just standing there

chocolate, red wine.

2012-01-18T00:30:00.001+02:00

i could spend a lifetime wondering
at the details of taste but that
would leave me here cold
in my noises
and my silences.

there are stones left to turn
and some fingers
to be burned.

some rules to break.

it's no simple path out that door,
we have ceremonies to follow alone
that get ugly fast
and we're known to move slow.

sometimes i am asked
about my beings or doings
but i have no words to appreciate
the sentiment
so i answer with no words.

sometimes i'm not good enough.

but the wine is good
and the chocolate sweet

so why do i worry?

poppies

2012-01-03T23:16:00.000+02:00

(acrylic on canvas, december 2011)

Singing

2011-12-28T15:44:00.000+02:00

Give me a piano and
I'll try to
play it
and I'll cry.
Come on, it would make
a good song.

All I wish
from this world is
a drunken stupor
by any means possible.
Some beauty, some angels
to caress

and some
courage to live.

Anything more would crack the
glass and send me back
under the covers,
shivering.

But that'd be a good song too,
I'm sure,

like a
little bird
that hit
the window.

-

2011-11-23T21:44:00.001+02:00

listening to the occasional staccato steps
of rain on the sill
i have charred feathers and perhaps
forgotten a warm meal or two but i'm still
trying to recall who
and why
and i inhale the gray air
building castles of leaves in my mind

sometimes i give all
of my breath
in one great cloud
and others
i feel crowded with people
who are not me
even in all
the quietness of
thin fall air
and i want to
scratch my skin
until it stings
until i find a peace
and for a moment
lie still
as if there was
nothing important
to do

(written somewhere in october and just now)

pearls

2011-10-01T16:59:00.001+03:00

(oil on plywood, 2010)

12th of September, 2011

2011-09-15T01:59:00.002+03:00

I could drink cartons of this juice, the taste is just right for tonight, though I much prefer wine. I always smoke too much and speak too little because that's the way I've been raised; hoarse voice and shy words born under a false name, behind the wrong face and always late. What's real is a mystery, a story, a part of some mythos whispered by the native people of me that I could not hear, for all the ears are pointed outwards taking in new parts to the tale. If I ever had anything interesting to say or the words to do so, I'd tell you. I'd tell you of the wanting to choke on love and of wanting more chocolate even though the sweetness in my mouth is all too choking already. That I live on sweetness and rain and on nights washed with purple and dim orange lights. I could talk of the need for disappearing and company, for feeling and being felt. I'd tell you I'm not here. I am not here. This is not my place and I'm not this place and it's not me in here. I'd gladly whisper my whole life away if only I remembered half of it. I like to wade knee-deep in the thought that nothing ever happens because time drifts away so fast and now I only remember this juice. It could be any flavour, cranberries or grapes or apples or oranges; it could be a yearning for a kiss or not sleeping alone or the work of hands. It's whatever that makes me and these nights flow like water from clouds to puddles to sidewalks and down the storm drain to the sea and up, up to the sky again. Though I am often miserable or apathetic I'm never truly bored, I could spend a lifetime just thinking and feeling all that surrounds me, smoking too much and speaking too little. Wherever or whatever I am.

it's no trouble

2011-09-04T17:19:00.000+03:00

i spend most of my days
wondering if i should be more
verbose,
murder lines upon lines of innocent adjectives
and verbs that do nothing
but sell themselves at a street corner somewhere
and if it ought to be raining all the time
because i'm beat
and bruised from fighting
all the gravity, all the concrete, the only
sure evidence of actually living,
even if only on occasion.

the bandages
won't do anything if i can't remember
whether i should laugh or cry,
not a single thing when
i can't remember if i should
remind myself of the way
i'm dying or living
or trying to expect nothing
and wish for nothing
and if there is anything at all to be.

but if
all else should fail,
shouldn't i still
be something,

shouldn't i still be dreaming?

shouldn't i imagine
someone
thinking up thousands of emotions to write
cheques on my name with
until i'm really, really poor enough
to starve for days
like a proper homeless gypsy bum for once,

or a life
that's so full of life
that it burns
the ever-living shit out of my
ugly weak freak body and leaves me weeping of joy
at times when i collapse on some bed somewhere,
somewhere where there's someone,
alive at last
and the air, it smells of the endless arousal
of talking until throats become pillars of sand
and the sun rises over the dunes
those swollen red eyes stinging?

