Noi

Sunt nopti cand taram pasi
Animale Nemiloase,
fata de presiunea arteriala
Iar sangele nostru batran
Abia ne tine pe trotuare.

Mancati de cariile grijii
Intr-o chirurgie pasiva,
Am vrea sa lasam vestmantul osos
Disparand treptat cu zilele
In pamantul racoros.
Umbland sec prin vestiarul carnii
Canibali ai spiritului secetos,
Pe sub ceasuri ce masoara pasi
Suntem mereu singuri, amanti al noptii
Refugiati ai marelui Mardi Gras.

Acum pe gaturile sintetice
Unde aluneca lacrimi de zahar
unde dorm gandacii de nicotina,
Ne-am pierdut unii pe altii
In ceata plasticului iubit de retina.

Si ma incearca panica
Vazand cum cele 23 de ierni
Inving criogenia asteptarilor mele
Oferandu-le avantul descentrat
Sub imbratisarea calda,
A etilului nefiltrat.

Aroganta noastra e simpla
Furioasa si oarba,
A unui destin ce nu va fi impacat
caci suntem Statui placate cu dezamagire
Miscandu-se in aerul poluat.

Eram un vultur, un rechin si-o vulpe
In aer, apa si pamant,
Pradatorii primordialelor elemente
CIupind orele din viata
In apatia vechilor continente.

Acum am ramas orfanii marii
Impletind in degete galbene
regretul unui milion de ieri.
Cu buze uscate asteptand rabdatori,
Caldura ultimei noastre veri.

The Weary Feet of The World

Madness. It boils and cools beneath the skin of travelers. The astronauts, the sailors, the pilots, the hitchikers. The misfortunate sons of our race that wander from place to place like lively spectres of human indecission. Through the raggedy streets paved with drunks that lean on spines of jello, absurd translucent whores, shadowboxing pimps, cockroach cigarette butts, manic neon billboards and past aimless street signs. The runaways always converge in the streets and glance at each other before they get lost in a penitenciary of forgotten memories. They feed on music from stores, passing cars or the humming songs of strangers. It makes no difference if you roam the streets of Marseille, Florence, Vienna, Bucharest or some dust engorged country trail in some god forsaken land. You are still alone with the spear of insecurity protruding your ribs. Weather I walk aimlessly in a direction or drive determined in another, I know I'll end up with the rest of the world in the place where all the souls allign. Not even Nature seems to encourage this senseless stagger. The clouds always seem bored and Nietzsches abyss never stares back into you. From corn fields to gangs of buildings, life ignores you and waits patiently until you mosquito life disperses into time. There is no certainty on the road but then again certainty lacks in all things in life. Being engorged with liquor or being liquified by drugs holds no importance. You will only be missed by those you owe money to. As a wanderer you only have one option. To say calm within the chaos. Ears might roar with the metallic cocaine be-bop, or pluck the hash calm jazz from the air, or mingle in the ethyilic blues of crippled rock'n;roll saints. Charles was blind, Waits was blinded, Cave was blinding. There is a sort of faith that deprives the soul of sight in all music that pours directly into the soul. It fills the arteries with the thick blood of nostalgia, it cloggs the heart with memories. The wanderers are the nomad werewolves of our era. They crawl, they writhe, they move frantically on the sidewalks, orbiting aimlessly, looking for a long gone northern star. These junkies of insecurity, always on the move for a fix of the unknown. They can never be in one place for too long. And if they are, The flies of depression seem to land and chew their way inside their organs leaving a  carcasses of hope, of dreams, of rotting possibilities unmet. These mutants that draw their energy from the blunt smell burnt gasoline seem severed from society. They can barely adapt. The perspective of looking at life from an apartment balcony at night seems further than life on another galaxy. Yet not impossible. Some get lost in the throes of rejection on foreign streets and die without an ounce of sympathy. Some wither in cities, within the arms of a significant other and they liquify their nature within bars. There, tequila worms sprout into butterflies inside their stomachs, or angels transfuse their blood with wine. The bars are only shrines of transmutation. Here, Waiters like bumblebees carry back and forth the sweat of America's most famous ancestors Jack, Jim and Johnny. under aged girls wave at barkeeps from behind glassy eyes suffering of the great liquid russian plague. The streets flooded with potheads fantasizing of robbing fast food restaurants while smack is carefully boiled on back alleys behind pharmacies. Each with its own recipe for ruination, clinging to it like a fat man to some miracle diet pill. The scarabs that pull and push the crap of full time employment seem trapped under porcelain cups of corporate dreams of instant opulence. The night, the Holy Friday is the one true Sabbath for those lives. It ain't even their fault. Our ancestors built the cups long before we were born. Now all we can do is peck with hatred at the walls in hope that one day a tree of banknotes will grow from the untended souls of oppressed borderline poverty. There is not much else to do for the dead than hate the living. Seeing pigs bathe in flower petals while lions feed on dirt, cannot inspire ambition, not now, not in a million years, no matter how hypocritical your soul might be. Sometimes I dream of poppy fields and mint and wake up eating an apple and smoking tea on the side of some strange and unfamiliar road. But what do I care of dreams? I'm just another cat patiently waiting for the 9th bell toll.

