Monthly Archives: December 2015

Apă

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Belgian painter Henri Evenepoel took a selfie, 1898

Ești o apă și am să te numesc Sisyphe,
ziua mă vezi, noaptea te strig, te sorb printre buze și în priviri
îmi săruți degetele picioarelor, rece, mă regăsesc surprins;
ai corpul rotund ca o înfiorare și trupul răsfoit din care curg gânduri,
iar în adâncuri curenții sunt idei fluide,
nu ai brațe ci fraze translucide ce se împletesc cu sufletul din mine…
Într-o dimineață credeam că-ți disting fruntea între trestii
și nu luna pierdută în contemplare de sine,
atât de lină încât cerul era una cu tine
și somnul așternuse o liniște netedă ce se stingea,
dar când am întins degetele am simțit rouă pe gene și urme de pași…
Vreau să îți vorbesc și nu mă aud,
văd amintiri ce se scoboară ca o ceață peste cântecul tău –
sunt cuvintele mele pe care nu le rostesc,
ce stau albastre și mă privesc;
tu ești o apă iar eu, Iubito, sunt Narcis…

Give and Take

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I came down the snail house stairway, in the middle of your dreams
and my feet was made of hunger on a floor of broken sea shells,
I came looking for your home with my flag, a box of wood, big hearted,
the road one took was nowhere to be found and nor did I saw the postman,
only pillars set on fire with each and every prayer at the border of desire..

You’ve left me in the middle, my throat is barking at the night
I’ve tried to pull on the lever to no effect for there’s no fulcrum in my head,
and the songs I listen to are saving me from hell and nailing up my coffin,
sixty days give or take worth a thousand years of dirty thoughts and fame,
I killed the sun and dig holes in the cement while you rest the same…

I took a plunge in an ocean, there are sharks all around for as far as I can see
their teeth are shiny and sharp daggers and you are dancing with me,
before the end of this summer I’ll find a trail in the sand and a way to your sea,
and early in March I’ll plant a flower tree like I saw in a dream,
are you with me or I can not give,
a taker to take the core and the coat, are you with me?

 

A song with paddles

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Girl is Playing Violin by Max Kutz

 

Morning comes fast anew with no sun and stone hearted chilly winds,
and terrible sounds one can hear of a machine meant to induce fear
turn my gears and start to tear, growing up a need to smash,
and the shower filled with mice might be kinky and kind of nice,
the dark pea soup wrongfully called coffee mingles with a slice of bread,
I mirror-met the guy my girl called Ted, very much a bear looking for it’s cave,
and I’ll turn thirty in two weeks and all I need is to break bricks
and hopefully I’ll blow candle that my life is up to handle…

I went viral days ago so tonight it is turning hot like the furs in Camelot
and the tree cut in half hails the ghost of an Irish teller passing-by,
“Will you bring me cotton candy?” asked the lost boy
“Will you paint my leafs in gold?” asked the same girl,
running with a naked feet, the cement doesn’t change the face
and steps I take towards the fountain are never to remember
only wind and rain and holes once upon a November…