and
even then
i still don't know
if i should be all by myself
until i'm reminded of what is right
and good for me and what i want,
should i be the
broken record player
singing all the broken old tunes
or should i just try and try to be happy
with whatever i could ever be and keep
all of this
wrapped?

about a touch

2011-08-27T18:19:00.000+03:00

(oil on canvas, 2011)

flood

2011-08-25T13:53:00.000+03:00

(oil on hardboard & canvas, 2011)

would you care

2011-08-22T16:57:00.000+03:00

to admit you are?

(oil on hardboard & canvas, 2011)

-

2011-08-17T19:04:00.000+03:00

trains go by and days
go by,

years and yearnings
and tears,
they go by too

and we'll
survive the rain,

all of the rains

and fathers,
stairs and soot,

we'll survive

the flowers
and sunrises and sleet

tired
with stained eyes,
glassy,

the shawls and
soles and burns
are survived,

the kittens go by
and torn
jeans go by,

and we'll get by,

we survive,
are suffered
like all the rest

and drink
to the restless
eyes of all
nights,

many of which
go by.

For a week I'm not a guest

2011-07-25T12:52:00.000+03:00

We're both curled up,
feline,
half-asleep,
me on the sofa and the cat
on a duvet on the floor
and this kind of life
is the kind
I'll have when I find it.
I watched a bat
while outside
for my endless smokes,
swooping in the air,
quick strokes
and thin wings
and friendly english banter
from the bakery next door
in the middle of night.
I'm the happiest and saddest
without comparing,
superlatives in their own right,
because nothing compares
now,
here,
and I guess I know why
Virginia said
all a girl needs to write,
or live, as I'd see it,
is a room of her own
and a little money.

make this death look like a rebirth

2011-06-14T17:31:00.000+03:00

i've been a shut-in for a week now
masturbating to the thought
of burning
yet another hole
in the thin fabric of
yet another boring
thin face i'm wearing in fear
of spilling and stains
of breaking my bones
and wants
and needs

(my fingers
always marked with
nicotine and copper and a thousand
small deaths
as they caress the most
difficult
paths of my ill-fitting skin)

fantasize of a me devoid of shackles
of suppression and silence
dream of a storm to tear away
the walls

and make me wet
and take me as
i come
again and again

until i bleed through and
show everything i am
or could be
all the colours
the words i cannot
bring myself to utter
in any language

until i'm rubbed raw

embraced by bruises

exploding

exploring the sea of
open wounds that finally
speak of all the
passion.

stains

2011-05-23T12:04:00.000+03:00

I am only adding stains
to a stained library book
on yet another
tick tock tick tock
of a sunday evening
I'd rather spend
sleeping away
in some secure hideaway
I haven't got so I
sit here instead listening
to the ceiling
to the time
and adding
stains.

(22. of may scribbles)

you will not eat me

2011-04-29T22:32:00.000+03:00

no
not this
shit again
not when i'm
finally feeling myself
again
feeding myself, finding
parts that
belong
and that don't
i am not a shell, i'm not
boring
i am not a ghost, not
mine nor yours
not lonely
even when alone
i'm not
easy, i am not
nothing and
i will not disappear
and you will not
eat me
without an explosion
of bitter
bile
and sharp nails
in your guts
i'll pull your teeth
one by one
tear you up
even if i break
or shatter
you will not eat me
don't you
fucking dare
because
i'm not
lost
yet.

(last night, 3 am, good riddance)

growing cold

2011-04-06T21:08:00.000+03:00

you wake up
with wet fingers at 6
from the dreams
in a mix
of ghosts caught
in the act through frost
in window panes
and the frontmost
ache
moving fire
and ice
as slow waves across
your eyes
your
whole body
limb by limb
and the whole room
is seen again
in dawn's
soft
downy gloom.

it's all fine
all is
nice
but they leave you
wanting someone
else
and little dreams are
ugly lovers
to rip you apart at
the seams.

this

2011-03-18T16:33:00.002+02:00

adored, hated & cried in shreds and shrapnel with gruesome hopefulness for five days & wee hours, all ready at six am haze of critique day and now it's gone, done and over with. a self portrait assignment in photography.

everybody wins.

