Funny thing on the way.



I have a funny feelin’ that started in my ribs. It gave me little shivers all the way to my fingertips. What was more hilarious was the tremble to my toes. I knew I lost my joystick when the laughter hit my head.

I laughed so hard it hurt my chest and made my belly shake. All the devils on the planet had to hide behind anything they could find, before they exploded from the sound of my humongous speakers nuking them with cheerful sound.

Gianormous waves of giggles rose like hurricanes. And buried every darkness, with happiness instead. I just couldn’t stop cackling, at such a crucial point. Already my entire skeleton was convulsing out of joint. But I kept the momentum.

I pushed the joy forward, charging straight ahead, and swamped the whole wide world with blood-minded bliss. I meant to go on forever and ever. And that, more or less, was precisely what I did.

Looney toons




When you hit me, do it honest, do me hard. Read my palm and tell my fortune in decline. Go ahead, make my day, do it well. Make it happen. Then go ahead and just unmake my night.

Don’t you tell me moons are people too, related to some loony toon in June, only more vicious. It was your crazy savagery in the first place that made the world suspicious.

You don’t care. You never cared. So I don’t care much too. Hugs and kisses trample on the lunatics, piled on the road, all the way from me to you. You and all the variations of your kind.

I have no more interest in what you are. Or why. You fuck my mind, I stick my finger up your soul.

Too soft, too hard, too late or too soon? If I did you wrong, bub, blame it on some super-moon, you goon. 

When stars are lost


When stars are lost they will not cry in silences that are forever.

When stars are shot they leave a bloody trail of hopes and dreams scratched across some dark grey sky.

When stars are dying they never stop trying to call out to another.

I was trying to send a hug, but it looks like the bastards didn’t make any.

They say you can find whatever conflicting, mismatching colour you want when you look hard enough at the weather.

Will the artist called Sky paint me a canvas of a day to be so alone, and still be so tightly together?


In the interest of foreplay



What did you have in mind Salome?

Did you mean to lure me into this narrow corridor, flooded in this dim red light, and shut the trapdoors, laughing?

Did you mean to let me in some more, until I found this room, painted in green, behind these purple velvet curtains, so the pitch of my shouts and screams are muffled or silenced completely?

Or did you actually plan this all the way, so that I am already wriggling on the silken black sheets of your bed, enjoying the slithery sensation, as the heady incense envelopes my head?

And did you mean to let me think you love me, and then deny me? Or deny me and then love me? Or neither, or both, or something even more unthinkable instead?

If you intend to play with my hunger like a cat, I guess I deserve it, if only for being hungry or giving in to temptation because I’m hungry, whichever is the greater.

But will you please just kiss me first, and do the other stuff later?

Demon Dies in Mini-Mart


Fighting demons is real man’s job that requires professional training. Sign up!

It‘s hand-to-hand combat on a bad hair day, obstacle course when you need the loo, and your umbrella has a hole when it’s raining.

Monsters feed in different ways, eat different body-parts on different days, with different depths of jagged bite-marks. Unless you get swallowed whole. Then it’s too late.

But sometimes it may be better that way, when you meet the darkest of the dark: a demon of the heart.

Marines have been known to cry, Commandoes beg to let them die, Ninjas end up living new lives as dainty ladies.

So if you wanna save your sweet purty butt in a combat situation, sign up! This boot camp is designed by wartime veterans to kick your pussy habits of defenseless loving.

We train you to detect and identify, seek and find your demon, even before the demonizing starts. Sign up!

Down to every look, every kiss and touch, where they shoot those poison darts. Sign up!

Down to the little devils squirming in your private parts. Sign up!

Down to the one last pointy-tailed gook, in the bottle at your local mini-mart.


Mercy beaucoup



Yes, life is kinda simple and crude if you sorta choose the option: simple and crude.

If you average out the days you were naked and the days you wore a suit, and the final score is bareback and barefront you can safely conclude you were mostly nude.

In the holy hell of that journey, the part that’s supposed to matter most, as you savour the agony and ecstasy of bouncing back and forth in the swash and backwash of your cosmic shore, how many times did you taunt the high and mighty forces, asking for more?

How many times did they send
you an answer, even when you shut your trap tight, and said nothing of the sort?

Thank you, thank you, thank you, and thank you some more. It was exhilarating, it was depressing, stimulating, sobering, all of that and more.

I feel a bit tattered, a little battered and kind of deep fried with salt and vinegar sprinkled over all my blood and gore.

In all that mess, the doorbell rang and the answer is out there waiting now.

It’s just that I can’t remember the question at all.

Sure, why not? (Right after I finish burning, honey.)


800px-dancingflamesLate afternoon, the sun still bright, and I’m already afraid of the evening.
Help to get through just one night is enough. Don’t want to seem greedy asking for two.
How many times did the cat have to die? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? Ha ha. Don‘t say eleventy-seven. Don’t say it.
Why another life when the last one hasn’t even finished dying?
What would you choose, Lord, if you don’t mind my asking: Another picket fenced reality, or another crucifiction?
I just want to meet your genius architect who situated hell somewhere in heaven, and ask politely:
You wanna make my day? Ok. Lol. Don’t hold back. Go ahead. Follow through. Make it really crazy.
What was what? Oh, that?
Just my soul, screeching like a banshee.

Ever so barely.


Thank you for the promises last night, of an even more promising tomorrow.

As I sank like a leaf into the depths of sleep, I dragged and drowned my every hurt, every wound, every sorrow.

In a mad wondrous dream of a colourful morning, I wished for a slice of toast the size of a bed, and spread you out like margarine, and mussels lifted heavy weights, and calendars were full of dried plums, raisins and dates.

There is a flickering of feelings between asleep and awake. Then one goes, and the other is already happening.

I don’t know whether I made it, or escaped, but I knew it was only just barely.