14th of December 2015.
The day I gave myself to my true nature. In the same manner a dam breaks under the pressure of an immense body of water. And everything flows so disastrously natural from then on.
Monday 14 December 2015
Wednesday 2 December 2015
Fixation
At times, I wake up in the middle of the night after an ocean of gin washed me back to the shores of the waking world. No headache. No nausea. Just an indescribable feeling of emptiness, as if my insides were carved out.
In these moments, the radio is usually on and the music there only helps to resurrect the madness of a thousand people that lived and died within my head.
I laid on the floor minutes in a row falling in and out of sleep. My body, like Charon`s boat, carried in and out of all sorts of hells.
I try writting but by the time I`m done, the paper doesn`t seem to worth less than the wood it was massacred for. The source of this anxiety is my neverending discontent with the world.
This unbarred feeling that I have so much to offer yet nobody to offer it to.
I can almost feel it, like cold hands against my throat, this feeling that I am wasting away somehow, suspended in cold indifference, like a planet without a sun.
In these moments, the radio is usually on and the music there only helps to resurrect the madness of a thousand people that lived and died within my head.
I laid on the floor minutes in a row falling in and out of sleep. My body, like Charon`s boat, carried in and out of all sorts of hells.
I try writting but by the time I`m done, the paper doesn`t seem to worth less than the wood it was massacred for. The source of this anxiety is my neverending discontent with the world.
This unbarred feeling that I have so much to offer yet nobody to offer it to.
I can almost feel it, like cold hands against my throat, this feeling that I am wasting away somehow, suspended in cold indifference, like a planet without a sun.
Immersion Ritual
I went out on a rainy Wednesday night when only cocaine dealers get out of the house. As I was glaring absent mindedly out the window of the cab, I couldn`t shake the feeling that I was living a life that was not entirely my own. One was not my own at all, really.
Outside, in the calmly chilled dark, hands held each other, some broken, like the inner fabric of their owners. I got off and started walking. Music could be heard from a myriad of places. Clubs, bars, food stalls and passing cars. Soundtracks for the sleepless and the wicked. Girls winked, laughed and shouted as they passed me by. I walked on, indifferent, where probably greater men than me have fallen. I felt this unusual darkspace between me and the world as the cold rain started to slide down my hair.
Along the canals, I strode through places where light shines meekly. Where dealers of dreams whisper like demons through holes in the walls. Their faces obscured. Somewhere in the distance, a girl is crying, a black bird tattooed on her right hand. I didn`t stop for a second to comfort her. I walked on, spellbound, through the ghost lights of Regency Wharf. the boats rocked gently against the wind and seagulls made shy noises every now and then. I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds and I could see myself in Brighton. The sun, licking my skin. It felt so strangely real. Like a heroin dream that melts away an unstoppable urge to be sinister.
I opened my eyes and the world seemed for some reason,lazier than ever. A slow motion apocalypse in which I silently resumed my immersion ritual.
Outside, in the calmly chilled dark, hands held each other, some broken, like the inner fabric of their owners. I got off and started walking. Music could be heard from a myriad of places. Clubs, bars, food stalls and passing cars. Soundtracks for the sleepless and the wicked. Girls winked, laughed and shouted as they passed me by. I walked on, indifferent, where probably greater men than me have fallen. I felt this unusual darkspace between me and the world as the cold rain started to slide down my hair.
Along the canals, I strode through places where light shines meekly. Where dealers of dreams whisper like demons through holes in the walls. Their faces obscured. Somewhere in the distance, a girl is crying, a black bird tattooed on her right hand. I didn`t stop for a second to comfort her. I walked on, spellbound, through the ghost lights of Regency Wharf. the boats rocked gently against the wind and seagulls made shy noises every now and then. I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds and I could see myself in Brighton. The sun, licking my skin. It felt so strangely real. Like a heroin dream that melts away an unstoppable urge to be sinister.
I opened my eyes and the world seemed for some reason,lazier than ever. A slow motion apocalypse in which I silently resumed my immersion ritual.
Monday 30 November 2015
A poem about the present.
I caught it by mistake.
I spread its wings and nailed them open on a wooden board.
With small incisions I`ve cut its torso
finding nothing but an empty shell.
No tiny beating heart.
No lungs expanding and contracting.
