Ce sunt?

Sunt un monument de autosuficienta
ce uneori se farama.
Exista maini invizibile
ce ma reconstruiesc din cand in cand.
in mangaieri suave, lipindu-ma impreuna.
Maini, picioare, cap,
ca apoi sa plece suspinand,
odata cu primul parfum de liliac.

Agriculture for Children (made to look like a limmerick)

I'm a farmer. I sow seeds to feed the world.
But my land is always arid. It hardly ever rains at all.
I tried fruits, veggies and even trees.
But they wither whispering that it's always 'cause of me.

I tried to water them each day.
I swear I tried but each has its needs.
Until someday my mother told me
"Nothing will grow, watered by tears".

But I am just a girl, what do I know?
I am as foreign to this world as that weird mexican corn.

A Passing Thought

The world writes poetry for children
Speaks of flowers, romance and love.
Speaks of highways that lead to everywhere
and clouds that nurture the earth.

The world writes a poetry of its dreams
while it lies covered in newspapers,
sleeping broken on the pavements.
It speaks of caviar and champagne
whilst it stomach rumbles
in violent convulsions of pain.

It's hard to find a blank page
in her vast and crowded book,
for those sleeping in its abattoirs,
like cattle cradled by the hooks.

The world writes a poetry
of hidden meanings and truths
while our lives remain uncharted,
like the dark side of the moon.
It doesn't say of caterpillars that die
before ever getting the chance
to become a butterfly.
Or its silent power chords and cables,
that roam the earth with calm.
Professing lifes exquisiteness,
to prisoners
of style and class.

I suppose the world's the greatest poet.
that has ever been alive
For finding never ending beauty
in this loathsome hornet hive.
For speaking gently of our delusions,
as we take it in, all knowing,
that good things last less than illusions.

The 5th Horseman of the Apocalypse: Love

The day I lost my love was the day I lost interest in the fate of the world. Discoveries, diseases,  delusions. All disappeared. Love is the engine that drives human life into existence. And this body is already feeling the bitemarks of ruin.

Lunna (mazgalituri vechi)

"Exista o idee a ei, pentru ca fizic a incetat sa mai fie de ceva timp. Mai apare spontan precum visele din nopti cu luna plina ce raman intiparite in minte topite in speranta intruchiparii."

Aseara a fost o noapte splendida cu luna ca o secera cum vezi pe drapelurile turcesti, cu un tavan de stele aprinse ca un planetariu deasupra crengilor. M-am asezat pe terasa, m-am intins pe o bancheta. Privirea imi era furata de hartile astrale ce sclipeau in bezna. Cateva secunde mai tarziu, poate de frig, poate cautand un pic de afectiune, intre mana si coastele mele s-a asezat pisica proprietarilor. Am mangaiat-o un pic si apoi am oftat usor. Apoi a disparut. Am simtit-o iar stand intins, intre umar si ureche cum isi impingea mai intai urechile apoi capul, de obrazul meu nebarbierit. As fi vrut sa ma fi barbierit de dimineata. M-am temut ca va pleca dar in schimb doar a tors usor iar apoi a ramas nemiscata. Mi-am intors capul si am privit-o. In lumina chioara am avut impresia ca privesc pe cineva cunoscut. Ochii ei aveau o limpezime mai mult decat umana. Pareau a fi o entitate cu totul distincta de restul fiintei. Erau precum niste globuri de cristal ce trimiteau momentul asta undeva la o distanta de nemasurat. I-am zambit iar ea a schitat unul din gesturile acelea pe care le fac animalele ce nu le poti ghici niciodata. Parea cadoul unui Egipt uitat catre lumea o lume moderna pierduta.
Nu mai stiu cat a durat totul dar la un moment dat nu m-ar fi surprins daca acea pisica ar fi vorbit. In cele din urma a intors capul si a privit in sus spre constelatii. Parea absorbita, ca un navigator ce isi planuieste ruta. In acele clipe parea un arhitect al universului. Un pictor al unor lumi ce probabil nu le voi cunoaste vreodata.
Dupa un timp, a coborat de pe bancheta si s-a indepartat privind inapoi spre mine din cand in cand. Nu am oprit-o. Doar am privit lung, umbrit de un sentiment ciudat de goliciune, cum isi continua drumul.
A doua zi, am parasit acea curte. Iesind pe poarta am vazut-o pe Lunna. In ochii ei inca jucau acele flacari verzui, dar un pic mai lenes decat seara dinainte. Poate in timp, acel verde se va dizolva intr-un caprui calm sau poate chiar negru. Tarandu-mi picioarele pe aleea ingusta mi-am dat seama ca am iubit pisica aia. Am iubit-o cu pasiunea aia nebuna cu care te indragostesti cateva secunde de cineva strain pe strada. Un haos de cateva secunde ce opreste timpul doar pentru a-l derula mai repede ulterior.
As fi vrut sa ma intorc, sa ii spun ca nu cunosc nimic mai minunat ca ea. Dar nu am facut-o. Erau oameni care ma asteptau in masina. Mereu sunt oameni care te asteapta. Undeva...

