, or the Opposite.

Aspidistra Flying

“Sometimes I think we’re all corpses.

Just rotting upright.”

- George Orwell, Keep the Aspidistra Flying

Through the silence of broken things,

a quiet listener…,

his thumping heartbeats,

the flow of bright red blood,

a vein pulsating like a magistral

in the middle of a big city,

there we sat like Buddha,

rusty souls titillating 

with excitement,

Who comes with 

this kind of disdain?…,

filled and filed,

overboard and simple-minded,

a rake with too small an amount of leaves,

too much noise, too much noise,

he was a flower ready to grow,

a drunkard of ease,

through and through,

many a moons they wrestled 

beneath the orthodox lamp,

a violent rush of blood to the head,

other body parts and regions too,

if to be precise…,

they called it love,

or some other earthly beast,

without face or any kind of passport,

a stranger in a strange land,

an empty orchestra,

a pointless poem,

lifeless eyes floating against the window,

searching for a way out…,

I would guess,

but no, oh no, no, no,

they were aliens of plant life,

monsters of infinity,

eternal recorrection (recurrence) of some sorts,

an evil machination,

comes from Niccolo Machiavelli,

I bet you,

How much?…,

then a soldiers kiss landed,

a seldom wanted sound of foom,

mastery in cheese-making,

and of the return home,

relational diagrams show,

fight or flight is a sudden death

of all those adventurers,

souls adamant for recalibration,

through external values

or internal spiritual practices,

darkest of nights,

a walk in a forest filled with witches,

Sorrow found me when I was young,

and to Hell with you,

creepy lover-boys,

soft and steady wrinkles 

turned to gold,

in a cold winter afternoon,

or was it morning,

when you touched me,

pancakes and coffee,

other tasty treats,

and now my infinite Space,

the valleys and streams,

fountains of pure water,

a solemn fisherman on Lake Como,

regulated through years and…,

other curious tastes,

we follow no form,

no needle in a haystack,

or only the bodies of goddesses,

their beauty is unrecognizable,

Antiquity Mild…,

that’s how I’d name them,

on this beautiful day.

Unsolemn

Soon it will lose its very touch,

a silently flowing stream of consciousness,

and of love and of life and of happiness,

all suffering and other self-promoting assholes,

the cult of human-reality…,

finally done for,

this is the creed of the little people,

lizards walk on sand…,

hot and steamy memories,

boys naked near the beach,

girls quietly watching, exhuming,

something dreamy creating a visible cloud,

wet and moist, slimy thrust of pubic bone,

home alone, home together…,

sun was its own worst enemy,

too hot to hug, too far to reach,

past of this cosmic melody…,

relativity unsolemn and a waking,

a waking…, a waking…,

up too slow,

then down again,

branches of a fig tree, fruit so sexy,

a tasty and succulent oral s*x,

natures hegemony over orgasms,

Creation in its vilest…,

we created what others feared,

it was a field day, okra, wheat, corn

on a strangers cob,

lubed tenderness,

and of all the unsolicited advice,

we received none…,

as young age tends to act on,

tends to use crayons on asphalt,

melting toffee on bellies,

strawberries and chocolate,

hot butter, yellow as the bus,

burning the lobsters red,

while the growing gets rough,

when the going gets tough,

through the vine,

and of cotton and blues,

and the skies left for me and you.