Cosmic Dawn & other poems


I hear early noises of an emerging city
As I walk back to my bed.
Soaked and foggy like fuck.

I like the noise the city makes when it yawns, and all and everyone is grey.
Horns, always distant no matter how close, and mumbles from languages not even invented yet. Dibili HUP AH !
Bribes and wastes, late rats the size of a fat cat heading back home in the Undercity.
Sleepy bums on queensize cardboards,
And that smell…

Go read this at 6AM on the sidewalk,

sailor drunk,
docker drunk,
even copper drunk.

Take a deep breath and SMELL.
It’s how a new beginning smells.
An early breeze of chaos,
An unborn Sun getting warm.

A Cosmic Dawn in the making.


Poetry is a body fluid.
The sweat we soak beauty with.
The least sacred of things.
the anti-sacred.
The air we breathe,
The blood we spit when we get punched in the face.
Poetry is the cum of the soul, flushed down straight to the disgusting rivers of aesthetic love. And it fecundates these streams with genuine bliss.
Poetry is a dumpster on fire, which will set the World on fire.
Poetry is a shivering scream in the night, making moon-howling wolves afraid.
It is primal.
Poetry is good.
Poetry is terrible.

Poetry doesn’t make the world look good.
Poetry makes the world.
And tears.

And poetry.


There’s a monster in my heart
That sometimes gets out, day or night.
A coward, a cheater, a hater.
I wish I could contain him,
But I’m too soft.
I beg him to stay in,
But he laughs at me, a way only devils do.
I tried to drown him in booze,
But he always overdrinks me, that monster.
Few people knows he lives in the inside.
And he can be a charming motherfucker.

There’s a monster in my heart
That sometimes gets out, day or night.
An eloquent, persuasive, insidious kind.
I say please mate,
Why won’t you remain calm and cosy in here ?
Why aren’t my crooked thoughts enough for your pleasure?

There’s a monster in my heart
That sometimes gets out, day or night.
And it makes me sad knowing he’s trapped in someone who does not deserve him.
So I let him out, when the urge burns in the inside.
And he roams free, soiling the unborn dreams we have,
The ones making our lives bearable.
So much that sometimes it’s too much.
And then I cage him back in my heart,
Where he knows he won’t stay for too long.
And it’s nice for a monster
to make a man weep.
I wish I did not, but still I do.
Do you ?

Marcel Homin



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