"The World is Open Again" | New poem, 2026/06/22.

There are old wounds
and new territories
there are Buddhas
and hooks
there are songs
and protests
there's nothing new on the wind

I cross the old district again
feeling the thin veil
of love
expand upon the horizon

the sun is exceptionally silent
but I feel it talks to me
full sentence
on flight
and resurrection

I climb the rooftop
joining the chorus
of clouds
accompany the king
and daddy
sang bass

I wish I had talent
of some kind
real kind
kind
kind

but all I can do is play
guitar
and moan about highways
record it on a phone
as new technology
allows

and publish it on youtube

there's something closing
in
true
and I'm distant

streets are cruel
kebab cold
beer warm
good women
dead

love is a token
of Indian
arrows

I'm lost, maybe, falling
from skies
the dawn is pale
and I've gone
beyond

but the world is open again

"Bum District" | New poem, 2026/06/21.

Warm morning sun
strokes my joint
I raise up
I stand tight
I count the Indu smokes

There's a sullen aftertaste in the
cloudburst eyes
of my girl

She stands upfront in the middle
of the sunlit razor edge
of sky
I am not prepared for this color
but she sparkles it
infinitely
above
my thunder

There's a road I can't take
trapped in the wheels
of my car
traveling south from the southern point
to reach the furthest
north

What kind of an expedtion
needed to part
the clouds from the sun and the morning
and light up another joint
in the face of all deities
and losers

I am bum district
there are no colors
above me

"Ghosts of Brooklyn" (BRAND NEW SONG, Lyrics, 2026).

Echoes of future knock on your door

Echoes of past you don't dare explore

Pictures of Annie and memories of weed

Sick weirdos running on fumes of dead speed

When you're tired of London and sick of Berlin

Man, you must have seen

The ghosts of Brooklyn

Coincidence crawls so you better beware

The last silver coin is no reason to care

The wasteland is barren and so are your bones

The dealer is calling don't pick up the phone

When you're tired of London and sick of Berlin

Man, you must have seen

The ghosts of Brooklyn

The air is so heavy it's murder to soul

You care less for fortune and masks to explore

You care more for the living but you cherish the dead

If only their spirits could fly from your head

When you're tired of London and sick of Berlin

Man, you must have seen

The ghosts of Brooklyn