No lungs expanding and contracting.
No sign of understanding
how it works.
So I set it free.
And it took its hollow body into the clouds,
leaving nothing,
but confusion.
Bimringham City Blues
I`m in a metal arrow puncturing the sleeping dark. In the distance, the lights of our foster city begin to spring anxiously to life and it all looks like a giant regaining conscience after a heart attack.
I slither endlessly on streets paved with rain, my poison tongues, temporary silenced and numbed from exhaustion. There`s not much use for talking these days. In this limbo, my inner landscapes still seem to echo with voices from past lives.
In the cold light of morning, before I put this weary body to rest or gently turn it on auto-pilot, all I have left are the fictions that I wear between my bones and clothes. This fabric of dreams unmet and violent expectations. And I sleep like that, in these worn little armours that shrink from year to year, until...until one morning, I`ll realize with a sigh, that they have cut all ways for blood and everything else, to reach my heart.
But beneath this endless field of raindrops, calm and collected, I still remember summer. And against my will the memory nurtures hope within me, that this little armours will one day rust and fall apart.
I slither endlessly on streets paved with rain, my poison tongues, temporary silenced and numbed from exhaustion. There`s not much use for talking these days. In this limbo, my inner landscapes still seem to echo with voices from past lives.
In the cold light of morning, before I put this weary body to rest or gently turn it on auto-pilot, all I have left are the fictions that I wear between my bones and clothes. This fabric of dreams unmet and violent expectations. And I sleep like that, in these worn little armours that shrink from year to year, until...until one morning, I`ll realize with a sigh, that they have cut all ways for blood and everything else, to reach my heart.
But beneath this endless field of raindrops, calm and collected, I still remember summer. And against my will the memory nurtures hope within me, that this little armours will one day rust and fall apart.
Where`d you go?
Am stat acolo cateva secunde, la intrarea in avion, cu privirea lipita de cer.
Norii pluteau grabiti, ca niste galme intunecate. Pline de ura. Intreaga bolta era o scrumiera neagra si ameninta sa inghita tot ce s-a intiparit fara sa vreau in minte.
Caietul si cafeaua de pe acoperisul unui bloc din piata Ovidiu. Plimbarile cu Madalina pe langa Via Fratelli, in noptile calme de august. Filmele, meniurile, senzatiile de piele fina pe care mi le-au lasat draperiile cand eram praf in apartamente straine.
Simteam cumva o Apocalipsa a memoriei. Pe dinauntru, detaliile se ruinau, cladiri in fata unor rachete neasteptate.
Incercam sa ma fortez a-mi aminti lucruri pentru a nu aluneca intr-un gol ce imi stergea orice experienta. Barbatul cu numele Monamour, pamantul negru din care se ridicau blocurile suburbiilor romane odata cu lasarea noptii. Numele asistentei care a dormit in patul meu cand credeam ca voi muri fara sa sa stie vreun cunoscut.
Apoi, cu un efort major, am intrat in toracele metalic al avionului.
Un Jack. Un vin. Iar dupa ele o liniste apasatoare. Nu puteam scutura sentimentul ca un sfert de secol a trecut complet degeaba. Ca am trait ca un pusti care scormoneste cu un cutit intr-o priza. Am inchis ochii.
O pisica privea prin mine de pe un gard de paleti si stuf. De partea cealalta a gardului, Acoperisurile Bucurestiului se intindeau intr-o mare interminabila. imi simteam picioarele adancindu-se in smoala de pe crestetul teatrului Bulandra si aveam privirea subtiata intr-un punct al orizontului. Spre Nord.
O voce suava, blonda soptea usor pe umarul meu:
La ce te gandesti?
La bani. Am raspuns aproape mecanic.
Si cu asta am sarit impreuna de pe bloc aterizand intr-o mare adanca de aproape un metru. Pe langa noi, siluete negre inotau in toate directiile. Mana atasata de vocea de pe cladire disparuse iar acolo sub valurile care treceau lenes deasupra capului, se auzea o chitara americana. Probabil Kings of Leon sau Lana del Rey. iesind din apa, eram in Vama Veche. Am privit neimpresionat randurile de oameni de pe mal si imbracandu-ma am urcat pe bancheta din spate a unui Golf. Langa mine, o pereche de picioare imbracate in plasa ieseau arogant dintr-o fusta neagra. Pe picioare, o sticla de Bacardi si una de Absolut. Langa ele, o geanta neagra.