40 de secunde in alta nationalitate

Am deschis usa. Usa apartamentului meu. Ultimul apartament din cladire. Pasii isi lasa ecoul prin coridoarele uriase. Asta si muzica. O intreaga orechestra imi intampina singuratatea. Am lasat muzica in aer inainte de a pleca. E mereu aceeasi piesa. Adagio pentru corzi a lui Samuel Barber.
Traiesc singur aici in Florenta. Moarta, in inima Renasterii. In patru camere ce compun plictisite un labirint in care nu ma pot pierde niciodata. Mi-am aprins o tigara si m-am asezat la geam. Afara, in strazi, limbi ciudate implestesc un Tangier placut urechilor. Dar nu e locul meu aici...nici aici.

Moment Publicitar

Sunt zile tot mai dese in care
Ma simt anesteziata,
in casa,
ca o gospodina
intr-o reclama proasta.

Spring is a Revolution.

The violent sounds of hummingbirds
that flap their wings frantically
like clashes of protesters and cops.

The nervous croaks of trees
that bend and break in sighs of wind
like shop windows against some rocks.

The stray dogs and stray people,
wearing the same label on their skin/fur
like a monopoly of poverty over living things.

Spring is not a revival.
Spring is a revolution.

Ratare

Am cunoscut un baiat ieri
si azi trebuia sa ma vad cu el.
Inainte sa plec din casa,
am deschis sifonierul.
Inauntru, un milion de haine
abia asteptau sa iasa afara:
Haine vechi de care
uitasem ca exista,
haine noi care
abia asteptau sa fie in vazul lumii,
unele inchise, altele colorate,
unele mai mici, altele pana in podea.
Mi s-a facut frica de faptul
ca nu voi gasi nimic de imbracat.
Si am inchis oftand sifonierul,
si m-am intins din nou in pat.

Visul cu Miros de Cafea.

