Ladydust, 25/9/14
AGORAPHOBIA
Where have they taken us?
To the other side of morning.
Oh, that poem.. Again and again.
How many more times till the dawn?
It's round and infinite.
You know, most belong here.
They've been here but they do not remember.
They've been here but they still do not remember.
I remember seagulls
and the desert.
Majestic sunsets covering disease.
Masturbating girls in the 70's at the sight of rainbows.
I remember the ocean.
A butterfly flattering her wings,
rain was created, snow, storms ever after.
I remember forests, endless forests.
The world was not made to be discovered.
Hippies waving their green arms to tomorrow.
A parade of soldiers marching to death,
Cheering, Trumpets.
A velvet bus with runaways heading to north.
We always knew there was another model of things.
Sweet laughter, kisses, pearls, replaced wisdom.
The world was purple and infinite.
The camera was still catching everything.
They were all feeling awe for the camera.
Incredible situation.
Thousands of ambitions in and out of its lenses.
"I have agoraphobia", the girl said.
Ladydust, 25/9/14
VERTIGO
Upon the shelves, between the bookmarks,
where thought's nobility takes root,
a maiden leans into the pulse of worlds unseen,
weaving with quite defiance
the myth of undoing the chains of old.
Beyond the window of her father's library
a roma girl drifts,
her breath a fleeting blasphemy
dissolving against the unbidden hunger of a man's desire.
The vertigo of their meeting-
a fevered duel of glances,
a silent tempest in the space between.
A diamond gleams from a thousand facets,
yet all return to the same searing light.
No crimson tomorrow can ever replace the marvelously full grey of today.
Ask those who postponed their joy-
they were found drawing their last breath on the final step of waiting.
Ask what became of the lovers of fulfillment,
those who clinked their glasses in its name.
Ask the lovers how the dawn found them.
Ask me what compels me to pen these verses.
12/03/25
The windows let in faint orange glows from the streetlights,
casting long shadows on the floor, drawing halos on your skin.
Night is wrapped around you like a velvet curtain, soft and forgiving.
Outside, the city murmurs in distant hums.
Near you, everything stills.
No words, they can only break the spell.
My fingers tracing your collarbone, like reading a secret script into you.
My hand on your heart, memorizing its sound.
No rush, no undoing, just powerful recognition.
Holding you as something holy.
Not asking.
Not demanding.
Just inviting.
Falling for you is a tide pulled by an ancient force older than memory -
just pure inevitability.
2/05/25
MAJESTIC
Purple stereotypes projected onto human wishes.
Yawning horses, eternal jesters laughing at dawn—
a spectacle for the ambitious disease.
Yes, the world was awash in sparkling shades,
but only one bore the silver sheen
of clouds after a storm.
Hope—an overestimated feeling.
Do you remember when dust had no definition?
Remember how it felt—
beyond the senses,
beyond the sour taste of circling that mirrored path again and again?
A vicious thing, expectation.
Expect both the expected and the unexpected.
And love.
Expect love.
Destroy, and be destroyed by everyone.
Oh—
it rains again, gently, on our heads.
For a moment,
curiosity healed time and space.
In this Babylonian field,
the trees alone screamed—
branches marrying abyss to gravity’s edge.
Everything was new,
and forgotten at the same time.
We once loved that wasted western feeling—
peace, disordered,
rising from the thick line
where the horizon split
from human disguise along the highways.
We cherished the doubt behind our steps—
each move, both significant and insignificant.
We loved the whispers
dancing in the embassy of brain cells.
All of it—
majestic,
in an unconscious way.
Ladydust, 25/9/14
THE MYTHS
They travelled far—
crossed the vast desert,
rushed into the angry oceans,
vanished into the thick darkness that cloaks the tallest jungle trees,
covered their faces with stars.
They didn’t blink an eye at their loved ones,
ignored all of tomorrow’s dawns,
forgot about poetry,
truth and lies,
history, politics, races,
children, books, and thought.
Is there a silver place to weep now—
sheltered from the moving light,
away from the constant wisdom of the streets,
away from the surrounding nothingness
and its purple shadow on our souls?
Is there a place
near the beggars,
the raped,
near the smiling unborn
and the everlasting fools?
Is there such a place?
Ladydust, 25/9/14
ILLUSIONS
Never was anything as true as illusions.
Sifting through the infinite,
you could find golden traces of them
in all the unexpected positions of the electron,
within the cracks of "reality"—
but most of all, in the uninhabited.
Their reign was undisputed
in the temple of human thought.
The senses were their most loyal subjects.
Their true name was "code."
On the chessboard of the mind,
they were the bishop’s pawn,
facing the knight’s doubt.
Radical and eternal,
they mocked matter
and scorned mathematics.
But they loved children and madmen.
Yes, those were to their liking.
Ladydust, 25/9/14
THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE
It was carried by those eyelids—
their clumsy exchange redefined the axis
like a crowned illusion.
like a proper social photocopy of an era;
they measured the infinite
and released it at once,
back into the everlasting.
