Sirens’ Song

From days of old until today
I have not seen a single ray
Of sunlight that
Would not turn into burning pain
Against the ever-changing flow of things

I know exactly what tomorrow brings
Pretentious joy and poison rain
Inside my head
Where hopes are naught but broken clay
The scars of which shall never fade

China in the Void

‘I feel lost inside my own skin’, I wrote.
It is not like a prison –
I am just all over the place –;
not like ashes scattered to the wind –
I just extend indefinitely.
I cannot get a hold of anything –
it keeps floating
like ethereal china
in an endless void.


All the people in the world,
with all their lives,
with all their deaths,
with all their words,
with all their silence,
with all their promises,
with all their oaths,
with all their dreams,
with all their nightmares,
with all their deeds,
with all their apathy,
with all their gains,
with all their losses,
mean nothing.

Everything is destined to go to waste in the end,
sooner or later,
without question, without doubt.
Only our denial makes it appear different –
as though anything were worth our while.

And when I look into your eyes,
I see you at the end of time:
We are worlds apart.
And when I look into your heart,
I see your doom.
I see your doom approaching.

The Dilemma Created by Philosophy and Poetry

A philosopher is someone who does not understand anyone else. Thus, he or she keeps asking questions.

A poet is someone whom no one else understands. Thus, he or she keeps writing.

I am both.


The following is a poem by Amy Bells and me. Every first stanza is mine, every second stanza is hers.

I found myself a dying sun,
I lay ashore, all mem’ries gone,
Beneath a sky of crimson clay,
Where every world spends its last day.

The dusty sand beneath my form
I used to love looks so forlorn.
The waves crash down with energy
They do not wish to share with me.

I am tired of it all,
Sick to death, I take the fall
Down into the void, abyss,
Without parting glass or kiss.

You will not find me here tomorrow,
I have drowned myself in sorrow,
The bleakest darkness of my past
Swells in the distance like a mast.

I shall not parish, all the same,
Your world is evil and insane,
Yet I shall rise again at last,
While you’ll be buried in the past.


Quite establish’d, well ignited,
Red with Wine and all delighted,
Fed and bred and well embrac’d,
Publicly denounc’d, disgrac’d.

Scandalous, in Rags, with Drugs,
Media Stamp upon them: ‘Sluts’,
Interviews, Books, Films, and Rage,
Dead and buried in the Grave.