2011-03-12T19:12:00.000+02:00

there's no reason for
you to be like this
when there's no
reason
to be whatsoever
but it's the survival
of the bitterest
and the last ones standing
get to remember all
the times they
gave up when they
should've fought,
were against
when they should've
agreed,
stayed silent when
they should've finally
opened a mouth
to speak from the heart
worn in the sleeve of
another jacket,
now put aside
to wait for
another
warm breeze
of springtime.

falter

2011-02-27T01:09:00.000+02:00

is there anything i
wish more than
for anyone to see some
kind of light beneath
the facade my body
creates? under
all angles, bones, muscle
and veins, organs
covered
by skin and
membrane and the
softest and the coarsest
of hair,
under scars and moles
and eyelids, the curve
of drying lips
there lives, battered
and dim, just a
flickering girl
of a heart too tried
and all too tired
to portray a real man.

admit

2011-02-20T01:08:00.000+02:00

wait! there may still
be many a buried thing to
kiss before we fall
        - crack hearts
out of ribcages pumping blood
on these cold cold grounds and
 lay eyes like
emerald eggs to
nest in each other's
fleeting glow.
do you know
this ghost is far from ready
for war of broken arms
or any kind?
     "so when
 will it then?"
you may trouble in
your troubled mind
but see:
 there is
no answer until
 there is
clarity, and no clarity
'til it's too late to cry
over spilt milk
and teeth that shatter
from
the chatter in the
                   cold old
bitter freezing breezy
wind are
but the first
steps.

a word

2011-02-17T19:50:00.000+02:00

we say when we
don't see and see
staying silent,
but somehow I always
hear that
faint flutter of
butterfly wings
carrying out of our lungs
with the smoke
whose fire
lies hidden in half-
uttered truths.

question posed.

2011-02-15T18:24:00.002+02:00

do i crave
something a little more
than a birdsong
in spring morn
after staring
at the insides of eyelids
in last night's dark cold
blank under two blankets
thinking of future
conversations never to come
and abstract forms
then kissing and missing of
another's soft touch
and trying to
replace it
with my own?

not minding at all

2011-02-07T19:45:00.000+02:00

say hello to those times
again with the same sad, tired,
old eyes
all over your face
and an ache that keeps the heart
strangled and lungs
struggling for air.
there's nothing
you could wish for
more than something to
hold on to tight
all the cold nights
under heavy blankets
and tears keep welling up,
trying so hard to erode through
the walls you've put up
in a vain effort
of being stronger than
you ever wanted to.
these days flow
through teeth
clenched together
and while out of every moment,
you're in every second of
your life at the
same time,
attempting to find
some means of untying
this untidy mess of a knot
you've become.
and here you are
with burning eyes,
three in the morning
knowing you'd never
shed a tear
without a shoulder
to cry on.

every now, then again

2011-02-01T11:32:00.000+02:00

i'd whisper, dear, in your heart, yes, but
i couldn't ever think it's me, or at the
very least
i'm fairly certain it's always
someone else you'd rather give the
chance, the
privilege to, as it usually
stands, so i'll just go
on, give up, fidgeting, trying to
forget what it was that i was thinking
and hang mine in the clouds,
where
it's always been.

Betelgeuse

2011-01-27T15:18:00.001+02:00

I heard that someone is dying
hundreds of lightyears away,
sometime between next year and a
billion years.
when the light of it
finally sweeps to the Earth
there will be a
spectacular show in the sky,
the last fiery breath of a star
a companion for the Sun for
a few weeks.
everyone is invited.
while it's wrong to
wish for
anyone's swift
death
I just wish I won't
kick the bucket
before
Betelgeuse.

