Fiere

Lasa-ma sa cad in noroi.
un inger prost fara ambitie.
Sa-mi creasca solzi.
Copite, par.
Sa-mi moara ochii in orbite.

Lasa-ma sa dorm singur.
mort in odihna fara vise.
Fara s-arunc orez la nunti,
sa tin de mana,
sa spal copiii in cadite.

Lasa-ma sa surzesc,
lipsit de muzica lumii.
De melodia unui te iubesc.
De ras, de soapte,
de tot ce am ajuns sa detest.

Glass Portrait

I despise him
when I spy him.
His dark humor,
like a swollen tumor.
His languid walk,
his lazy talk.
I stare with such terror
at the boy in this mirror.

Climat Intern

Nod in gat.
Moarte clinica.
Dimineata in care
te-ai trezit cu piciorul in groapa.

In abdomen,
un condens al durerii;
aburul urca.
Iar ochii,
doua ceruri negre,
incep sa lase ploaia.

neintitulat

Moartea coboara pe scari,

de la apartamentul 40;

o lacrima maturand treptele. 

Dispare in lumina diminetii

ca multe alte suflete inaintea ei.

In sufrageria apartamentului,

pe canapea, cu ochii injectati,

cineva fumeaza din cand in cand.

Mai soarbe dintr-un pahar ciobit.

Praful asteapta suspinand sa se aseze.

Nu mai e nimic de luat din casa asta.

Jocuri Sinistre.

Am vrut sa-ti scriu ceva
dar nu stii sa citesti.
Ai tacut si apoi mi-ai spus
ca nu stiu sa ascult.

Am ras. E tot ce poti sa faci
in astfel de situatii.

Vieti Anterioare in Savana

Nu esti batut in cuie. Nu esti niciodata constrans. Niciodata reprimat in afara propriei tale alegeri.
Dar ai ales sa stai pe loc. Sa astepti telefoane si batai pe umar. Si nu imi poate fi mila de tine mai mult decat imi e mila de un contabil tanar cu dureri de spate.
Eu te iubesc dar am ales racoarea noptii. Cat tu dormi, eu respir, ma fut, dau nastere. Am fost gemeni la nastere, tu si eu. Amandoi am cunoscut libertatea. Pe amandoi ne-au alergat. Tu te-ai lasat prins. Eu mi-am dat doar cuvantul. Mi l-am incalcat. I-am mintit. Inca ma cauta.
Cu fiecare zi, speranta ca ma vor prinde e tot mai mica. I-am manipulat. I-am batjocorit. I-am facut sa orbeasca urandu-ma. Am fost un animal.
Pentru ca am vrut sa raman salbatic.

On Hold.

Astept.
Sa se incarce o piesa.
Sa fumez o tigara.
Sa vina salariul.
Sa ma gaseasca mort.

Nu?

E un lucru pe care nu il am dar care daca l-as avea nu mi-ar mai trebui altceva.

Dualitate

Viseaza la ingeri,
care tin lumina in univers.
Eu conversez cu demoni,
prin gaurile dintre pereti.

Ea alba pe dinautru,
cum a vrut Dumnezeu.
Eu mereu patat rosu,
de ranile din capul meu.

Vin si Pleaca.

Vase in port.

Valurile marii. 

Vise in lumina diminetii.

Stoluri din sud.

Siluete din umbra.

Suflete la metrou.

Tremurul pamantului.

Trupuri pe strada.

Tu si eu.

