screw it

that fire burns red82b1c58e3e47e5887b307df81e9ee05b

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


inside, you could’ve heard

the little girl’s thoughts:

they were so powerful,


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.


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


the car is honking.

windy thoughts

 What are you doing? You’re just staring at some building. Outside a chilly wind reminds you that you still have some nerves functioning, that you still do feel something. But what the fuck do you feel? Some breeze on your skin, chained by the nothingness, you feel the loneliness of the wind and yet some presence which connects with you. You’re the wind’s blast, and the wind is making you devour your being. And still, there is nothing left when sitting on a bench, at some point in the nighttime.        tumblr_mztry6a5eb1qh4d3po1_500

But there on that building

some lights still burn

and somewhere behind that blurry glass

sits a family and

their child.

They eat and laugh and tell stories about people, fairies and maybe what is there to be seen soon.

But for some moments all is

quite within their walls which propagate

their neighbour’s voice which

screams and shouts and yells and laments

regarding untold stories and bad people and ghosts and what is there not to be seen soon.

Such as a


but there,

there is a cry.

Do you feel the whirling wind? It just withered the cry which quenched the light.


211208-night-train   For some reason I like trains, don’t ask me why, as I myself am wondering what is the motive behind it. Or am I not? Trains, let’s see, some railway mechanism which in fact, having some other technical-related stuff attached to, is carrying people from one place to another. Sounds dull, doesn’t it? Moreover, I bet most of you when hearing about trains halt on some ideas, actually, it’s like darting into them- Oh, no! trains, crowded, motion sickness, too much time wasted– but really, did you get the time to think deeper about it?

     I sometimes compare trains with one particular thought, that thought that is striding away from you, when you simply can’t accept the reality- that kind of reality which yields grief, which just torments you; so as not to bear with those states, you try to quell the obvious lest to have your peace being terribly plundered by such deceit. Well, darling, does rooking all that you are assuage your mind? or your other pinky-thoughts? I might assume that it doesn’t, so don’t feel resentful, just escape that cowardliness which has its apparel consisting in lies.

     You know it’s there, you’re mindful of it, but you want to blackmail your being by hijacking the state of indifference like the lousy thing you are; but you still feel it, yes, you do, you know it’s there, you know it won’t ever flee away. You assume it’s not your train, that it doesn’t go where you’d want to arrive, it just happens that it comes by your station, but there are no coincidences and you’re aware of it.

     And you cease bewildering yourself, and you get that train. It’s convulsing and it hurts, but you aren’t part of that helter-skelter, not anymore.

     I like trains, you actually don’t enter the crowded spaces, you escape them. Shall you choose the train with the railway being your mind? It’s somehow like a carousel, isn’t it?

Vagă vrere

Mă pipăi țesătură iluzorie.             15673044_1220335064740595_5974968402443384848_n

Vreau să simt,

Să mă…

(Să) scap.

Poate se desprinde-o ață

Și poate scoate acul la iveală

Și poate-o să(-mi) cos

Răspunsul pe retină

Și chiar atunci o să orbesc.

Și-o să vreau să-l pipăi ca să

(Mă) înțeleg,

Dar nu (mă) simt.


tumblr_ojtj4zxo1w1ukalfso1_500May the snowfall cover the

Scars that bruised my being

And may every snowflake

Enshroud every single cell

That has been squashed

By your poisoned blood

Which bewildered mine,

Persuading it into avoiding

The path back to my heart.

I shall forget it all as

I’m fended by this hoary aegis.

But tell me…

When the deceit

Veiling this shelter

Will come true

And will melt into a phantasm

Will the wounds be healed

Or will I just be left

In the cold of what it was?

Euhemerism, de ce?

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH
Adăpost carnal-energetic ţi-e temerea
Pe care ţi-o expui într-o tardivă autosuficienţă
Ce tinde spre pseudo-
Încredere ai în tine
Și-ţi scapără violet-otrăvit
Privirea îngreunată de decepții dobândite
Din lipsă de gnoză.
Și-așa-ţi cere propriul microcosmos
O frântură de macro-
Fiinţă în care să-ţi ferești fobia de
A fi infim în faţa a nimic.
Și-așa prin imprecaţie
Conduci cu stângăcie o vivisecţie a sinelui
Ca pentru a crea un mai mare afabil,
Dar instigator a frică, spre a fi superior
Și genic temerii tale.

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