Frunțile-ncruntate
Au nevoie de săruturi:
Ca-n verile în care,
Când mama făcea salate,
Ne lipea colțurile castraveților,
Reci și umede,
De frunte.
Și noi râdeam.
Acum am crescut
Și nu mai râdem
Și nu ne mai lipește nimeni
Colțuri de castraveți
De frunte.
Acum avem un colț al gurii
Și-un colț al camerei-
Ambele-nclinate.
Noi niciodată drepți
Sau sărutați.
Azi s-a găsit un bon într-un jurnal,
Obiectul timpului pierdut:
“Căciulă adult” – o bucată
De copil acoperindu-și
Gândurile ce-i țin de frig.
every human’s a box
each also lives in one
and they call it a home.
but some have cracks
not where the locked door is,
nor under the window
through which
curious eyes sometimes
peep searching for
that crazy woman’s screech.
they are inside
and they happen when that glass of
wine is
thrown
somewhere
fallen
somewhere else on
the floor
you can find the shards of
your box.
buy a new home
and a bottle of wine:
open the latter,
lock the first.
Ever wondered why the arsonist too goes to the shore?
He pulls out his ribs to design a boat,
Knitting them with every plucked string of his heart
But as soon as he leaves the land
They all start to crumble and crumble;
The water is glaucous blue and salty
And it comes from his eyes which burn.
While plunging into it and getting his last straw
He dies and his house tumbles down, burnt.
Hours later-
They find his memories on the floor
Smelling like regrets and cigars.
suddenly struck by this thorny thought
untimely swirling into chaos
which I did not apprehend.
cause me pain, I thought
quite masochistically
but I didn’t expect that you’d end
what really felt like a start.
the door opens, I’m still shocked
as one already closed, too fast
and feeling stabbed by million shards
I smile and overtly gaze there, having no aim
like saying: yeah, come in.
then the question that I fear arises:
-Do I bother you?
-Of course not, please just vanish
while I still feel flustered
with wobbly knees and refrained
shivery thoughts.
-Why aren’t you staying straight?
But how could I
when the only remanent thing which keeps my head up
shoulders straight
is the fucking orthosis
bracing myself
she came and seemed so happy;
she said: -hey!
and you replied: -Hey! I’m Happiness.
then the other day, another one came
he said: hey…
in 4 shades of sad
and then again you replied:
-Hey! I’m Sadness.
after that, out of nowhere,
a new one appeared
she was so funny
and her laughter
overwhelmingly contagious-
so you smiled and told her a joke:
-Hey, I can be so me with you!
and you’re alone:
finally, the latter one showed up
he unsaid the joke
tendentiously veiled in irony.
he became clear black
and said: hey, I’m Grief!
then sluggishly asked me:
-Who are you?
thus bewildered I said:
-Hey! 
ochii-ti ies din orbite vio/lent
si-o amintire-ti impregneaza o imagine-n minte-
inchide-i.
neclar, neclar, neclar
imprumuta Ochiul lui Horus si-nteapa-l
cu varful unghiei abia scos din carnea-
palmei mai acum ceva timp inclestata-n pumn
sa prinda, sa nu dea drumul
amintirii.
jongleaza cu el- inducere-n eroare
deformeaza imaginea, cuprinde-l in maini
pune-i degetul, sa taca, pe retina.
el clipeste in semn de revolta, te musca de deget disperat
genele-ti rapun tesutul;
injecteaza-o lacrima sa te-amorteasca
neclar, neclar, neclar-
acum e momentul,
definitiveaza actul profanator:
strapunge-l si lasa-l orb
indurerat de amintirea amintirii.
you woke up,
you barely woke up;
you sighed and thought
“5 more minutes that I need, please”
so you begged yourself to feel
a bit longer dead:
sleep. 
you woke up
then again you peevishly asked for some minutes
to feel how it feels not to feel at all
conscious, or aware of our mawkish reality
“so life”- you begged, “let me die a bit”-
don’t sleep.
stand up and aimlessly move your legs
go there- but where?
brush your teeth, look into the mirror
see not yourself, but just a weary face-
not yours, another’s.
feel empty for the rest of the day,
drown in drowse and act dim,
the disappearance of the insides
so dull
and grey
lacking the You in Self and the Self in You,
yourself is divided:
Self craves for some minutes of death
and after a day of living
You get home-
sleep.
4 p.m.
He walked the chalky alley
As he usually does:
Lumbering, with his eyes
Not reaching the horizon.
But for the nonce
He feels the wind
Sluggishly touching his
Peachy freckled-cheeks;
And dazzled he observes
The iridescence of a
Floating feather in
The sun’s glow-
Its blatant colours:
Black fading in metallic blue
And metallic blue fading in
The kid’s green-like eyes.
Such a piece of art
Tremulous in the air
As the boy’s heart when
His mom died.
/////////////////////////////////////
4 p.m.- on some other street
You can hear a screech
From insides of a dead bird.
Blatant colours:
Black fading in metallic blue,
Metallic blue fading in
fading in
fading in
My fingers stretch my skin
Around my eye
Trying to awaken it in the present
Because… you won’t believe it,
But it sometimes just
rolls slightly trying to
Take a look into the past
Summoning its senses back.
Nary a thing to see as
Long ago I convinced it to have
Unseen all the unpleasant and
Trap it in a forgotten cage.
Veiled the withered times
And canvased the „I”
Painting it in a greenish feeling;
Elpis exists, unbeknownst to my
Deceived self by itself.
As long as you want to plunder
The depths of buried times,
Don’t try to look me in the “I”
You might unlock Pandora’s box.
that fire burns red
and those wood cracks
are just shattered bones of
something nevermore existing.
it burns convulsively and
fascinated by its
devilish tinge
i burnt my fingers
stealing some of
its fiery spirit
giving then some
lurid shade to
my pale skin.
i wonder if tears are made for
tearing things;
such as my skin when
colliding with some,
felt like whining
as my cells were
damaged by those
liquid harms which,
apparently, created
just some ailments;
it’s just a physical feel,
it doesn’t really hurt.
it seems like a bitter illusion
which distracts you
from the actual pain
which caused the tears
to cause the tearing.
5 years ago,
3 o’clock in the morning and
a glass has been shattered
when the devil
driven by some impotent fury
thought that she should
face some irrational obloquy;
he made the girl
pack her dreams
and all her memories;
goodbye, catteries.
the car, in that year,
made its way with
such readiness away
from all that meant
home.
inside, you could’ve heard
the little girl’s thoughts:
they were so powerful,
sonorous…
and they were all laments.
4 years ago, the devil
soothed his
igneous temper.
but there she is again
after a bit of
its calmness
on the back seat
weeping and being
subjugated by blackness.
3 years ago, there were
some things to be made;
such as good times
in some place
miscalled home.
2 years ago, the engine
created some technical
self of her
that has in its mechanism
the same routine
of being carried away.
this time, there was no weeping
maybe just an attempt
which was quelled
among some dizzy thoughts.
one year ago, she kept coming
back to the devil
that plays some
benevolent deity
in her 12th act of life.
now,
with her weary eyes
she observes it’s recurrent
and driven by
some impotent fury
she tries to escape
some reminiscing state;
but she doesn’t notice that
outside
the car is honking.
liberosis 