morning and coffee the window, the Sun, fresh air before noon yesterday the scene, the play, the rush, an old lady the machine “You want to get rid of your wife?” I quit… the pride the drama the shots a walk, lemon juice, pasta “What’s with this voice?” Poland a photo, three words, the white the wish, the best old friends a walk in the park the talk –
rain feelings the wait hold tight, wrong, too long alone blue, time, no cats the promise “I would have…” south of Paris, more books fight build love a daughter of Eve a son a dog the Pope…
I want to write a poem about a time I have forgotten I want to sing a song we played a life ago running long the streets to another half-full café where people kept smoking and beer was cheap, do you remember the guitar riffs and the full glasses with good words to sip, used to get drunk on glances and the last Sunday hit your red ribbon on that sky blue dress I’ve danced you baby to the last of my deep breaths…
I want to write the words, all that I have promised I want them engraved on a stone from the sea for the world to know and your heart to feel it all that’s been missing is what we left behind, I do remember the walks in the park pride made us wrong and guilt drove me crazy, my way took a wrong turn and I could not find you I took a chance to ask a big diamond and the sun went purple in a pool of free stars…
I want to write a poem about a good time I want to sing a song about tomorrow…
When I’ve opened the only window of my studio flat this morning and took in the astonishing view over Paris that the height of a 26th floor can provide I suddenly felt free again. Rays of the end of May sun were washing the gray cement surface of the twin tower in front of me and stumbling down to the square blocks that cover the narrow alleys and the openings that often turn into playground for an army of children coming from from smaller or larger apartments all around. The noise of the street to the left is distorted and than amplified into a low constant humming as proof that life still exists and isolation is nothing but self-imposed. The gray takes me to La Defense, years ago, when I first visited Paris and everything was a mystery asking to be solved and each step was another adventure. The warmth of the sun did not change much, nor its shining or the deep blue of the Parisian sky.
I sipped again the hot dark-brown essence that I love preparing every morning using my very own espresso machine and a grinder for the coffee beans that I find in obscure little shops. I used to add sugar but later on exchanged it for rich milk fat in an attempt of living healthier. It is a ritual that brings joy and a few moments of so much needed tranquility before taking off into the tumult of the never-ending hospital work. Today however is Saturday and I am not on call, and Monday is a national holiday in France, and seen from the little window of my 26th floor studio flat, life is once again beautiful and I can feel the calling of the yet to be explored Parisian streets slowly pouring into every part of me. I almost have the impression that the COVID-19 pandemic never existed in the first place.
I once got to know a girl I gave her flowers I gave her words but most of all I gave her songs and listened to them all, it made me fall the high rock hill danced this dream along, she followed for a while gone the wind and gone her springs I loved her on the wire…
I once got to know a girl her eyes were forged in fire, fed her pages from the book to build up on desire never told me what she took purple heart was old and tired, on the road the star went higher shone me to the west…
I once got to know a girl never to forget beat the rhythm in this cellar something must’ve changed, got to know that girl or so I’ve felt…
Invaders walking in my house their armies stepping forward fighting with a butter knife and one by one I’ll put them down, they ask me for a number and all I do is close another door in a memory that’s deeper than before, bringing out the silence I don’t feel a hero anymore the half moon in my hand is a killer but my soul starts to forget, sitting at the longest table I get only half-full plates familiar faces roaming make a party I don’t get blonde hair turned to fire just a glance before it sat while getting drunk on coffee I do wear the hat, but mornings in the sky are certainly the worst dreams are left to die before they find a place to nest and little things is what I have when the wild hearts go to rest…
I got shot in the dark with the gun I used to break their hearts shattered in a million pieces all I’ve left is broken wishes missing form the greatest puzzle the wrong answers to the right questions, they will paint my face on the bigger picture tell me stop ask me be better held on to the feelings my chest could not gather, I have seen you naked but my skin was covered taking in the space between us, the whole grew larger nothing more to share but attaching distance you call the rains but the soil is poison and I want to grow and seed a forest, larger than the world…
Beautiful borders that we forgot to seal turned from yellow flowers to red brick walls and the song I used to play never called you anyway, I gave her a name and she marked it down in stone it did not change it did not even glow acting in a story that we somehow stole the rhyme is off the tempo is cold and I am freezing when we should be burning slow, the nights are longer with the steps we take what there is to do when there is nothing left to say my heart belongs to me in the most profound of ways, if this won’t kill us it is not a passage of any kind for I can not see the future yet I am far from blind…
I am drinking red wine that turned into blood metallic with a taste to cut out your tongue it feels like the days I spelled your eyes wrong and you gave me water that washed our souls, Miss Wright is out of control Mister Wong is ever so bold tell me to stop ask me be better nothing left to do before I write this letter something must change or it’s hog-killing weather I can not go the same to the end of summer it is in my bones that I seek an honest meaning and if you ever try again tell me so I can take cover love is a curse but it must not be made harder…
White shirts, pink shirts, blue shirts, neat shirts derbies and the black pressed underpants shave that beard and loose the longhair cut on bubbles after hours, have martini mother wants you home by ten is this what you’ve meant? waking up at seven, going in at eight cigarette at midday splitting up the day working in an office posing as a clerk serving for the country in the kindest way communism negation in a socialistic nation is this what you’ve meant? is this what you’ve meant?
got a girl that’s dressed in leather watches Oprah, thinks she’s clever at the shop she cleaned a headgear feeds the beaver, pushed a lever she looks stunning like a badger is this what you’ve meant? like a chef she cooks a rabbit that looked dead before you had it goes to church one year in seven wants some kids but cats are glaring and the bourbon says she’s had it is this what you’ve meant? is this what you’ve meant?
having taught you scored a shiny diamond you have gained blue painted marbles growing heavier by the hour, you’re in pain… friends you’ve left in ivy leagues knew better worthy is the patience to inherit and not gather is this what you’ve meant? nation ranked eleven on a scale from one to heaven perfection by the books based on telling how they look down to earth the greatest fear is to see but not to hear, honeybees are used to follow even when the queen is hollow colored yellow, scented sweet, break your back… is this what you’ve meant? is this what you’ve meant?
is this what you’ve meant? is this what you’ve meant? break that glass… is this what you’ve meant? shove it up that ass… is this what you’ve meant?
If I ever fall and follow for a while know it’s not beauty that made me come along nor the burning in your wandering lips or the depths of ocean eyes, I heard the call in stories you have told and in voices turning sunshine on the reel…
Ai căzut, un vis, cu brațele rănite mă respingi, ești o himeră? pielea îți este lemn vremuit cu mușchi verde ca o driadă, coapsele săpate se pierd de apă, de timp, ca o amintire ce se deșiră, vocea devine gravă – închid ochii forme, cald, lumină, gusturi vechi, nu am uitat nicicând să te cunosc…
I’d see beauty my eyes turned white your face is a color that I feel like a sound, the last beer spilled on my fingers in a bad pub it was hot before it was cold your voice sufficed in a dark that was blind fell deep inside addiction for a good mind, summer stayed for a while something is broken, broken it is the world I closed and see wrong no heat for my own, lips from between the lines million thoughts came before each bite honey water and hard lost in a pond I died and turned out alive…
Un Jurnal Neverosimil 