2011-01-21T00:26:00.002+02:00

maybe you should
know by now
i'd like to
see you as more than
a friend and kiss
as more
but
although i feel more
than usual
when i think about you,
i'm having hard time
telling
if we're even
usual friends,
as is the case
with most
i know, so i'll
probably never
tell
and in any case
i still
don't know
what it is
that i want
with whom.
so
who
are
you?

i know nothing

2010-12-28T23:20:00.002+02:00

i must admit
i'm fond of nothing.
nothing seems to describe
my life very well
and
there’s always
nothing in my future
and nothing to achieve.
nothing’s more
beautiful
than everything i see and
nothing hurts more than
everything i don’t,
nothing feels nearly as
good as
your smile and
lips
and when i'm alone,
cold and terrified
or in my bed,
there's nothing to
keep me company.
all in all, nothing
is good enough for me
and maybe, in a way,
i'm like
nothing.

whenever & ever

2010-12-28T16:07:00.000+02:00

(30. nov. 2010)

holiday spirit

2010-12-27T12:24:00.000+02:00

four thirty in the
morning
or night after 25th of December
I might've
drunk by myself, yes,
but never got
drunk, it's as good
a night
as any. and yet
I think the later
it gets, the less
I think about
smiles,
looks &
fingers I long for
& other curiosity that
lingers in my mind

and the
more about how lonely
one
can be before deciding to fall
asleep.

what I'm sure of
now is that
there
is no
limit
and more
importantly,
that it's five or
six thirty in
the morning
& I'd like to
go to bed several hours ago.

it is all right maybe.

2010-12-26T17:58:00.001+02:00

(30. nov. 2010)

front tooth artistry

2010-12-21T12:14:00.002+02:00

front tooth artistry
"now with more or less
depravity!"
it's an acquired taste
and leaves
a brief
reef
on skin,
beauty mixed with
beautiful
agony.

passing

2010-12-17T00:19:00.000+02:00

once, she danced
a while
and as
unlooking she
was i might
have
taken a peek
under my weak
masquerade
of aloofness
less interested
in the way
she did it
but more in
if she was
actually
of rainy
afternoons
and familiar
noises, as
full of mystery
or
was it but
the drinks
thinking
as if some
thing could
happen

good morning, frothy ocean

2010-12-15T19:05:00.000+02:00

we sneaked out of the party
everybody else was having fun
at to lounge in armchairs on a
rocky seashore,
a magnificent
sight, smoking cigarettes
and in our boredom
with life
and disarray
with the shape
of the culture in
general
we were feeling
a need for
breaking all the rules
and conventions and setting
out for adventure, when
these three old tan sicilian
fellows beached on a raft built
of a futon.
we assisted them in any way
we could on restocking with
fresh food and water, pillows
and blankets
and all of a
sudden they were
gone - leaving
their somninaval
vehicle behind.
seeing this as our great
chance for release, we set
sail towards
the storm
leering at us
in the horizon
and only after eleven days
of sleeping in your arms dry
from the sea salt i finally
learned that love
and life
and all that is between
is about letting everything
go
and accepting what
is.

i don't write

2010-12-14T15:20:00.000+02:00

i don't write
for my redemption
or salvation,
for money or fame,
i don't do it
for some ridiculous
illusion that poets
are somehow
desirable.
i don't
put letters
after one another
to seem smarter
or prettier,
like i'd have
great unique ideas
on anything
or a beautiful
mind.

i write simply
because the words
desperately
want to
spill
and spoil,
laugh and
love,
cry
and crave
and live on
and come out
be it on paper
or from mouths.
i release them
because i
love them
and thus
deserve
freedom
from
me.

sign

2010-12-12T15:30:00.002+02:00

stop
waiting,
stop dreaming,
being afraid, stop
wanting,
worrying, tearing
for nothing,
stop
smoking,
stop eating,
drinking,
breathing air,
stop being
bored,
just stop and drop
it all,
okay?

had

2010-12-10T13:50:00.001+02:00

i have thought
of un
lost un
found
lovers (and blinded
by the dus
ty rust
knives
of time) whom in
the care
(less un)
bound
half heart wavered
who had no
body in
(dives
to beauty which in)
careful
ly set
ground
thought i have

testing the waters

2010-12-09T19:40:00.002+02:00

testing the waters for pieces of souls
that mingle together swimmingly
on a sunday morning is a rough
guessing job for me.
i'm the one who
never understood
the art of and
never learned how to
read minds as
avidly and naturally
as words at an early age,
so emotions
(others' and mine)
have always been wild
geese: always chased
but always unobtained, un-
seen, and probably a great
deal of other words
starting with "un".
absolute fuckers, most of them.
all absolutely enthralling.

