Matryoshka of dreams


I tie you to my memories,
I weave you into my mind,
– a dream among dreams –
and through a shiver of peace
all the chains become lighter,
a layer of pain evaporates,
the most remote dreams vibrates stronger,
and I free them higher and higher
like birds
who yearned for the purest air.
Time waits for my breaths
– it counts them;
Space unfolds before my eyes
windless and new,
and my mind swallows it,
– reality, a dream –
in one bite.

The time chases the illusions,
the patterns are in my mind.


Burn my mind, o my breath


Burn my mind, o my breath;
Empty all the forgotten
channels of my mind: they will
be filled up with new life.

Burn my mind, o my breath;
The void you left behind
is guiding me into
the darkest and most feared
places of my mind, where all
my certainties disintegrate
and my imagination is of no help.

Burn my mind, o my breath;
Your regenerating blows
have the power to move
the dead loads of this
now living channel of my mind;
your new air is bringing
my past times and future hopes
as gifts for a present moment
so hungry for life.

Burn my mind, o my breath;
The vital and deadly dance
of your blows, are reviving
and extinguishing this great fire
that has no light; at your pace
my emotions fade away and arise,
and as soon as a thought is born
it starts to die; along your blows
of death – as words – these thoughts
find another life.

Burn my mind, o my breath;
This complete darkness of my mind
– so discredited by my rationality –
only shows me the pale reflections
of the colours of the world,
while at each your regenerating blow
myself die and again is born.

Burn my mind, o my breath.
Here, among the black flames of
my mind, at each moment, a new search
for light restarts: passing through
my eyes and animating my body,
it never will stop.

Until I point it to home.

April 2012

Image: © Dana Bradford

A wait is my mind


A wait among potent forces that compete in my mind,
and forces flowing into the world, never leaving
my body – completely;
A wait between a force that goes down and a force that rises
as slow as a snail or as fast as the sound;
A wait among forces that are repeated ad perpetuum
fueled by instincts and emotions,
by food, water and air;
A wait among forces that push me to act,
forces that make me fall asleep,
forces that make me wake up
after making me dream;
A wait among forces that make me understand
and make me remind and forget;
A wait among forces that follow a dynamic
from a very little space – inside a neuron –
to the universe
gaining so much strength at each step;

A wait among the occurrence of one
of these forces over another one
is my Mind;
And among these forces and the wait
I live.

Walls of air and blood


Inconsistent more than air,
Resistant more than a diamond,
Transparent as glass,
Impenetrable as a moonless night,
Walls of the mind.
Savage gardens inside,
Tamed jungles,
A cathedral for dreams;
Immaculate everything mixes and remains still.

Until the walls tremble
– a caress –
A deep breach
– a hug –
structural failure
– a kiss –
and pieces of unexplored heaven on my skin.

These are living walls
– pulsing roots in the place of
fundations of stone –
the living walls could easily regrow…

… at the first signs of frost.

Image: Sophia A. Zhou

An insect striving for that red apple

And thoughts melt into the stream of consciousness
still different they march as one
they take the flow of the unity
in the grip of time.
Everything in the past and future
is perfectly one
– dreams of peace, lost memories –
but just in the present moment – right now –
this process is incompleted,
– it has just started –
and I can feel the gap.

My consciousness has stopped its own streaming
to collect the forbidden fruit
from the tree of the time,
a red apple directly stolen from the timeline,
a bite of “now”.

And the timeline now shakes,
– a small insect on a wet leaf –
The innocence is now lost,
the timeline altered,
the mind emerges,
the timeline rearranges,
the world holds its breath and waits.

And a new unification starts;


A change.

– Already past.

Thrown vigorously in the future.

– Imagined.

It has just started.

Another stream to the sea.

Another bite at that apple.

The insect is dying.

Pesticides on that leaf.


Image: my camera

Dimensions of the Memory

I know that I meet you
every night in my dreams,
even though we never
met before or even though
you died so many years ago.
Rarely I dream of your appearance
I especially dream of your essence;
an invisible yet omnipresent dream
beyond the entire memory of me.

I know that I started to preserve
the essence of you in my mind
even before you died; or even before
I met you for the first time.
Your essence is compressed by
the weight of my keen yet elusive
awareness of now; it inflames
the few certainties of my past; it is
the precious source of any future hopes;
it is in the tears I will never cry:
you live there – and I live there too –
among the echoes of the silent chaos
of my constantly becoming frames of mind.

I lost the essence of you, I let it go
of my mind trough my sighs of disillusion,
through a swallowed word.
I lost your essence
among the plots of my thoughts
apathetically led to change
by times and spaces that I already know.
And in the place of the essence of you
in my mind, a dimension of new freedom was born.

May 2012


Portrait of the Imagination


Between Emotions and Thinking,
Memory and Dreams,
between Reality and Hopes,
my Mind and the non-living things,
my Imagination: a cold fire
burning in a brain atmosphere.

It warms my Consciousness
and makes my body soar
toward suspended dimensions
beyond my flesh and blood.
Intangible: all the Universe
is full of this elusive power.

Cautiously my Consciousness
abandons itself to unexplored
mind directions, where
Intentions are Dreams,
and Thoughts are Beliefs;
where my Willpower is
the passive, gladly viewer of
selfish and imaginative plots,
that strengthen my Will
and open my Mind to the outer World.

On the fringe of my Consciousness
pure Imagination is my whole Mind,
a living grid that feeds on Knowledge
and Love; which smoothly moves
this conscious eye of the storm
through its effective, vital warmth.

Rare is that precious treasure,
a solitary pearl of hidden source;
a shooting star on that piece
of conscious sky; a gift
already delivered, before
it was even conceived.
Intuition: a grain of Imagination
whose journey to my Consciousness
was over, before it even began.

January 2013

Image: Mark Anderson