M-am trezit intr-un vis zilele trecute. M-am uitat buimaca la ceas dar nu am retinut cat era. Am mers sa ma spal pe fata. Din spatele oglinzii ma privea un baiat. Am stat blocata cateva secunde. Sincer nu eram nici extraordinar de frumos dar nici hidos. Simpatic. Asta ar fi cuvantul. Aveam parul negru, asezat rabdator pe o parte, mirosind a cafea. De unde pana unde cafea? Eu nu beau cafea. In fine, pe sub mana, prin piele se zbateau niste tatuaje ce conturau o resemnare infinita. Din sufragerie se auzea probabil de la un calculator...
"I kissed you once, I kissed you again,
My heart, it tumbled like the stock exchange..."
Am inchis ochii o secunda. Am simtit o greutate colosala pe piept. Simteam ca nu mai pot respira din cauza durerii. Un sir neintrerupt de lacrimi imi curgea precum o ata pe obraji iar apoi se pierdea in covor. Nu m-am simtit niciodata atat de singura. Atat de invinsa. As fi vrut sa respir sa tusesc sa fac ceva orice. Dar nu am putut. Pur si simplu am stat cu mainile infipte in marginea chiuvetei incercand sa-mi sprijin corpul. Intr-un final, muzica a incetat sa se mai auda. In schimb, a inceput ceva mangaietor cred ca Sade, nu mai stiu sigur. Greutatea a inceput incet incet sa dispara, lasand loc unui sentiment implacabil de singuratate si goliciune. Am mers pana la calculator, l-am inchis si m-am intins pe canapea. M-am invelit si cu un ultim suspin am inchis ochii.
Apoi m-am trezit. Eu, la mine in casa. Straina de tot ce se petrecuse cu cateva minute inainte.

I got this in the mail yesterday.

...I'm writing this now because like so many times before, you are the last thought of the day. The last lingering memory I take with me in the refuge of dreams. You are my anaesthetic when the crude stupidy of the world leaves me broken. My shot of amnesia when cruel memories linger around my days.
You are my calm within the chaos. A revelry in a world of nonsense. I want your delusion, your extatic madness. I want them to grow endlessly like trees that embrace the skies.
Your shoes have left footprints within me. Your high heels are stuck in my heart and it's from it that I bleed my art and it's for you that I do it.
I don't claim to understand you, nor do I hope that I will be able to one day. It's enough to be close to you. To see you as you are. Unanchored. Untamed. In every word I write, in every note I hear, in every color I see. In every fibre of my universe. You are there with me and there is no void. Anything that ever hurt slowly dissolves into oblivion.
One day, we will move past mutant clouds and envious suns. Our love will echo in the cosmos for millenia. It will be our greatest art. And we will be remembered forever.

Mitologie pentru Fraieri

Of Eros, cu sagetile tale jucause,
De ce ne-ai oferit noua oamenilor focul,
Daca suntem sortiti sa ardem singuri?

Of Eros, daca eram un pic mai crud,
Te-as fi legat de-o piatra,
soarta lui Prometeu s-o induri.

Of Eros, daca ma avertizai din timp,
Ti-as fi scos ochii si te-as fi trimis la mama ta
Precum sarmanul Oedip.

Of Eros, de ce ne-ai dat iubire,
cand lipseste inteligenta sau bunul simt,
sau orice altceva uman
de care poti sa te desprinzi?

Godot la Plaja

- Ce faci aici?
- Astept Marele Val.
- Si cand vine?
- A trecut deja.
- Si se mai intoarce?
- Nu stiu. Dar eu inca astept...

Sunt ingrijorata de lipsa de putere;
de putere de seductie,
a femeilor din saptamana mea.
Ma ingrijoareaza daca intr-o zi,
intr-o zi calda de iunie.;
as dori sa tin de mana una.

Uneori ma intreb daca depresia mea nu e doar o nevoie subconstienta de atentie. Daca o parte din mine nu se imbraca dimineata in rochia sclipitoare a unei melancolii fade doar pentru a fi admirata...in lipsa unui alt scop concret.
Undeva de-a lungul timpului zilele calendarului meu s-au blocat. Am ramas intr-o duminica lenesa ce se repeta la nesfarsit, gasindu-ma in fiecare dimineata cu o carte in mana pe stomacul gol.

Pacienta

Au spus ca imi cerceteaza dimensiunea sufletului.
Si ca al meu e urias.
Indeajuns de mare incat
sa faca pe oricine sa ma iubeasca.
Au zis ca vor sa-l cartografieze.
Ca merita descoperit.
Ca lumea trebuie sa stie.
Mi s-a parut ciudat ca vroiau sa faca asta doar din ochi.

