Consistent Climate

Fireworks sang that night,
like artillery
across the dead
but dreaming city.
A 3-minute symphony
of gunpowder and light.
I watched from my window,
not the punctured sky,
but the human labyrinth beneath it.
Not a move. Not a breath drawn.
No drunk girls laughing loudly,
No cars coughing sickly.
Silence stood in the distance. 
Unimpressed;
by the violent display of sound.

There is nothing to kill here anymore,
it would seem.

On our moving ashes,
a myriad of poppies grew,
covering the fields
in a sea of blood,
lulled by the wind.
Summer planted
flowers in our heads,
and butterflies in our stomachs.
Now October breathes heavily
on the streets,
throwing Lucky Strike & Camel
at memory.

The girl with the red hair;
waiting impatiently in a car
by the lake.
My heart thumping.

The girl with blonde hair;
reading, heart-in-throat,
one of my scribbled love notes.

The girl with black hair;
smoking, holding my headaches
in her hand.

Truly,
There is nothing to kill here,
but time.

Tulburare

Sunt hidra din Lerna
si toate capetele imi sunt luate.
Imi soptesc din colturile pamantului
unde mi-au fost ingropate.

Unul imi soarbe cuvintele,
altul ma vrea si mai departe.
Unul nu stiu unde e,
altul poseda trunchiuri in miscare.

As vrea macar un cap,
sa-mi respire venin in viata.
Nu mai pot musca pe nimeni
si am o lista interminabila.

Memo

Arta fumeaza, bea, trage pe nas sau ingereaza toxinele lumii.
Apoi isi da talpile tocite cu crema si buzele cu strugurel.
Se trezeste cu vrabiile si bate trotuarele oraselor grabita spre munca
cu zambet crapate si ras maniacal.
E imposibil de recunoscut. 
Doar umbla din gura in gura,
din ureche in ureche
intr-o procesiune fireasca a disperarii.

Constanta, mon amour.

A traversat calea ferata. Undeva in apropiere, un tipat de metal pe metal se sparge in toate directiile. Dupa ce a ajuns pe partea cealalta a privit cateva secunde in urma. Pe peron, zeci de oameni se adunau ca moliile la vagoane, biciuiti de lumina seaca a garii. Lasa un suspin astenic si pleca mai departe.
Era tarziu si avea atat de putin timp de liniste pana trebuia sa se intoarca acasa. la pat. La cafeaua de a doua zi, la cele 24 de ore ce vor fi iar luate cu forta din calendarul sau.
Apoi se pierdu in bezna. Talpile bocancilor il purtau pe o alee din care lipseau pavele. Cu ochii mijiti, drumul parea o gura mancata de carii. In departare, un latrat turbat spinteca tacerea. O secunda de neliniste, apoi continua. Deasupra lui, o Luna taiata de cracile de pini se distinge in bezna. Pomii cancerosi dispar, iar pe cer ramane un bec urias de culoarea clapelor unui pian. In sfarsit lumina.
Aprinde o tigara si o ceata groasa ii paraseste narile. In dusul neasteptat de lumina, ruinele fostului depou CFR Constanta zac precum oasele unor zei ingropati de timp. O cladire cheala aici, una fara ochi alaturi. Mai incolo una cu etaj parea capul unui gigant sprijinit pe un trunchi fara coaste, peretii adunand deseurile vii ale orasului. Inauntru, sobolani se opresc o secunda complet, apoi se imprastie in gaurile din podea. O spirala de scari se intinde lenes spre cer, la capatul ei, un perete spalat de lumina. urca. Sus, o poiana de ciment. Complet goala, pazita de caramizile care zac ca niste soldati invinsi; sparte; digerate de foamea neoprita a zeci de zapezi.
In spatele lui, o goarna urla sfasietor. CET-ul striga; un stomac impuns de ulcer.
In fata, orasul se intinde. Timid la inceput, apoi nestingherit dupa ce ochii lui se obisnuiesc cu lumina. O campie artificiala, batrana; unde Trestii luminoase de sticla, metal si beton par sa se clatine peste licaririle de neon. Autobuze racnesc violent apoi sunetul lor e inghitit in distante inaproximabile. Orasul tuseste mecanic din plamanii de metal lasand In urma, un miros bolnav de benzina arsa. Se aseaza pe marginea peretelui daramat si priveste in liniste. O tigara mai tarziu, ofteaza. Un oftat amar al unui rege invins. Deposedat. Un imperiu intreg al nimanui. Pisici se fut demonic pe putinele fasii de pamant de jos si ii opresc violent gandurile. Ce le pasa lor de lumea asta muribunda?
O caldura timida incepe sa ii arda degetele. Arunca tigara. Tuseste. Scuipa. O pisicina minuscula de sange se aude plonjand in aer de la etaj, apoi se sparge de gunoaiele de jos. Se intinde usor pe spate si respira usor, reprimand tusea care ii creste in torace. De acolo, de pe etajul fara acoperis, intregul cer al noptii pare o morga licarind in liniste. Inchide ochii; adoarme usor. In craniu, ganduri se intrec pe autostrazi infinite. Imra, Selenne, Carlotta, Cristina. Toate se zdrobesc de un perete urias, iar apoi intunericul le inghite.
Secundele se dizolva si se strang intr-o cana uriasa de timp. Apoi, cand capul ii e golit de sunet, telefonul suna. Alarma. 23:00. Isi aduna corpul din praf si se intoarce in gara traversand nepasator liniile de cale ferata. urca in ultimul autobuz spre casa. Succesiunea de stalpi il adoarme cumva, ca oi numarate intr-o seara nelinistita. Autobuzul opreste. Cap de linie. La parterul blocului sau, un vecin asculta: Verloren (Alles).
Zambeste; apoi se pierde pe trahee blocului.

i dreamed of the metro. my hands clasped on metal rails. moved my hand to my mouth but there was no cigarette there. a slow anticipation of a future vice. I kissed you there. in the dark engulfing noise. your boyfriend was waiting at home. there was no final harmony to that episode. i wanted to jump in front of something. there was nothing coming. i smoked a million pack of cigarettes from that day. I'm moving along. in trains. buses and airline terminals. in shots of liquor and tea the morning after. I killed my inner fauna. I contemplate for a second my murderous act. and then i drink some more. I earn for certainty...

Diagnosis

and the cigarettes are always red. to signal the impending death.The shirt is white.stained by  music.
Black Angels.loud as to not hear myself thinking.
the shirts are white. stained some more. a hemorrhage of bleeding wine bottles. there is no soothing to this sickness only a slight amelioration of the symptoms. I spill my rights on sidewalks, puking nicotine and blood.
where do my vitamins go?this body is a slaughterhouse for health.
the pages are splitting head memories of days where i fall asleep fully clothed.
oh where do I go?
give me drums to overwhelm the headaches. give me water to quill the muscle cramps.
i am deaf and heaven always signals with flares, with traffic lights. my face in the mirror begs for destruction. my tongues twists and contors. purple as the autumn sky. i'm looking for something to kill, other than myself. and I yell: FUCK! FUck!
these coathangers stab at my life. the suits inhabiting them only pull to an anesthesia of the soul.
I fall asleep drunk. I awake drunker still.
And there is no grand finale.

A call to Arms

At times I wish for neverending arms.
To pull the sun into the Earth. To strangle the world.
On tired wings of doom I fly to the corner store and see
that my hands are long enough
to grip a bottle of wine and not hurt a soul.