Equinox

Solstice of the soul,
The light is dimmer.
It's not the clouds,
nor the cold of winter.
nor the wind or lacking snow.
It's hope; wholeheartedly shadowed.
by titanic labor and floods of ethanol.

Fewer hours daily
Of our youthful rebellion
And this ship is going down
with this white collar hellion.
No hero for the pen
no king for the paper
Just unpaid mercenaries of Art
Embodying the philosophy of "later".

Breathe You Fucker!

Debating what is youth and beauty
Look at them lining up in queues
With dreams of plastic surgery.

Our age, the anthems that we generated
Tortured by the miracle of mathematics
Upon our bodies heavily reflected.

The Glamor of the Damned

There's a strange and inexplicably beautiful glamor around the damned. The obvious ruination of people degraded by life and substance. People that choose not to be blank and expressionless. People that choose to be shaped by their emotions. It's such a wonderful decadence. To see skin as a map of experience, rounded by bone, sketched by ink and scars. You know, the skin is a barrier, a border if you want. Within it lie souls, real souls, gazing curious and sad each day, only to wander the extraordinary world outside only when the night slips in, when eyelids fall like heavy curtains at the end of an absurd play. It's a peculiar place for a soul to be. In meat suits, looking around, confused, for others of its kind. Most of the time they see only meat. No sparkle dancing on irises, no twitch of joy, no biting of lips in anticipation. Just an emotionless figure contorted by fatigue, indifference and discomfort. All the souls have ran away from this country. They flew, they rode, they swam. They saved themselves. Good for them. The rest, well, they're merging into matter, into meat; right outside your window, in malls, hotels and parking lots. With each passing day, the flesh and the spirit become less and less differentiated. But there's still love. In lighted alleyways, in parks beneath the trees, in bottles of delight and cigarettes shared on sidewalks. There's love in shoes that race each other, in clothes offered in cold mornings. In all the bodies soaked in the sea. There's love in water, salt and sand. There's love in pianos, in guitars, violins and giant speakers. There's love in pot and pills and powder. It's lost, but it lingers in memory, in conscience, in spirit. Love that doesn't expect perfection. Love that needs no change. Love that sets fire to the bored, love that rains soothingly on the bleeding. Emotion. The tranquil, liquid substance of life that hurts and heals, fights but never yields.
It's a pity that the world is not ready for love, kind gestures and decency. They will take it as irony or suspect you are brooding some obscure interest. They will fear you and hate you, and laugh at your moronic intentions...and then...then they'll complain there's not one human in humanity. But you will emerge triumphant. Because the world is haunted by traumatic complex. Silk suits and satin dresses will try to hide unfit, unattractive and unacceptable minds. While we, the scarred, the tattooed, the tattered and torn will walk under the sun dressed in the fabric of our souls. And we will shine as they do.

Lichid

Timpul curge alene,
fum din fabrici indepartate.
Innecand albastrul cerului
Cu visele noastre esuate.
Caci ce e viata?
Un sir straniu de decizii
In zale groase de regrete
Din carti ce hranesc perfuzii.

Azi e vara splendida
Si iubirea ta deschide trandafirii
Apoi o secunda ingropi ochii in pleoape
Si vezi sfarsitul omenirii.
Si tot curajul mitologic
De care-am dat dovada doar in sfaturi
Devine globul lui Atlas
Tarat in singuratate, prin straine paturi.

Si indopi gaurile din piept
Cu tutun, alcool si adezivi obscuri
Zidesti frenetic cu ani si hartii fara valoare
Amintiri ce n-ai de unde sa mai furi.
Te compatimesc, hidos frate
Mutilat de ghinion facut cu mana ta
Caci transpir scarba la gandul
Ca impart povestea ta.

Si-mi pleaca simturile
In cel mai barbar mod posibil
Precum chei care le pierd
Pentru usi catre sufletul tau intangibil.
Dar nu-i nicio durere
Sub cerul sangeriu deja
Leii la care soarta ne arunca
Sunt doar pisici ce dorm in poala mea.

Hate Couture

Leather hearts twisting and contorting
in a cold wasteland of polyester bone
and I envision armies killing
for a love that lost its throne.

For humankind forsake humanity
And now lingers lazily upon the earth.
For the once extatic joy of seeing
now Forever silenced by the sound of birth.

Trudging heavily through unholy ground
The streets echo with the steps of monsters
Carefully nailed to their bodies
The expensive taste for armors.

I too, striken by glamorous illusions
Parade absurdity in such a shallow manner
And find myself pitying the bastards
That don't wave the fashion banner.

Still, my fashion is abject and repulsive
And my clothes are such surreal asylums
Bound by belts and boots and zippers
WHich my silhouette can't even fill them.

So this visage of crumbled dreams and clay
Tainted joyfully by tar and left magnificently astray
Shelters; nurturing the sins of skin,
The Skin in which whole worlds are sleeping in.

It tears the marrow of emotion
To see how much one can endure
The beautiful cathartic torture
Of the famous Hate Couture

Styx

Charon aluneca agale
Tarand dupa el, complexul lui Iisus.
In timp ce apostolii muncii,
Se pierd in haosul unui timp nescurs.

Urand ascuns absurditatea tangibila
Ce zace neclintita-n carnea umblatoare
Precum stanci invulnerabile
Deasupra valurilor unei ratiunii primare.

Si Se zbat pe asfalturile inghetate
In dezgust; miile de perechi
Ultragiate violent, fara a sti macar,
Cu dinamita intre urechi.

Totusi logica unei idei nocive
Hraneste molime existentiale:
Cum de civilizatia a acaparat pamantul
Dar am ramas tot animale?

Prin ochi sticlosi observa schizoid
Genomul uman, ca un adolescent,
In umbra unei carcase livide
Batand strazi; sarac si neglijent.
Taiat de frig rusesc, patat cu flegme;
Niciodata n-o sa-l vezi ca doarme.
Un organism dement de singuratate
Ce e mereu vanat de foame.