on intercourse
Dissipating,
Fuzzy outlines and the thought of our borders
That chokes and
Leaves you shaking,
Me breathless.
There is no rhythm
Or another sound, in my memory,
As dear to me as that “thump thump”
Forlorn, timeless,
The beating of your heart.
Never quite in sync
We did not melt together
Or leave our molds, but simply
Flowed and intercoursed
Until there was no sweet, there was no salty
But just the ocean and
Its fleets of great whites.
You can’t fly and I can’t swim.
It’s ok. We can hold on to eachother and carry eachother,
Metaphorically speaking, of course,
Since no such thing as eachother still exists.
We each are the other,
Since we never bothered to put up
Guards at our borders
Or even
Barbed wire fences.
Whenever I’m having a bad day, I just look around at all the stupid people and I thank the Lord… at least He didn’t make me an idiot
how far does your view of the world extend?
Where are your tails? (His are in the backyard)
20 martie 2009, am scris versuri
Nu mi-am lăsat urmele de trecere prin viaţă,
Nu, nici vreo semnătură în cartea de vizită a existenţei (pe care oricum
n-ar vedea-o nimeni, că doar cartea aia e mereu deschisă
la pagina lui Shakespeare).
Parcă, totuşi, îmi amintesc
De o zi infinită de vară în care
Mă plimbam pe străzile unui orăşel cu multe, multe ştranduri.
Purtam sandale, fuste şi un zâmbet,
Iar asfaltul smolit îmi purta tălpile amprentate,
Combinând mândria unui ofiţer de poliţie împlinit
Cu glamour-ul unei stele desenate pe pavaj.
Hier stehe ich, ich kann nicht anders.
Mai multe panze prafuite, perdele mancate de molii de prin dulapurile vreunei babe, imi cad peste ochi si ma ineaca in mirosul mumificarii. Insomnia is an understatement pentru starea asta de n-am-mai-inchis-ochii-de-alaltaieri.
Bazz bazzzz in urechi am vreo 32 de albine isterice. Pe net gasesti ridicol de multe resurse ezoterice, e-books pe mitologie, divinitati puse la murat acum cateva milenii. V-ati amintit de Gaea, fratilor? E in coma alcoolica, too late, chiar daca reusiti sa o treziti, probabil ca a ajuns sa va urasca intre timp.
Ruj rosu si piele gariata, Zamolxe e nemurire dar Kogaionul s-a pierdut. Cine dracu pierde un munte?? Noi. Ok. Cine dracu e noi?
“Foul Superstition! howsoe’er disguised,
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross,
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized,
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss!
Who from true worship’s gold can separate thy dross?”
lord’s favourite sinner
If your road should lead to nowhere, I will follow you all the way without regrets. I will look back at the land we have crossed, and thank God for hills and sunlight, bless the moon that has blessed us with cool summer midnights, pour my love into autumn decay. I swear to the heavens that I’ll follow you every step of the way.
If my feet should walk me away from salvation, down a coward’s path with little but spring’s dull flowers to look forward to, I’ll crucify this love on a hilltop and pray. Broken skies will pour winter rain mixed with ice, my shoes will slosh on muddy grave-dirt, there’ll be no thunder, no more place for song. Too many excuses and this broken will of winter’s tales and candlelight.
God is a beggar’s dream and I am dreaming it right now. Raise the colours high, as they say, we’re immortal, I do not die, but simply rot inside this fleshy avatar, faultless and animalistic as it is. This is a sinner speaking. Prepare the fire, i must burn for this.
Bleeding death
Love’s wanton, bleeding death
will take its time.
Midnight bells must ring before
the show can start, and
all this drama brings tha makeup down your cheeks
in ugly lines.
You clown.
Dodge infidelity of thought through
endless distractions,
coffee will not be needed
thank you,
we can handle ourselves.
No screams tonight. Just listen
to the clouds, windbrushed,
whispering of
desintegration.
That dog is starving, and
one might wonder
if cold will kill him before
the hunger does.
Flori de liliac şi mucegai
Putrezite, florile mov de liliac miros a cadavru proaspăt şi a primăvară muribundă. Atârnă începutul ierbii la cântar, alungând norii cu evantaie colorate, nu fac decât să mă rog pentru înmormântarea omului de zăpadă. Ploaia e putregai drag, cerut, când nu se mai opreste decat ca sa faca loc unor fulgi de zăpadă veche, stătută.
Timpul e soare, aici sau dincolo, dar “dincolo” e sfârşitul pământului şi nu vreau să mor doar ca să ajung soarele din urmă. Unghiile cresc şi după moarte, dar cresc foarte încăpăţânat în timpul vieţii. Şi zgârie uneori, cu iubire: uite, am să-ţi adun pielea şi sângele şi te voi iubi prin mirosul de rană nouă, apoi prin cel de putregai.
And now, putina politica
Capitalismul global a esuat rasunator. In aceasta era a europenizarii, ma trezesc si eu sa sustin productia romaneasca interna. Nu din dragoste fata de patrie (no offence, dar mi-a expirat patriotismul), ci din scarba pentru cultura obiectelor. Doar n-o sa ajung sa ma inchin la Coca-Cola!
Noh, poate-mi trece intr-o luna, cum mi-a trecut si vegetarianismul.
Of body and cage
I’m weak tonight, and there’s a thousand demons at my window, looking in. Time is heavy and achy in the worst kind of way, where you lose it even as you follow through its mazes. The mind grows weak and movements are sluggish, death is closer than even sleep might bring it.Skin turns to boundaries and flesh, soft as pillows and inutility, becomes immune to pain, unfeeling. Nails are knives attached to marshmellow fingers. Hair is smooth silk of no relation to this thinking entity. Cold seems a dream from another plain of existence, even as my head throbs with the day’s cold winds.
Blood and motion are faraway from this crawling dreamland, yet pain bears stigmata of life, in assurance, and I find myself taking comfort in this reaffirmation of mortality. Night is endless (except for when dawn breaks), and there is not one minute of darkness which does not inspire me with thoughts of black infinity. Shyly I reject midnight’s call for true dreams, prolonging my waking hours even as nothingness performs a depraved siren’s call in my head.
Sloth as damnation to immobility. I cannot move, not truly, not even as I was able to do yesterday. Mushy flesh fails me, body, incomprehensible in its simplicity, refuses to obey. I am no god. Gods have no flesh to rend and no pain to break trough the ache of emptiness.