Apoi au spus ca vor sa ia
mostre din sensibilitatea mea.
Ca in moleculele ei sta salvarea lor.
Am ras cand i-am vazut holbandu-se la fotografii
si am oftat cand de fapt cautau discret un decolteu.

Au spus ca vor sa-mi masoare profunzimea mintii.
Unii mi-au trimis muzica frumoasa,
sperand ca intr-o zi la bratul meu, sa-si infrumuseteze propriul corp.
Unii au vrut sa-mi arate lumea, pretinzand ca e la degetul lor,
dar am vazut ca inca erau tinuti de mana, de parintii lor.
Unii mi-au scris poeme impresionante, dar erau doar aburi trecatori.
Altii mi-au vorbit de arte, de universurile nesfarsite din capul lor,
dar pana si ei nu m-au vazut decat un simplu obiect de decor.

Acum stau linistita,
ingropand timpul departe de privirea lor.
Asteptand nimicul,
in care singura, in sfarsit, s-adorm.

Have I given you my adress?

I live on a star.
Small and scorched.
With my dreams,
I rise and fall in love.
With my memories,
I sleep below the dust.

I live on a star.
Cold and distant.
With my spyglass
I watch the earth.
With my hourglass,
I await the time of my rebirth.

The Scar of This Worlds First Cold Kiss.

There are people that ravel in everything the world has to offer. They dare not blink as to not lose a word, a sound, a color. I find there is some strange despair in them. These people that cannot share a moment of comfortable silence. That never wonder how the world functions and why. That dare not speak the names of things that bother them. That know no stories but their own.

I sometimes think that to look at them is to look at the sun. To see these blinding rays of light that burn my eyes. With the same frustration the ancients must have looked at the universe without being able to understand it. I know something is terribly wrong with this so called intelligent life. I always knew somehow but I hid this from my mind. Now, in the face of an implacable future this travesty of evolution seems undeniable.

With age, I feel further and further away from this race. As if I'm gently slipping into something else, as I would into a warm bath. I feel myself filled with the tragedy of this world. At times I nurture a disdain for everything we have created. I loathe language because it gives birth to a flood of sounds that echo between the walls of idiocy. I scorn the ideas, the habits, the religions of this world. I find them petty and useless, just like their possessors. I am no longer impressed by narrow drama, nor do I wish to hear of it.

There is order in indifference. In silent arrogance. I must take shelter in my own thoughts and suffocate my time with work lest I'll be swept away by a flood of madness. There is no escaping the cruel grip of reality. We are inexorably alone and there can be no other face in the mirror but that of resignation. But maybe time will prove wrong.
In the end, what do I know? I might very well be just a little girl that lost her mind.

Mizantropolis

M-am saturat sa fumez.
Sa ma vad cu oameni
care imi spun cat de hidoasa e lumea.
De parca eu n-as avea urechi.
Sa-i aud razand sub soare
dupa ce isi pierd urma.
Mi s-a aplecat de mizantropi.
Care ma privesc cu ochi de insecta
sa-mi arate ca nimic nu are rost.
Apoi dau coltul, dau lectii de morala,
tinand strans de mana un scop.
N-am nevoie sa mi se dea dreptate.
Sa mi se deseneze cum lumea mea in coma,
ar trebui deconectata de la aparate.

Serios!
Nu mai vreau Cohen si Cave.
Nu mai vreau Moore si Waits.
As da foc tuturor tablourilor din memorie,
pictate in speranta schimbarii.
As sparge marmura in care mi-am sculptat trupul,
nestiind ca va ajunge rece si indiferent.
Dar toate astea poarta parfumul imposibilului
in rezervatia de ciment.

