This is the end of the beginning of the end, but where's the middle

This is not new.

Humanity, peace and passion.
This is a warfare.
Have you kept your sanity?
What do you see at the end of the tunnel?
Oil-stained hands and military-minded, they are lecturing us about world peace.
Who's there to judge? someone fit to?
Let us pray for it.
bounded by invisible forces.
A marionnette who doesnt recognize it's master.
It's raining fire this year.
I hope it's not on you.

let's not try to justify ourselves, let's not put blames, let's begin with stop.

Herr Rumpelmayer and the origins of disappoinments

So i announce today to the nobodies and the somebodies and the everybodies, i am writing my first short story in german with the preliminary title of 'Herr Rumpelmayer'.
and i hope i will be publishing bits of it here with time to come (and corrections).

and now, i announce the updates:

the world cup is over, the azzuris have won, for the forth time, congrats.
the world cup was great and shitty in its own rights.
germany was great, the nation, fans, the party, oh yeah, and the team. and now its like kathrina has just passed by. and all the scandals and everything, it was really the greatest stage of entertainment! ok, nearly the greatest.

i have mountains of homeworks.

i have some new poems. some may even appear here, to anyone's interests.

i have thom yorke's 'the eraser' and is loving every beats, second, howling, singing, everything about it. i love it. but i also love some other bands too at the meantime. most notably paavoharju, matt eliott, roedelius, duncan sheik and i'm rediscovering polly jean.

i have no money. where is it? show it to me.

i have new thoughts, new friends, old memories reanimated, quite scary.

the half-light
in the abyssal mindframe of the half-light
it shades the dark
lends its prose to my architecture
stretched over the width
of a rain-drenched writing block
the length of her arm outstretched-
weaving maid's swollen eyes
we transverse, everyday we leave
our core to find, to find
the song in the dark it beeps.
no longer haunting, the piano pieces
wisdoms of plastic bags, blow through
the herd of alchemists
through the thicket of the half-light
on the handkerchieves of virgins
this irreversible constellation
they, the maidens of our sacrifice
everytime the twilight under which
we search for our unicorn
in comforting shock or horrifying assurance
the path already being laid.