Nu stiu cat am mers dar la un moment dat, 1 ianuarie aburea geamurile masinii.
Anii treceau mergand cu masina aia, iar pe trotuar odata la ceva timp, o oglinda pazita de doi saci de moloz imi arata un alt om de fiecare data.
Apoi rasete maniacale. In masina eram doar oameni bubuiti de fobii si nesiguranta.
Ma simteam precum capul unui porc dupa sacrificare, privindu-si corpul ciobit de niste straini. un sentiment de adancire in ceva straniu si dezgustator. Apoi masina s-a oprit si am coborat. We have arrived.
M-am trezit in scaunul meu in timp ce o insotitoare de zbor imi atingea usor umarul: "Sir, we have arrived." Pe terminal scria in litere dezinteresate: HEATHROW.
Calcand atent pe holul terminalului, nu aveam nici un gand in minte. Mecanic mergeam prin uitare.
Norii pluteau grabiti, ca niste galme intunecate. Pline de ura. Intreaga bolta era o scrumiera neagra si ameninta sa inghita tot ce s-a intiparit fara sa vreau in minte.
Caietul si cafeaua de pe acoperisul unui bloc din piata Ovidiu. Plimbarile cu Madalina pe langa Via Fratelli, in noptile calme de august. Filmele, meniurile, senzatiile de piele fina pe care mi le-au lasat draperiile cand eram praf in apartamente straine.
Simteam cumva o Apocalipsa a memoriei. Pe dinauntru, detaliile se ruinau, cladiri in fata unor rachete neasteptate.
Incercam sa ma fortez a-mi aminti lucruri pentru a nu aluneca intr-un gol ce imi stergea orice experienta. Barbatul cu numele Monamour, pamantul negru din care se ridicau blocurile suburbiilor romane odata cu lasarea noptii. Numele asistentei care a dormit in patul meu cand credeam ca voi muri fara sa sa stie vreun cunoscut.
Apoi, cu un efort major, am intrat in toracele metalic al avionului.
Un Jack. Un vin. Iar dupa ele o liniste apasatoare. Nu puteam scutura sentimentul ca un sfert de secol a trecut complet degeaba. Ca am trait ca un pusti care scormoneste cu un cutit intr-o priza. Am inchis ochii.
O pisica privea prin mine de pe un gard de paleti si stuf. De partea cealalta a gardului, Acoperisurile Bucurestiului se intindeau intr-o mare interminabila. imi simteam picioarele adancindu-se in smoala de pe crestetul teatrului Bulandra si aveam privirea subtiata intr-un punct al orizontului. Spre Nord.
O voce suava, blonda soptea usor pe umarul meu:
La ce te gandesti?
La bani. Am raspuns aproape mecanic.
Si cu asta am sarit impreuna de pe bloc aterizand intr-o mare adanca de aproape un metru. Pe langa noi, siluete negre inotau in toate directiile. Mana atasata de vocea de pe cladire disparuse iar acolo sub valurile care treceau lenes deasupra capului, se auzea o chitara americana. Probabil Kings of Leon sau Lana del Rey. iesind din apa, eram in Vama Veche. Am privit neimpresionat randurile de oameni de pe mal si imbracandu-ma am urcat pe bancheta din spate a unui Golf. Langa mine, o pereche de picioare imbracate in plasa ieseau arogant dintr-o fusta neagra. Pe picioare, o sticla de Bacardi si una de Absolut. Langa ele, o geanta neagra.
Nu stiu cat am mers dar la un moment dat, 1 ianuarie aburea geamurile masinii.
Anii treceau mergand cu masina aia, iar pe trotuar odata la ceva timp, o oglinda pazita de doi saci de moloz imi arata un alt om de fiecare data.
Apoi rasete maniacale. In masina eram doar oameni bubuiti de fobii si nesiguranta.
Ma simteam precum capul unui porc dupa sacrificare, privindu-si corpul ciobit de niste straini. un sentiment de adancire in ceva straniu si dezgustator. Apoi masina s-a oprit si am coborat. We have arrived.