Pe drumurile mai putin umblate

Pentru majoritatea oamenilor, orasul e ca o rana ce asteapta de decenii sa fie cusuta. Mi se pare usor straniu cum nu realizam ca noi suntem de fapt bacteria care nu il lasa sa isi coaguleze linistea. Sa isi stranga pielea si sa uite. Asa ca mi-am adunat putinele lucruri pe care le am si am plecat. Daca raiul e locul frumos unde nimeni nu sangereaza, nimeni nu plange, si nimic rau nu ti se intampla:; unde totul pluteste in tranchilitatea zilnica a uitarii atunci inseamna ca am vrut altceva. Si am pornit sapand dupa iad cu unghiile lacuite de pamant. Nu exista religie comoda pentru cei ce se pierd pe drumuri. Nu exista drum fara efort. Nu exista cuvant pentru efortul depus.
Mi-am spus ca sunt prea tanar sa fiu atat de batran si stiu prea putine lucruri ca sa imi fie teama. Am luat ce bani mai aveam si mi-am tarat hoitul intr-un tren. In timp ce scriu randurile astea, calatoria mea e aproape de sfarsit desi sunt la un milion de ani lumina departe de casa. Aici lumea se invarte in alt sens. Singura muzica e cea a gandurilor tale, singurul sens e cel care il porti in buzunare. Sunt nopti in care inima iti e stransa ca un tricou intrat la apa si ai vaga senzatie ca de ani de zile nu mai e pe masura ta. Nopti In care umblii pe trotuarele vietii fara a avea cea mai mica idee incotro te indrepti, in timp ce mii de greieri urla ca pe stadioane. Nopti de vara ce iti strecoara in stomac prin sticle sau filtre, panica, frica si regret. Toate dizolvate de lumina torida a zilei.
Am cunoscut diavoli cu furci si ingeri cu damingene de vin. Am invatat sa iubesc pamantul si viata care mi-o da, desi in multe zile nu o merit. Au fost saptamani departe de cabluri, prize si mancare semipreparata. In bataia acra a limbilor de tantari am zacut calm seara privind cum cerul isi toarna culorile in orizonturi ce nu le voi atinge niciodata. Am asteptat calm semne, si nu au intarziat niciodata sa apara.
Totusi, Nu tot drumul a fost frumos. Am cunoscut prin cuvinte prinse in zbor si prin suflete umede, fete macinate de migrena prostitutiei, copii al caror plans si-a purtat ecoul adanc in spatele coastelor mele. Femei consumate de alcool sau bataie, barbati tineri mai terminati ca bateria. Am oftat si am trecut mai departe spunand pentru ei o rugaciune ce probabil va cadea surda in uitare. Am simtit ca le datoram macar atat. Intr-un final sunt doar o umbra fara radacini ce a plutit cateva minute prin fata lor. Uneori ma gandesc ca ne-ar fi fost mai bine nomazi, fara legaturi, fara bunuri pentru care sa ii ranim pe cei care ii iubim sau i-am iubit la un anumit punct. Au fost seri in care depresia te invaluia inevitabil vaznad aceste lucuri. Vazand ca orasul se intinde chiar si peste casele cu horn, grajdurile de vite si cotinetele de pasari. Vazand ca oricat ai fugi nu poti scapa de el.
Dar apoi in lumina zilei lucrurile se indreptau treptat. Poate din rusine fata de tine, poate pentru ca pur si simplu caldura linistea temperamentul inflamabil al oamenilor. Asa ca am facut autostopul prin gradina Edenului iar speranta nu m-a abandonat. Am invatat ca durerea muncii fizice se opreste in piele lasand sufletul ca o floare de nufar. Am ciobit lemne din topoare ruginite si am sters praful timpului din case abandonate folosind tricoul de pe mine. Si toate astea pentru o masa sau pentru cateva hartii ca sa pot pleca mai departe. Am inotat in apa uitarii cu caini ce nu isi amintesc viata departe de lant. In zilele acelea as fi putut sa jur ca ii vad zambind si am facut si eu la fel odata cu ei. Am hranit pisici cu putina mancare pe care o aveam si apoi am stat intinsi la soare precum tigrii din savana. Paduri, rauri, drumuri de praf si dealuri de sare. Constructii simple de paie, pamant si piatra. Privind in urma, imi pare ca le-am vazut in trecere din geamul unui tren sau unei masini. Acum doar bataturi si basici tin sa aminteasca picioarelor ca nu a fost un vis. Astazi a curs un linistit marti, iar pana sambata probabil voi fi pe malul marii punandu-mi o dorinta in avioanele noptii, alaturi de singurul motiv pentru care ma intorc acasa. Iar dupa aceea...ei bine, stii si tu; un drum se termina odata cu bataia inimii.

Noroiul spala sufletul

poezia mea anatomica
ce leaga impreuna
milioane de celule
Azi o vad placut diluata in ape
De daltoniste libelule.

bolile mele afectuoase
ce leagau impreuna
mii de randuri
Se catara lenes catre ceruri
Peste vitele de struguri.

Iar orasul interior
ce a legat
tot ce am avut in lume
E topit in uitarea torida
A pasilor mei fara urme.