Muzica pentru sfarsitul lumii

Am destul dezgust sa inund strazile orasului.
Sa revars un val negru in subsoluri si boxe.
Sa scutur fundatia blocurilor, bancilor, scolilor si azilelor.
Sa cada totul pe fundul unui lac imens
de unde nici civilizatii viitoare sa nu le mai gaseasca.
Dar intr-un final ce vina are piatra?
Ce vina are sticla, lemnul sau betonul
ca sustin pe corpul lor lipitori descreierate?
Poti invinui un om fara membre ca e nespalat?
Presupun ca nu.

Anul sarpelui, sobolanului, mistretului.
Chinezii stiau de atunci ca lumea
nu e plina de lei, tauri si fecioare.
Desi sunt sigur ca si printre ei,
se afla astfel de animale.
Sau poate eu sunt animalul aici.

Cats Whisper with a Funny Accent

Cats whisper with a funny accent
They tell me who was where and why.
They travel like I do,
shipwrecked, floating.
In the cosmic ocean of time.

Cats whisper wild things
That humans wish they could scream.
They speak of lovers that lasted,
nine lifetimes, endlessly.
Until they dissolved into the sleepless dream.

I wish I could tell them things
But I have nothing worth saying it seems.
Instead I listen gently
nodding, smiling.
Because my life is but a burst of steam.

Constrictor Serpent Lover

From what jungles of the world
have you slithered your way to me?
Have you crossed the Amazon, the Atlantic?
Just so you can devour me?

Maybe it is your lazy movement,
enveloped in scales of melancholia.
Or the way you carry yourself
like a hungry constrictor boa.
But it feels so surreal the way
you cloud my judgement
like the mists of Krakatoa.

Where have you brought this fever from,
that burns my clothes each night?
You must tell me If I am ever,
to at least put up a fight.

I know I'm weak to crave you,
But it's a charming venom that
gently melts my insides away.
I've been told a million times
to shut you in a zoo inside my mind
But you always seem to get away...

Ecoul Blondei Libaneze

Aprilie a venit fara zgomot
Si mi-a pus mainile pe ochi.
In umbra palmelor sale,
am adormit,
visand de un milion de ori.

Sub mangaierea intunericului,
fara a ma plimba prin magazine,
am purtat prin orase,
imbratisata-n rochii, ganduri,
straine complet de tine.

Tin minte ca aveam parfum,
ce ma tragea spre restaurante fine.
Iar inauntru, pe sub pleoape sau cozi,
Ochi se roteau,
absorbiti complet de mine.

Am baut vin rosu si sampanie
in amurgul unei vieti interminabile.
Am mancat lablabi si shakshouka.
Si neinumarate alte lucruri,
ce acum imi par impronuntabile.

Cand m-am trezit, erai la masa
Ruland alta tigara de hasis.
Si mi-a fost rusine de mine
cand luandu-mi mana ai spus:
Hai acum sa mergem in Paris!

Monumentul de pe Via Dolorosa

Romanticii ar fi trebuit sa moara
Odata cu al lor curent.
Lumea ar trebui sa se plimbe acum
Printre mormintele lor,
indiferenti,
precum turisti intr-un muzeu.

Dragostea ar fi trebuit sa moara
cu sonete, cu muzica, cu tot.
Cu ani in urma, o asistenta
ar fi trebuit sa-i faca injectia letala
pe-un camp de lupta
undeva intr-un cort.

Dar romanticii cu arta lor dementa,
refuza sa adoarma.
Dragostea inca respira muribund
pe un pat, undeva intr-o cazarma.
Lumea inca insista ca o iubeste,
Precum o mama, copilul cu handicap.
Recunoscand ca uneori
e prea multa bataie de cap.

White Flags Across the City

Have we finally been defeated,
after aeons of denial?
And if so, where do we go from here,
when war is everything we've ever known.
What can we do,
when we're forced to lay down our arms?
Do we wither and die?
Will our restlessness dissolve into the calm?

Have we finally been defeated,
in our pathetic little strive?
And if so, is it worth still fighting,
for the simple fact of being alive?