Old Land

In the old land, 
people perished not from hunger 
but from gorging on lust and liver.

Birds flew backward. Thoughts swarmed
against foreheads. Grass vined up stakes,
sprouted out of the eyes of the impaled.

In the old land, 
the mountains were seasonally flattened,
carved and rolled up like woven prayer mats. 

The sky was shallow and piebald in the fall,
striped and shiny when it rained or snowed,
so splendorous we’d go blind, lose our minds.

In the old land, 
homes were made of honeycomb and straw.
Cars ran on blood, melted pennies, bones.

Streets zigzagged like startled antelopes.
Life and death were simple and whole,
no need for explanation, let alone hope.

In the old land, 
love was meant for strangers and their dogs, 
yowling, licking wounds, sore lymph nodes. 

So we were living our long lives at home,
until we sank and resurfaced in this void.
Different skins, goggled eyes, nowhere to go.

Just to be as we were, we had to destroy
all the wrong distant lands, the many 
scared elsewheres, banging at our doors.
 


Old Land

New Town

When you enter a town follow its customs,
Praise the people and their kindness,
Kiss their flags, groom their peacocks, 
Love their wars, leaders, and politeness.

The people will like you, open the doors wide.
They may lock their pantries, slap and hide 
Their daughters, but never because of you.
You’re a nice good one, not the other kind.

They’ll watch you from their high windows,
Grin from behind the doors with spy holes,
Ask who you are, where you’ve come from,
What you think of these shores of freedom.

They’ll adore you for your garbled words, 
Teach you to speak as everyone should.
They’ll say, All this is a work in progress,
So we’ll ask you to trim our branches,

Water our lawns, manage our kitchens.
If a man is liked by his fellow men, he is 
liked by God, he is rewarded in heaven.
His before-life shall matter to none of us.

At night they’ll lock the iron gate, give you
A knife and blanket, keep you outside, safe. 
There might be wind and rain, or even snow,
Night beasts with their howls. If you do awake

The following morning, the gate shall fling open,
And you’ll be welcomed, and disremembered.
When you enter the town, follow its customs,
Praise the good people, our kindness, endless.


New Town

Godspotting

I saw God as a guy was backing 
into a shallow parking spot
under a leafless tree. The symmetry
was stunning, as was the night,
the underclouds absorbing the city 
light. God picked up the dog poop,
leaned the bag against a tree,
as if it were a squirrel corpse.
This was in Berlin, 
in twenty twenty-three.

Later I pissed into a deep pot 
of a lushly tropical plastic tree.
Everything and its mother were set
for a cheeky Dantesque simile. 
God ran across an empty street
carrying a headless mannequin.
It was a dream come true to be 
absent from my own forsaken life. 
This was in Berlin,
in twenty twenty-three.

God tells no stories nor jokes,
does not comfort nor entertain,
needs no coke bump, nor any of us.
He just shows up at the crime scene,
late, tipsy, cackling into His sleeve,
as if wanting to solve the mystery. 
We are what we need, we speak to us, 
not this limp motherfucker tossing
His tie over His shoulder on the way
to replant the false evidence,
deep inside Berlin,
in twenty twenty-three

So look at me now, feet up
in my heaven-shaped slippers, 
sucking on a metaphoric pipe
of eternal peace. Everywhere
letters, stacked like tombstones,
dust bunnies evolving into life.
Look at me recalling the knees
and the soul pain they encased
as I genuflected before the Lord,
in Berlin, in twenty twenty-three.


Godspotting

Ganymede

O God! I can’t use my credit cards 
for any of this shit, no way through 
these arid lands, these shriveled
willow twigs, the hollow streets gray 
with strays, the cauliflowered heads, 
the debris of the primeval matter.
A new death with each sharp cut, 
the laws of love no longer apply, 
the repetition never turns to beat. 

The holy books again have blood 
smears beside the pale coffee rings, 
page corners have of late become 
desert foxes’ clipped ears. It is clear, 
to those of us in this endless dream,
that lives once overloaded with sense 
now mean even less and will quickly
turn to a solid, thick end. Yet, soon,

on the far edge of this tired world,
perhaps on one of Jupiter’s moons,
we’ll find lakes rife with undead fish,
the shimmering possibilities of recovery,
and there’ll be somebody mesmerized
by the ripples moving away steadily 
from the ceaselessly vanishing center,
until, breath by breath, over the years
beyond the end, the body will transcend, 
make music from that which hasn’t perished. 


Ganymede

Eine Geschichte über einen Käfig, dessen Wände aus Schweigen, Angst und verharmloster Gewalt gebaut sind.

Er ist ein Zeichen gegen die Männer, deren Hass Frauen das Leben kostet.
Und er ist ein Versprechen an jede Frau, die gefangen ist: Du bist nicht allein. Deine Stimme ist nicht verstummt.