Undele unui Lac Interior

"-Spune-mi despre el.
- Era antipatic. Zambea des, condescendent, cu o aroganta muta. Si era ceva in ochii lui. Uneori se dilatau cu incantare si era divin sa fii obiectul lor. Alteori se roteau discret si pareau sa caute altceva. Atunci era zdrobitor. Inconsistenta lor, a lui, era zdrobitoare. Intr-un moment roseam delicat sub privirea lui, in urmatorul o cerseam patetic.
Era tocit cumva. De experienta. Sau de un ideal neatins. Nu puteam stii niciodata ce si cum. Rareori vorbea si niciodata despre asta. Cateodata aveam senzatia ca e un copil care abia invata limbajul, rusinat sa nu spuna vreo prostie. Alteori ma simteam eu prost vorbind unde el tacea. Dar a zis ca ii place sa asculte. Asa ca vorbeam, ce puteam sa fac?
Era ciudat. Asta e sigur. Era tipul in care spiritul rebeliunii a murit ingropat in dezgust. Si totusi era ceva...nu era genul ala gretos de nihilist neadaptat care cerseste pe dinauntru intelegere. Era ceva indescifrabil la el. Are...avea speranta. Si era molipsitoare cumva. Iti dadea speranta ca ai putea sa il castigi cumva desi in timp, asta se dovedeste a fi un salt in gol care iti rupe picioarele la impact.
Nu stiu ce sa iti mai spun. Era mandru. Mandru si cicatrizat de complexele unei vieti anterioare pe care o ascundea sub piele. Dupa un timp, m-am saturat sa sap fara harta dupa secretele lui. Si totusi...
Totusi memoria inca il striga. Acum nu atat de des ca inainte. Dar din cand in cand...atunci cand aprind un cui, cand ies pe balcon, cand ii vad cartea aruncata prin casa. In timp, amintirea lui se va dizolva complet, lasand sufletul in ordine, ca undele unei ape ce se aseaza calm dupa ce o piatra le-a zguduit linistea.
As vrea sa poti dori si tu pe cineva odata, asa cum l-am vrut eu pe el. In fine, deveni sentimentala. Hai sa mergem.

Istorie Medicala

ma iubesti.
Sunt otrava.
Sunt viciu.
Sunt povesti.
Sunt imaginatia
prozatorilor, poetilor,
scenaristilor.
Sunt in fluxul tau sangvin.
In inima. In creier.
Ai vrea transfuzii.
Dializa. Dezintoxicare.
Ai vrea sa ies din tine.
Sa raman o flegma,
pe asfaltul rece.
Sa dispar pe talpa cuiva.
Dar raman cu tine.
Chiar si dupa atat timp.

Neintitulat

Iti citeam si infloreai.

O magnolie in culori tatuate.

De dimineata pana seara,

cresteai pana la cer.

Ai fi putut sa ma iubesti

Daca noaptea, 

imbratisarea mea, 

nu te pata cu benzina. 

Nu te lasa sa arzi in liniste,

pana la ziua.

"..."

"You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die, for it is your love which overthrows life. It is ungovernable''like a riot in the heart, and nothing can be done, come ruin or rapture."

- Unknown

Cosmaruri Erotice Kitschioase

Dorm tot timpul,

mereu fara vise.

Memoria pune 

fata ta pe postere,

peste tot prin casa.

Imagini care ma mesteca.

Narcotic, animalic.

Diminetile vin 

cu foi din calendar,

disparand incet;

ca zahar in cafea.

Inca am corpul asta,

ingrijit ca o gradina.

Poate pentru inca un an,

poate mai putin.

Serile mi le petrec

la geamul crapat,

cu gatul strangulat 

de cafea amaruie.

Privesc lumina 

cum paraseste lumea.

Noptile le port,

in clape si viori.

Cineva mi-a zis,

ca ti-ai vopsit parul,

cu sangele din inima 

pe care ti-am frant-o. 

Isabel

Izolarea e un privilegiu.
Un tablou in care vise zac precum flori in vaze
asteptand ca timpul sa le rapeasca
culoarea si ulterior viata.
Cartea despre umanitatea care vrea
sa-si auda povestea ridicola spusa.
Cat de avizi suntem, eu si tu,
sa fim nemuritori in memoria cuiva!
Obisnuiam sa ascult atat de mult,
pana am surzit si odata cu sunetul
omenirea a murit in uitare.

Izolarea e o lectie de anatomie.
Iti arata cum inima nu mai e mangaiata
de muschi si os.
Acum se-ascunde dupa alte materiale.
Noptile tin pulsul armatelor invinse,
in timp ce te fixeaza din spatele sticlei,
dupa o zi de munca amortitoare.

The Ever Changing Face of Lamentation

"I wish I knew you in another life where you could talk about yourself."
What is there to talk about?
I am the boy with his face ever painted in the blood of a recent wound. My eyes, quick typewriters, sending frantic messages from beneath a german hair-cut. I smile and laugh. Always humming a Travka piece on my lips and concealing a girl in the back of my mind. The song always changes and sometimes even the girl. All according to the stirrings of the heart. This mind is a radio set on the frequency of madness. Plugged in to the electrical joy of its soul. I have little time for lamentation, yet somehow I am fairly patient with the people that fill their time with it.
I am a child. Selfish and insecure. I crave for affection like a caged animals yearns for freedom. It is my illumination. It is my curse.
I sleep for hours on end in front of a mirror. Young and proud, I walk the sidewalks of the continent just as I was born. Just as I will die. Smiling, but alone.