Diametrically opposed to the proper margins,
beyond the limits of the frame,
far from the dwarf-shadows of cold desire,
where truth stands alone—
naked,
stripped of any pretense of glory,
where strength is the twin of weakness and mercy,
LADYDUST 17/06/2025
________________________________________________________________
OF THE SHIFTING SELF AND THE RIVER THAT KNOWS
What is identity, if not the echo of being left unshaped?
Not a title, nor a garment sewn from borrowed names,
but the soft glimmer of essence fluid, formless, and ever true.
There lies a bond, ancient as the breath of stars, unspoken yet eternal -
a sacred tether where all things move in mirrored grace,
each gesture returning with the same silent weight with which it was given.
The senses swell and spill like a river,
not bound by one shore but held between two,
its waters caressing both banks as lovers once divided by the dusk.
And ah there,
she emerges.
Not in light, but in presence.
Unseen, the soul seeps through syllables half-formed,
through symmetrical pauses that speak louder than sound,
through the trembling hush of what is not said.
And this name—
how it rings in that quietude,
a name that frees itself from meaning and becomes music.
It is neither wholly here nor wholly gone—
a half-presence that deepens absence.
And yet, in such vanishing,
it remains.
All things breathe of fear, and of dream.
And time, that strange and sleepless serpent,
does not walk forward -
it spirals.
It sings in circles without birth or grave,
and in its turning,
we meet again.
Some dog barked.
A wolf screamed somewhere far,
like a torn chord echoing through blue air.
The night was purple
a feverish kind of blue
and the pines were stretching upward,
caressing the velvet skin of the sky.
'Forget them,' she whispered in his ear,
her arm grazing the shimmer of his glittered hair.
'We’ll escape together.
We don’t need them. Never did.'
At the edge of the world,
the jokers laughed -
their cosmic laughter collapsing
through the tunnel of stars,
reaching the other side of morning.
'She must be crazy',
one of them said.
'Or maybe in love.
Let her go.
She’s a lost case
probably deserves her fate'.
'Things will be decided,
murmured another,
by the memory inside their cells.
Whatever they choose,
it’s already written.
Ignorance is bliss.'
Years drifted like smoke.
Days were covered in dusty light;
nights hid the jackals
in the deep forests.
Humans remained cruel and red,
flashing their bright teeth
in ritual delight.
'Can we be the heroes of this song?'
she would ask him every day.
'Could we ever resemble them?'
Her voice trembled,
a question falling through time.
The boy didn’t answer.
The white of his eyes shimmered wet, alive.
'I don’t know, he said at last.
Guess not.
What is it that you really seek?
'Don’t know either' she breathed.
'Some melody.
And you.'
'Then suppose you have me,' he whispered.
'Still, you don’t know the rules of this game.
Neither do I.
But what is real—
is this time.'
'This time,' she echoed,
as if the words themselves
could save them.
And for a moment
the world tuned itself again
to its strange mathematical order.
The pulse returned.
A second expanded
like a breath between two lovers.
Never had it felt
so full of human victory -
so desperately alive.
Oscillating wildly
into the wide open.
Ladydust 2013
She waited.
She learned where you bled
without skin breaking.
She named your trembling
music.
She named your no
static.
Nothing was taken.
Everything left.
She fed with clean hands,
mouth closed,
eyes open-
counting what you lost
as growth.
When you cracked,
she filed it as weather.
When you spoke,
the sound was archived -
the echo was kept.
No witnesses.
Only proof
that something passed through you
and did not stay human.
Later,
she showed the room your emptiness
and said
it was always like this.
The floor remembered.
The walls did not.
Ladydust 23|12|25
Not love.
A weather system.
Something older than intention
moves through the room
without feet.
Gravity kneels,
pretends to pray.
Light fractures itself
to avoid touching.
Moons are fed
with unnamed things
scraps of almost,
bones of later.
An orbit opens its mouth.
Calls it fate.
Time stutters.
Pauses mid-pulse.
A calendar gnaws its own spine.
Ambiguity:
a velvet animal
that sleeps with its eyes open.
No wound yet.
Only pressure.
Only the slow instruction
to remain.
Owls pass.
Soundless.
Their mercy padded.
Their hunger educated.
Stars do not scream.
They agree
to be eaten.
Something drinks the light
and never learns how to glow.
Behind glass,
a figure practices warmth.
Names it connection.
In the dark,
another coil memorizes your breath
and calls that care.
Signals are sent
to keep you floating-
neither falling
nor held.
A bruise framed.
A silence curated.
The body is maintained
like a room
no one intends to live in.
Predation,
lit for cinema.
Planets feel it
when they are being mined-
their tides pulled outward
with no promise of return.
The animal knows
when the forest has stopped listening.
No satellite now.
Only fragments
that remember orbit.
Velocity
without consent.
And you,
you will keep mistaking
absence
for depth,
until nothing circles you anymore
and even the dark
refuses
to repeat
your name.
LADYDUST 23|12|25
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