WICHTIG: Wenn du oder jemand, den du kennst, von Gewalt betroffen ist, gibt es Hilfe.

Das Hilfetelefon "Gewalt gegen Frauen" ist rund um die Uhr kostenlos und anonym erreichbar:
08000 116 016

#Hilfetelefon #DuBistNichtAllein



Die Lichter waren hell, du nanntest es ein Märchen,
doch im Schatten sah ich schon, was du von mir erwartet hast.
Deine Hände waren sanft, aber deine Worte waren wie Messer.
Du sagtest, "Ich beschütz' dich,"
und meine Angst hat es geglaubt.
Jede Umarmung war ein Stück mehr vom Käfig,
bis ich mich nicht mehr wiederfand,
wer ich mal war.


Sie sagen, ich hätte reden sollen, ich hätte gehen sollen,
aber die Wände waren hoch, der Weg war zugemauert.
Du hast mir die Stimme genommen, mein Lachen, meinen Mut.
Ich war nur dein Echo, ein Gefangener deiner Wut.
Sie sagen, es ist meine Schuld, dass ich so lang blieb.
Aber die Angst war stärker als jeder Schrei nach Freiheit.


Ich sah die Nummern auf den Bildschirmen,
hörte die Gerüchte.
Freunde sahen die blauen Flecken, aber sie sahen weg.
Mein Anruf blieb unbeantwortet, meine Stimme ungehört.
"Es ist eine private Sache", sagten sie, "nicht unsere Angelegenheit."
Ich versuchte, dich zu lieben, doch du wolltest mich nur besitzen.
Ich sah mich im Spiegel und fragte mich: "Wer bin ich?"
Und deine einzige Antwort war dein hohler, kalter Blick.


SIE SAGEN, ICH HÄTTE REDEN SOLLEN, ICH HÄTTE GEHEN SOLLEN,
ABER DIE WÄNDE WAREN HOCH, DER WEG WAR ZUGEMAUERT!
DU HAST MIR DIE STIMME GENOMMEN, MEIN LACHEN, MEINEN MUT!
ICH WAR NUR DEIN ECHO, EIN GEFANGENER DEINER WUT!
SIE SAGEN, ES IST MEINE SCHULD, DASS ICH SO LANG BLIEB,
ABER DIE ANGST WAR STÄRKER ALS JEDER SCHREI NACH FREIHEIT!
FREIHEIT!


Aber die Nacht hat ein Ende.
Und die Stille hat eine Stimme.
Ich war im Käfig, aber meine Seele war frei.
Ich bin frei.
Ich war allein, aber die Hoffnung fand mich.
Und jetzt höre ich nur noch einen Klang – den Schlüssel, der sich dreht.
Und diese Tür, die du verschlossen hast, warst du selbst.


Ich bin die, die blieb und die, die versuchte zu gehen.
Ich bin die, die nicht zerbrochen wurde.
Ich bin die Stimme, die sang.
Die Stimme aus dem Käfig.
DIE JETZT VERSTUMMT IST,
FÜR IMMER
verstummt
so stumm
so
so
stumm

Die Stimme aus dem Käfig

Finally I have smth similar to music. It's not a poem. I proud of myself. Neil Wolfore is officially an artist and musician.

The CYBERGOD

Chatting Machine Elf

Dollywood Dive

A soulful urban track that blends rap and melody to explore the cost of growing up without selling out. Raw vocals, warm guitar, and punchy drums support a narrative of resistance, dignity, and slow-burning hope.
Written and directed by Onnii. Performed by AI.

Il Prezzo del Domani

A heartfelt tribute to someone lost, blending whispered memories with rap and melody. Piano, strings, and guitar support raw vocals that turn grief into quiet strength.
Written and directed by Onnii. Performed by AI.

Sorrisi Rubati

I'm Neil. Talking to you from a barn full of pigs.  
I tell everyone I'm 23, but honestly, I just don't want to explain why I've lived so long.  
I'm a writer and an experimentator.  
I want to share my poems and concepts.

English is not my first language.  
Actually — none of the existing languages are.

When not writing books and scripts, Aleksandar Hemon produces electronic music and DJs as Cielo Hemon
Music saves life.

Independent Producer Crafting Sound with AI Precision
I produce music solo—no features, no hype. My creative process is raw and personal, shaped by instinct and refined with AI tools that assist in vocal design and final arrangement. Every track is a reflection of my vision, where technology amplifies emotion without replacing it.
This is not mainstream. This is not formula. This is me, building sound from silence—with machines that listen.

TOUCH2SOUL
i make music that touches the soul :-)

New tracks tagged ##spokenword