When I feel you

It’s when I’m lonely that you dart back.

Do I love you? 

Not even close, I would say. 

It’s when I’m back that I realise how quaintly I’m being used. 

But am I?  

I suppose. 

It’s when I feel you, that I realise 

I’m just as a player as you.


The Charles Bridge 

I remember lying on the floor, by the Charles Bridge in Prague. Waiting for the sun to break through the night. 

I layed, letting my corps blend with the sky and the ground.

It was then, when I was part of both, the earth and the sky that I realised, how short our stay is. 

How a new day does not only bring hope, but absence too.   

How the pace always flows.

How no one ever stops.

How absence would not control, if I could simply condone.  



Adam stuffed the last piece of flesh into his mouth. Outside, the heavy dawn fog damped Jena’s clothes hanging on the drying line. As the sun rose behind the trees, flares of light shone upon the rusty metal doors, softly painted red. Adam observed the aurora glimmering through the window of the warehouse. When a beeping noise went off. The processor. Still blind focused on the                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      blood puddles outside, an interrupted shady laugh started to sprout from the deepest corner of his nicotine diaphragm. A bark.

[To be continued…]

Society Killed her Vibe

It was the day Ronald died, that everything changed.
 Depression the doctor said. “nothing too serious. Nothing too bad”

Great she thought he’d know what to do with me.

“Take anti-depressants. One in the morning. Two at night”


 It was just couple of years ago now, flags still weaver at half-mast. No one yet remembers.

 It was Sunday morning the sky was the canvas of the awakening city. The sun rose shyly, blushing behind the buildings as wind swirled statically through the bald trees. 

 Kelly the social worker was at the corner of the street, when the sound of a gunshot broke the airs electric silence. She wasn’t on duty that day and she had sworn to God nothing would stop her from taking her day off. But as she heard the fired artillery, her phone slipped through her fingers from sheer panic. There it was. Her phone. Smashing on the floor. #R.I.P.

 At once everything became meaningless. Life was meaningless. #Depressed #NoPhone. What else had she to lose? and thereupon she thought, she’d walk towards the skeleton, of the old building, left through the street of Oregon.

 When Kelly arrived, the smell of decaying flowers invaded her nostrils. Debating whether to walk inside or walk along; again she thought, what else am I to lose? I have no phone, anymore. And so she opened the door, letting the fragrance of rotten roses wash off her mascara and her upholstered face. Thank god I have no phone, no pictures of me can be done.

 Overwhelmed by her senses, she noticed a trail of pillboxes on the floor, which sung a melody of angels. Follow me, drink me. There’s no need to plea. I’m your glee. The deeper she walked into the house the more dishevelled it became. Empty bottles, lit the floor and shone upon the walls.

 At the end of the aisle a dim light travelled through the grime, light that trailed Kelly to the door. Opening the door, she found an old lady, lying in bed. Ciara – her name carved on the top, of the mahogany headboard. She’s dead, Kelly thought, she’s dead! Presto Presto! Call the cops. #WTF. Kelly urged to pick up the phone but as she dialled 911, Ciara grabbed her thumb “You. You, look what you’ve done”.

#O M G, what have I done? 

 Awakening. Hospital.

 As she woke up from her stupor,

She found herself in a nursing home

A nurse came in to change her diapers

But all she saw was a horned viper


Suck my beauty

Suck my youth

Post it on your instabooth


Shooting up she ran the hall

Unaware of the doctors drawl

On her way she kidnapped,

Seven children from the ward


Suck your beauty

Suck your youth

Let me guide you to the truth


But before she could prevail

Death came and tipped her scale


Now those kids will never know

The truth of the venerable.

 It was the day Ronald died that everything changed. No job, No education. “I will always be by your side; till death do us part”. 

But eventually when, death did them part, there was no one left to guard.  

Not Ronald, not her disease only the neglect of her pleas.


Five fork dish and a bottle of Gin 

It’s funny huh? how everything  tastes delicious when you’re drunk, even life.

Suddently, not knowing how you’re savouring a five fork dish in a mold filthy tarvern. Those of which, you don’t know whether you’re just hangover the next day or rather, food poisoned.

Either way, you’ve enjoyed a five fork dish, at the price of a gin bottle. Genius. 

Because you know what? It doesn’t matter how tiny it is, if it feels big (don’t make weird interpretations). If you have a passion, a dream, remember why it started and make it your reality.

I for instance aspire to be a writer and a film director. I know it’s no mans land out there, that not everyone manages to slide over the “wall”. That many melt under the heat of the boiling cauldron of fire. But let me tell you, if there is the slight chance for me to get there, I will.

Goodnight everyone, hope not to bore you with my absurd, vane thoughts.


Ailing cats mind.


I should probably introduce my self, I’m Sir Mongolus. Yes yes you’ve already heard about me, I know.

So,  I’ve been told by my fellow friend whether if I was interested to wright something that would last forever, that could be traced through time in this technological sphere.  I unthoughtfuly said yes. The problem arose when, as many of you young writers, had to decide on what to write.  I must admit I was scared at first. What should I write about? Should I write a story?  One of those tales full of symbolism, pain and hidden metaphors, which are unknown even by the writers themselves? I didn’t know how thus the question really was;  how could I write a story?

It’s a tough question.

How do you write a story when you have no story? It’s like trying to fall in love with someone you don’t love. You give it a shot, because “why not? things may come out differently this time”. But still, not even deep in your heart, you know you’ll never love them.

Though I’m much too old now, I did once have a story. It was back in my 6th life. I was an adventurer, a dreamer.

Every night I roamed the hollow streets of a big decaying city. Screwed posh queens with pedigree whenever I felt like it. Looted all the best restaurants and fought the streets like no other. But there was something missing. Every night as I walked back to my place, I stopped by the dimly lit windows, observed the cats who sat on their couches by the stove. How they purred in ecstasy. I longed for love , I annihilated affection.

I found it eventually. Loving humans. Breakfast at 7 am, then a walk through the gardens while they clean my dormitory. Occasional divertimentos with defenceless rodents and duck size pigeons. Then my daily pelting of combs and brushes. Naps and finally diner time. 8pm. Everything a cat would wish for…But lately it doesn’t feel comfortable anymore.

The days vanish away with the sweet odour of cheep cologne from the ladies who’s faces are always long under their caked smiles.

Sometimes, when the autumn rain hits the celling, I recall the days of shelter, where I would hide under warm humming car engines, admiring how beautifully the rain fell on the silver road. How the car’s bodywork would sound like a tingling piano. And how when the storm was over the moon would peak through the clouds, filling my heart with hope. Comforting me, telling me how everything was going to get better. It did?. 

She knows it did. She does. I don’t. How quaint; now I can only see her smile through her reflection on my water bowl. She bleaches it white and bright making even drinking from it impure. But I’m thirsty. Thirsty. Tired.

Is it that bad that I crave my hooligan’s life? Is it?

If only I would’ve known she felt as much as I did, I would have fled with her.

What am I saying? I don’t even know. I’m just a cat with an ailing mind.

Good Evening,

Sir Mongolus.