M-am trezit in scaunul meu in timp ce o insotitoare de zbor imi atingea usor umarul: "Sir, we have arrived." Pe terminal scria in litere dezinteresate: HEATHROW.
Calcand atent pe holul terminalului, nu aveam nici un gand in minte. Mecanic mergeam prin uitare.
Episode
This body is a strange planet
in cold space.
It moves in circles,
With its continents of ink,
separated by careless skin,
Without direction.
These lips whisper desert winds,
which warm hearts to boiling points.
They curl into the same discreet smile,
that changes meaning
with each pair of eyes,
that witness it.
I exist, in the plastic
of ancient photographs,
In the non-existent space of
digital information.
In the immortal memories of people.
in cold space.
It moves in circles,
With its continents of ink,
separated by careless skin,
Without direction.
These lips whisper desert winds,
which warm hearts to boiling points.
They curl into the same discreet smile,
that changes meaning
with each pair of eyes,
that witness it.
I exist, in the plastic
of ancient photographs,
In the non-existent space of
digital information.
In the immortal memories of people.
Sunday 22 November 2015
A photograph of my passing youth
So this is how youth dies in us.
One wrong step after another. Sleepwalking through our days, completely unaware of the love around us. We pass it by. Sometimes without even waving goodbye.
This is how beauty gets ruined in us.
We see the grotesquery of this world and we begin to reflect it.
It`s these dreams of wine on empty stomachs. The little voids within which grow with hope.
I flow through cities buried in fog. To get lost. To lose things. I appear and disappear majestically, like shooting stars across the hallow sky. A wish, never to come true.
On highways, I stare at the lights from cars that carry us to nowhere. I feel like a patient taken to an operation as the world is trying to heal something that I didn`t know its killing me.
But In my arrogant madness, I look good, all dressed in silent despair. The way I smoke on balconies in the cool night air. The way I toast without a word on rooftops. The way I stare from windows without thinking of anything. Or retracing my steps back in time, to the present.
Some tell me that it`s getting darker in Greece. I want to go and see for myself. But I can`t be everywhere. All the time. That`s why I sink in paintings, minutes in a row. That`s why Lately I looked ill. I kept my head against the glass of buses, contemplating the millions of bridges that I`m crossing each second. The thousands of skies on fire that my eyes stole pieces of time from.
But I press on. And I wake up each afternoon, like a moon from the sea. Small and cold. And the world sometimes smiles at my bone-smooth charm.
So that`s what left of me.
A tree in December, dressed in Christmas lights. To hide my hardened body. My broken spirit. My hopeful wait for spring.
One wrong step after another. Sleepwalking through our days, completely unaware of the love around us. We pass it by. Sometimes without even waving goodbye.
This is how beauty gets ruined in us.
We see the grotesquery of this world and we begin to reflect it.
It`s these dreams of wine on empty stomachs. The little voids within which grow with hope.
I flow through cities buried in fog. To get lost. To lose things. I appear and disappear majestically, like shooting stars across the hallow sky. A wish, never to come true.
On highways, I stare at the lights from cars that carry us to nowhere. I feel like a patient taken to an operation as the world is trying to heal something that I didn`t know its killing me.
But In my arrogant madness, I look good, all dressed in silent despair. The way I smoke on balconies in the cool night air. The way I toast without a word on rooftops. The way I stare from windows without thinking of anything. Or retracing my steps back in time, to the present.
Some tell me that it`s getting darker in Greece. I want to go and see for myself. But I can`t be everywhere. All the time. That`s why I sink in paintings, minutes in a row. That`s why Lately I looked ill. I kept my head against the glass of buses, contemplating the millions of bridges that I`m crossing each second. The thousands of skies on fire that my eyes stole pieces of time from.
But I press on. And I wake up each afternoon, like a moon from the sea. Small and cold. And the world sometimes smiles at my bone-smooth charm.
So that`s what left of me.
A tree in December, dressed in Christmas lights. To hide my hardened body. My broken spirit. My hopeful wait for spring.
Monday 19 October 2015
00:29
Here we are at the edge of a world,
with loneliness stretching out as far as the eye can see.
The heart hauls blood like a Chrysler engine.
Driven.
Energy drinks by day. Cocaine, by night.
After a while, the body heaves. The magic wears off.
Sense comes back to the senses.
One evening of sobriety
on the cold sidewalks of life
and you reclaim your sight.