and if i can't fathom this much
about others
then who am i to see anything
about myself?

easy

2010-12-04T23:41:00.001+02:00

i don't know why
everything gets to me so much,
i mean all the little things,
the good
and the bad
little things.
i suppose the good
are supposed to be enjoyed
and many people cannot,
unless they're not little.
i can, with my whole little
heart.
but i'm also easily
saddened by the bad,
not so much
that it couldn't be balanced
with some good,
but enough
that they hurt
for the moment.
i guess i'm just
a little
easy.

it's not always
easy being easy
in a world of
little things.

(some easy writing

for a minute or two)

i mean, yes, seriously no

2010-12-03T12:41:00.002+02:00

i mean, yes, seriously no
there's truth in
all beginning
and every odd and end
a rhythm so perfectly
all misled
that it eats
at heart's veins
so breathing is
no good, yes, and i

Reminiscence

2010-11-29T17:19:00.000+02:00

I walk the windswept
white silent streets
as the cold grinds against
my teeth and I try
to remember exactly
how you taste,
but never did get
a decent one out of those
lovely sweet serious
lips although
they may have been met
once or twice
in passing;
or collarbones or hips
or fingers or
anything
in between and further
that haven't,
outside of some
odd humid night fantasies
at least, ones that left
me wondering if
the dream was your
fragrance and if I'd recall
it and what my subconscious
is playing at
while I still don't know
what is it that
it really wants
except to explore
the desirable depths
of you, how you taste and
everything
in between and further.

look who rains

2010-11-28T21:05:00.000+02:00

look who rains
upon your shoes
that so soft as if
dreams of mice
weaved of and
spider thread dare

look powder like
who snow woos
and every glance
direction-wise
every view finds
too much bare

look much slower
than all whose
slid fingers slow
at costly price
under shirts are
left to care

look inside if
about what ruse
who around would
travel the thighs
rouse all slumber
with no wear

look closer as
must you choose
you allow to hold
who like vice
if nothing
nowhere will share

look what ever
the fate screws
the outcome of
which a surprise
who not without
appear fair

(mostly november the 26th)

i kicked what

2010-11-25T09:01:00.002+02:00

i kicked what
         remained
and not
what
thrownaway
threads of
    turmoil had
been solely
mine to kick
     for sure.

                          and why does
                                  that make me ?

(writing without looking

in a notepad evening
with a movie)

huult

2010-11-24T17:03:00.001+02:00

huult
en kai
paaminen ja
puna(viini)
iholla
koske
tus- tai
tuhkasi
ja aurinko: nou
s(in)ua ennen
aika
tuntuu
pid(än lä
hellä )emmin
hitaam
malta
kuin kanssasi
pieni kuolemani
ja kaiken
voi antaa ly
hy(väilev)in
ääntein
kun itse
stään sytyt
ät hiljai
suudella
liekkeihisi

(13. nov 2010)

03:30 AM

2010-11-24T08:39:00.005+02:00

the wind howls torrents of frozen water at the window, at the trees and buildings and the city, and i sit here. nothing changes the fact that right now i sit here while i could be wrapped in my blanket, the safe warm haven of comfort where i could have dreams of feelings for anyone i like, where words on our lips are condensed into a language of tongue against tongue and we can do anything and go anywhere. where there's no consequence and no moral obligations and no logic and i'm not, at least for a few hours (which can be a few days in dream-time), so barren and deprived and thirsty and dry. nothing changes that fact until it's time for me to force myself to sleep, when it's not right now anymore. but until then, i can only wait. and that brutal gust keeps screaming and blows my sleep and dreams away.

