Summer 2016


Strata of dreams and regrets


This is the sad short tale of the girl, who walks through dangers of the highway

all the way down to the port,

to look at beautiful people at their magnificent boats.

She comes here each evening, this idle hour of her insignificant life

as this girl is a writer, who doesn't write.


She lives in a city which slowly consumes her lines,

and fairies have tricked her into the world of

phantasmagorical visions, unsure sounds, artificial light.

She's covered in cloud no one happens to see

and strange questions no one else seems to worry about.

Poor colleen looks in the eyes of every stranger she meets,

longing for something that's lost, or has never been found.

But all eyes are one mirror -

they reflect empty pages, untouched diaries piling up.

She leaves no footprints when walking the city's dust,

which is how insignificant her life has become.

'What's not written - not lived' she hears haunting voices whisper around.


So it's not funny at all, but she laughs as she cries,

tears a page from the notebook, sticks it into a bottle and flings into the river,

hoping silly it'll drown.

As she walks back towards dangers of the highway, she cannot see

that a beautiful man from a magnificent boat her message picks up.


A yellow blank page

all he finds



(... aye, another desert. Not much food here, so I keep going.) 

Sleep doesn't help if it's your Soul that's tired.


Arno T, 2015

Arno T, 2015


                                  Luck with no flame


Complicated context, conflicted visions, energy vortex zoom zoom

                             A ridiculous request, for air

Banana peels, orange peels, ashtrays, books, traces of light left by disappearing rainbow

                                  Sand and sea, holy

Migration, passageways, transition, secret portals, transient space totems echoes

                               Revival of mind, Dignity.


Change your habits,

change your life.




You stand still for three days 

for a piece of wisdom

and everything fall to the right place


or wrong place


                           You speak

               don't know whether

seraph or bitch

flutters at your heart


and look through windows

for cue cards

blazing in the sky.

                             The solution.

This last year I was sure

I was going to die


(Michael Ondaatje)



In search for Peace


I play with pain until I have enough. Anon I dart an arrow to the Universe parallel. I park my horses under the stars, and watch blind Mercury move in the open night prairie. I gather glowing stillness and hold it in my palms, the transparent mirror. It reflects the rising sun, which changes colour of my face. I weep tears of beauty of time of warm summer's rain... I rise in God's perception, like elderly would say. And all is marvellous, cos all is gold. But then I have enough of that. And I go back to pain.


and I complain complain



'What you seek is seeking you' Madam talks the insight of Rumi this evening.

'Tell me what you seek, baby' she asks.

'I seek freedom from desire' I say.

In other words - I seek freedom from pain.



(...from the diary of 'the Addiction')

Every place has its own wisdom.

-Michael Ondaatje




- Latin word for Planet.

This word is a living proof that Lithuanian language comes from Latin.



nothing here is wild. everything is open.


and we drink coffee again. and you confess your love for me. and I confess my love for you. and happiness fly all around. and I think where from, as there is no tree, no flower nor a bee on this street. and you pull out a piece of an old envelope. and you read a fragment from the past, of one fine day that happened to us. and you mention a soul, and a book of life. and I recover the scent of that day. and I don't know what to say. and you hold my hand. and I hold yours. and the sun sets down. and the waitress kicks us out into the open.

and we walk the city in circles. and we stop by the river to watch young people learning to navigate a kayak. and the Lee is so peaceful. and you tell me a story, about this bridge use to open up when you were going to school. and I wish some changes never happen to Cork.

and the bus arrives. and it takes you back to where you come from.

and as I walk home, I realise, that every year, when chestnut trees bloom, I fall in love with someone, who stays with me forever.

and I think I must be dreaming.

and June happens...


Life's nature is a Bliss.



So I begin with memory

as old songs do

                          in this cafe

against the night

(Michael Ondaatje)




I said to you: 'Let's float.'

You said to me: 'Here is a horse for you. Let's go.'


My head is a full bucket that doesn't overflow. The more I pour into it, the more it asks for. How come?




St Patrick's Hill is divided into a few storeys: upstairs, downstairs, and a cellar.

The Mothership takes off from the Heineken meadows, the cellar.

At Now o'clock.




Will I invite Leonardo DiCaprio to our book launch, will depend on my haircut.

(bad haircut times)


Don't tell me my dreams won't come true. Speak to your fears in private.




Some days, consciousness screams to be heard.

Some days are only to swing in a hammock.


A postcard - grapes in a crystal bowl...




Time changes in a way that it either goes forward or backwards.




Don't ask people are they true to themselves. Most of them haven't a slightest clue what you're talking about.

Madam says that we, as human race, are pretty fucked up. Today I think so too. That includes both of us, sure.



I add to the list of my favourite words.




There is nothing more exciting as a promise of different tomorrow.



Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.

-Ernest Hemingway


The Angel . Author unknown.

The Angel. Author unknown.