Dear friend,
I’ve lost my way going south…
trapped in a dream that is not really mine
building bricks to build up the Wall
people are wrong
tell me who you are,
I need music
my voice will it suffice?
when in the craving
I fill up the cases
and then fade in some way…
my fingers blue
my sight alright
are there any purple stars?
dancing
with
my
heart
there is not much light
on the other side
of the line I followed from the start;
Love –
how do you measure
how can one know
the steps you have taken
the strings you have severed
brought you any closer
or made you whole,
a simple choice
her hand is made of white noise…
Category Archives: Letters to my better self
The Giant

…
was it but a dream
all the rainy mornings dressed in skin
the evenings in the cold chasing purple stars,
young hearts never getting old
lovers in the chain of storm
fast cars crashing down
some things turn to gold, others never hold;
what I miss the most
is a song my lips be spelling in the scent of Holy Ghosts
on high rocky roads crossing
you were naked in the wild
with a smile dressed in white
and everyone that came along
carved and carried larger stones…
so,
give me back the music and let me play my cello
I still hear the horses
can you keep it breathing until we reach the border?
Alice,
I remember now –
you gave me the stories and I gave them hope
grains of silver on a field of stone,
and I don’t need no colors
to paint it back alive
for I’ll always be a Giant
awake in the exploding Sun…
Happy 4th of December !
1. Leonard Cohen & Judy Collins – That’s no way to say goodbye
2. Billy Raffoul & JJ Wilde – Let Me Go
3. The Lumineers – BRIGHTSIDE
4. White Lies – I Don’t Want To Go To Mars
5. The Divine Comedy – The Best Mistakes
BONUS 1. The Dead South – You Are My Sunshine
BONUS 2. The Dead South – People Are Strange
Melancholy

©A fabulous woman
Hard covered, written with the gift
you found a book to live by it
then I kissed you on the wrong right cheek
since the night the pages fled was so dark I could not see,
wished a poem brought you back
to that wicked pub where we last danced
but it is too late,
statement’s made in white, bowing under petrol eyes
and I got the Sun inside to shine no wisdom –
could I burn you if I tried?
is there purpose in this drive?
felt each time he asked “are you a Jew?”
“no, I’m not!” just one among so many few
something lost in between the pagan I have been
and your perfume in the London fumes
I would touch yet would not feel,
taught me how to nurture and not to stir
on the memories we shall become
let them flowers grow
a whole garden painted on a purple sky…
the music
lucky notes and lyrics written for no fame
on a New York City oldest grumpy stage
with empty chairs,
in the end
music is what still remains
and there’s no shame,
we walked those roads and climbed the stairs
in pairs –
we were young and had no care
nothing could’ve bothered,
hair was long and rich and brown
riding in my mustang ’65
money scarce but love was strong
was all that mattered…
lucky strikes in nameless pubs
after shots and after dark
poured us whisky in the jar
and we never stopped the gig
until the end –
fell in love with life that I dissent
white porch, roses and a swing
so we ceased to be a thing
but music played,
nothing could’ve stopped the beat
round that summer in the heat
I did write my greatest hit
but it’s a sad song
for it was wrong…
as with poets rise and fall
Rolling Stones be getting old
and Bowie,
David’s in the stars with Cohen
and I’m even more alone
in this kingdom built from gold,
the gold is cold –
like empty chairs surrounded by a whole
it’s raining roses
in the New York City oldest famous hall,
the music never stopped…
round that summer in the heat
I did write my greatest hit
but it’s a sad song
for I was wrong…
Throwback to the days…
I start with the video for once. Since it’s the music that brought me in the mood to write tonight I might as well do it. Listening it made me wonder about long lost falling stars and made me need with fervor a good rock concert here in Paris. It’s been a long time now, with the pandemic and the confinement that I could not freely wonder on the streets, less hear some good bass somewhere. Isolation makes you think, in the beginning, than starts slowly but certainly get to you. Did I turn mad because of this virus killing people? No. Well no yet, but if we need to go back in our little cell I might as well go forever….
The need I’ve never had, to go into a pub a sip a beer or even better a good glass of red wine and listen to the noise, the music, the whirlwind of voices coming from people I don’t know and never will and maybe, just maybe someone I might get to know. Let’s be honest here: life is not made for staying put but for wandering in the society, feeling the living, the sap of the movement, the fever, the brutality, the excitement… you get the idea. All work and no fun makes Jack a dull boy. Because, again, for how long can you decorate your one-room awfully expensive Parisian apartment? There is quite a limited number of items you can replace: garbage can, flower pot, light bulbs – there is a few of them, wine glasses, champagne glasses, get some glasses for doing shots. There is an alcoholic themed buyers guide out there somewhere because frankly I’ve never had so many different sets of glasses and types of 18+ beverages in that big kitchen drawer next to the window. And the view from the 26th floor gets even better after a couple of Tequila shots, right?
Continue readingThe Wake Up
What have you done?
Where are you now?
It’s not a first,
you didn’t learn a thing –
and now you start to pray
to angels in the skies and all the ones beyond,
wash away my fear
let me hurt them all
my true words be spilling all feelings that’ve gone wrong,
even if I stay alone
and my poetry may never find a home,
in the deepest dark
let me find a path to light…
What have I done?
Where are we now?
A cruel thing did happen
along with deeds I’ve done
the pastor tried to save me
but all I were was scribbles on the wall,
speak to summon me
and hold on to the shapes I drew on you,
dancing on the silence
a tribute for the wild,
I’m more awake in dreaming
mornings bring the night,
for a falling star I witnessed wished upon my heart…
Nucul
Și am fost nevoit să deschid fereastra pentru că profunzimea cerului căuta să se oglindească în ochii mei..
Trunchiul bătrânului nuc mirosea a mușchi îmbibat de apă și acoperit de frunze moarte. Despicat sub greutatea timpului, brațele sale erau ținute pe loc de un vechi lanț ruginit pus cu ani în urmă, pe alocuri pătruns în lemn și acoperit de scoarță. Două cuie și o scândură îl transformau în post de comandă pentru jocurile cu personaje imaginare. De la trei metri înălțime, când ai doar 11 ani te simți într-o cu totul altă lume. Genunchiul stâng sângera ușor de la prima încercare de a urca, zădărnicită de scoarța netezită de ploaia de dimineață.
Atunci am realizat că totul era efemer și am plâns cu ură, cu revoltă și cu frustrare. Lumea plină de minuni a inocenței mele se izbea de neputința nucului de a-și ridica brațele pentru a privi lumina stelelor iar fața mea ardea de rușinea realizării și lacrimile nu reușeau să-i alunge flăcările…
A scent of burning
The scalpel landed on the table with a metallic clack. There was an opening of not more than five centimeters through which a yellowish crumble-like pudding was trying to force its way out. Then the steampunk wand started buzzing for the second time and the room was filled with a scent of burning fat.
” He pushes again! Make him sleep Bob. I can’t work like this!”
…but don’t fake those smiles darling
give me something green and breezy
one last beer before the play gets rolling,
you were selling tickets for the numbers
yet this time I do my dance alone
wheels burning on remembrance road…
When the scalpel goes in
It parted the skin and the fat underneath as it went on. Tiny marbles of blood were forming on the sides much like tears, soon to be sponged off by the assistant and the source carbonated for good. There was no turning back now…