(at around 03:30 am, as suggested by the title.)

yen

2010-11-23T12:41:00.000+02:00

even bitter dark chocolate
wouldn't take to the double bed
where we were living in

breathing in all these humid heat
moments' embraces and muffled
words warming on the skin

and skies all ash-burnt caress
us with grace
chances
of listening
in to the harrowing
beat our bodies
in faint red memories

made out of the flow and ebb
of intuition for each other
and we'd sing
dreaming

2010-11-22T14:54:00.002+02:00

some of these days
i have a flood
of words in my head
on the verge of
spilling over
all the edges and
boundaries so
i spell them, all for
to keep me afloat,
thus the ballast
cast out;
some
days i
have
none, and
these are
dry days i
want
to tell
you all
i forget
the words
for

hey, me

2010-11-21T18:01:00.005+02:00

remember when a few days ago you woke up
at like noon
tired and groggy from sleeping by
the cell phone snooze button (when you push it,
there's a weird message that
you never catch
on the little screen on the outside,
and you always only catch the word snooze
and every single time you see that "snooze",
it looks stranger and stranger and snoozier)
again, and thought
"one of these days i'll spend the whole day in bed
just sleeping away and
maybe opening a book or
my laptop every once in a while
and maybe i'll need to go take a piss at some point
and i'll have to get up for smokes too"? well,
you don't have to wait long for that
because there's what,
a month and a bit until
it's holidays
and you can do what the fuck
ever you want except drink
red wine at the school studio painting
big pictures of things that you
won't
and can't
ever be
or have.
but
okay, you can always doodle and write
and compose your never-finished tunes,
maybe you'll even manage
some actual drawings or
maybe you'll, for a change,
have an idea so profound
and so you
that you'll just happily anticipate
for the school to start again and
that's when you remember that time goes by so fast
you'll never even notice it before it's past
and oh right
you didn't even see anyone during this break,
you were all too busy wanking and wallowing
in your oh-so-lonely and tormentful life
to do so.

but everything'll be fine
as long as you stay true
to yourself and all the others
and do whatever you can.

sincerely yours, you.

(10. nov 2010)

sensibilities

2010-11-21T15:42:00.003+02:00

all poets and painters
are poor melodramatic
no-good assholes,
tortured by nothing
but an endless
struggle for words
or visions,
for revelations
that ring true
certain chords
in certain persons
who certainly pertain
in entertaining charm,
interesting sweetness
mostly made up of
feverish dreams
and grandiose
delusions
fabricated
in a self-absorbed
la-la-land,
this self-imposed
prison ward
where the
sane,
saints
and innocents
would beg and plead,
desperately voice their
needs and wants
but the so-called
artist,
the poor
melodramatic
no-good asshole
simply waits
in silence
to be set
free.

I just never get it,
do I?

(17. nov 2010)

quite

2010-11-21T15:41:00.003+02:00

oh if we were
to be where an i
meets another shy
while gently grazes
intertwined to make
beats in dysrhythmia
murmurs, silent
so solitude finds
no-one; fingers whole
new worlds to see minds,
hearts could freedom
of bone bird cages
if we were
where we
but
"oh"

(24. oct 2010)

covet

2010-11-21T15:36:00.002+02:00

covet
      the
what not
(and i
the lost
      can't)
f o u n d
   as who
   to bliss
    a n d
      why
   to no
reg
      ret
(and
    i the
can't lost)
love
      ever
   so more
(and can't
lost the
      i)
a n d
wit h
fall to
   as tied
for
      all
with a
fla
      me
(and
lost the
    i can't)

(13. nov 2010)

dream diary, dear

2010-11-21T15:32:00.001+02:00

for all i know i was sneaking
in unnameable catacombs on
my unknowable mission for
or against the nazis or somesuch
and arrived in a dark cellar
and even with my ragged breath
she didn't see me until
i took
the barrel
of my gun
to her chest which made her beg
not for mercy
nothing but redemption
and i think i thought my aim
so-so just about right
so i pulled the trigger
betwixt her small breasts
on her heart
no blood came
no death came
no pain came

only a gaping hole
and relief poured out
and we loved so
as we lay down warm
breathing alive in sunlight
filtered softened possibly
by unseen curtains
on the bed
we had been
on all
this time
together we were no doubt
the happiest for
the rest of our lives but
the subtle sting in
the back of my head was
a worry of what happens
when they
find me and
her cold body
in the morning.

(02. nov 2010)