The Empty Promise

The fish drinks. The bird sings. I fuck. I've beein doing it for a while now and each time I do it, I get better. An elegant monster feeding off the libido of the world. At a point I got so good that I began nurturing the delusion that I am natures gift to women. But in truth, I only get better because each time, I take less and less joy in it. It has become a wild idea of sport. A way to compliment a woman when I reach the limit of my words. To impress her. To obtain a vague sense of validation. I have become something strange and hollow. Most of the time, I'm not even there. Ever since I reached sexual maturity I only met one girl that made this body shake and crumble into an abyss of pleasant forgetfulness. 
And it used to be such a wonderful thing. The divine melody of moans. The slow curling of toes. All that violent poetry of pleasure. An addiction worth having. But our empty bodies are always looking for the ultimate high somehow. And in my refusal to deprive myself of anything, I became depraved. Ordinary. Simple. Mechanical. Stuck in a cell with the door wide open. Slave to habit. I need to be changed. Into something else. This is how the dead live.

Metamorphosis

I have drunk so much for my health,
that I became sick.
Days were counted in glasses of wine,
as time would be, sand in an hourglass.
There was nothing to do in those days.
No girl to miss, no drive to create,
no higher purpose to be drawn to.
I was a serpent drifting aimlessly
along the rivers.
I still am sometimes. Some days.
When the winter cold
keeps my blood indifferent.
When I smoke on a pair of stair,
beneath the enveloping darkness.

I don't drink that much these days though,
Now I just sit in cafes, in buses,
in unfamiliar apartments,
staring out the windows,
in a dead and blank way.
I used to be a serpent, you know,
but now I'm just a pet lizard.

The Death of the Child Emperor.

I am at times discouraged by the fuse-like nature of our existence. Once lit, it goes out rapidly towards the end of the line. It matters little what you do. It just burns away little by little and you don't get much out of it.
It doesn't make much difference if you chew your meat with neglected teeth or no teeth at all. It is all a calm  chaos at the gates of endless possibility. A painting filling a canvas. Leaving no blank space. A piece of music that we carelessly orchestrate. And all that is gradually forgotten with the rapid passing of time.
So I do nothing but smile, with cracked lips, gazing alone at autumn night skies swallowed by fog. The questions remain there in my head, like school children, patiently waiting in their spots.
Where will I be tomorrow? Toasting champagne in the heart of high society or sharing plastic bottled beer on the sidewalks of the world? Munchen or Medeea?
All I lived and loved will peacefully subside into oblivion. Away from humanity's collective conscience. All our dreams of immortality are but chapters in an amnesic childs play. So why not make life a pleasant heartbeat for the soul of an ever dying planet? Why not boil and cool in the pleasures of our diminishing youth? Why not muse the sentient world around as? Why shouldn't we be the divine inspiration that this terrible world seems to hunger for? A flicker of good in this avalanche of nonsense. Fathers and mothers, lovers and friends! Let us ride into the lazy days and be the flesh of the mad gods that roam freely across the universe!

Affliction

I no longer listen,
to the howling winds of doubt,
for I have nothing to hope for.

Only Cold feet.
From walking barefoot
on the frozen marble of souls.

Beating the simptomless heart to health
is proving to be
the hardest challenge in my life.

The Void

This is a desert on the threshold of death. I think it's somewhere underground - but not deep. And around it - emptiness.
You see how cold and still it is here, how desolate. But this is not yet your death. That awaits below, in the cold, when the last drop of color leaves your soul. We call it Absolute Death. Remember this always - here in the Void, nothing is more precious than Color. Color is life. It is our food, our strenght, our hope. It is the Essence and meaning of our suffering. And now yours. To tame color you must transform it through a beating heart. A spirit must fill his hearts with collected color to support life within himself. As time passes in the Void, Color will grow and flow into you. You can use this color to touch the world around you, because here it is Color that gives life. Take some Color from your memory, and fill your heart with it.