Although, there is nothing to see.
The lights have made everything invisible.
with loneliness stretching out as far as the eye can see.
The heart hauls blood like a Chrysler engine.
Driven.
Energy drinks by day. Cocaine, by night.
After a while, the body heaves. The magic wears off.
Sense comes back to the senses.
One evening of sobriety
on the cold sidewalks of life
and you reclaim your sight.
Although, there is nothing to see.
The lights have made everything invisible.
Monday 28 September 2015
A Long Lost Memory
I like you. A lot. For a long time now. I don"t want to say I love you, because we never even held hands. We never even kissed. But...
Anyway, you re all over the place. I mean we both are in a way. We've both seen some of the world in our own terms. It just feels that, somehow, you re always further.
Once I dreamt that the earth was flat and you were on the other side. I couldn't shout loud enough for you to hear me and meet me half way; so I got so fat that the earth started to tip, and you fell all the way from the edge of the world into my arms. Then I lost the weight and we raised together two flawless children.
You see, when you re dreaming, there is always a solution. But this sort of things, they don"t really happen in real life.
In real life you wait, you give up, you give your time to someone else. Because you never really know how much space you occupy in other peoples lives.
SO You make promises, to others, to yourself. Some you keep, others you keep to yourself.
I wish I could explain at least vaguely accurate how much you mean to me. To be able to move through your present in such a way that would make all past suffering worth it. I would have loved to make you proud of your past, to make you believe that it was the necessary foundation of your happiness.
i would have loved to cook for you, to drink with you. To dance together on our four left feet. To do all with you, all the marvellous things I did with people I didn't care that much about.
But I am human and as much as Id want to I can never be the ocean in which you wash your troubles away. Your morning coffee. Your inner city on a sunny day.
Even though, sometimes, you are all that for me.
I mean, there are days, when I'm sick of it all and I just feel like laying down and never waking up, but in those last seconds before falling asleep, a random memory of ours comes to the back of the head and I can hear you laugh, somewhere in the darkness of my room. Slowly I fall asleep, smiling.
Anyway, you re all over the place. I mean we both are in a way. We've both seen some of the world in our own terms. It just feels that, somehow, you re always further.
Once I dreamt that the earth was flat and you were on the other side. I couldn't shout loud enough for you to hear me and meet me half way; so I got so fat that the earth started to tip, and you fell all the way from the edge of the world into my arms. Then I lost the weight and we raised together two flawless children.
You see, when you re dreaming, there is always a solution. But this sort of things, they don"t really happen in real life.
In real life you wait, you give up, you give your time to someone else. Because you never really know how much space you occupy in other peoples lives.
SO You make promises, to others, to yourself. Some you keep, others you keep to yourself.
I wish I could explain at least vaguely accurate how much you mean to me. To be able to move through your present in such a way that would make all past suffering worth it. I would have loved to make you proud of your past, to make you believe that it was the necessary foundation of your happiness.
i would have loved to cook for you, to drink with you. To dance together on our four left feet. To do all with you, all the marvellous things I did with people I didn't care that much about.
But I am human and as much as Id want to I can never be the ocean in which you wash your troubles away. Your morning coffee. Your inner city on a sunny day.
Even though, sometimes, you are all that for me.
I mean, there are days, when I'm sick of it all and I just feel like laying down and never waking up, but in those last seconds before falling asleep, a random memory of ours comes to the back of the head and I can hear you laugh, somewhere in the darkness of my room. Slowly I fall asleep, smiling.
Fever Dream
Life resides in all things.
But most of all, it is our chests that contract and expand under its movement. I remember waking up in a room by the beach, tee-pees growing timidly from the sand. The sun stretched out his hands embracing his lover, the sea. I looked at the bed beside me and her puppy was sleeping unaware of the world outside those sheets.
As I walked to the kitchen, my kitten jumped on my leg. Her tray was full but she just wanted a bit of my time. As I lowered my hand she licked it and pushed her head against it. A simple gesture that shows you have a place in this world, to give and receive affection. I took her out on the balcony and we both watched the sea in silence, each from our own chair.
I knew that after a while, the sun will set, the girl will be gone and the dog along with her. I will wake up in bed by myself. But somehow it could not bother me in that moment.
And I was right, days flew by, autumn came. And i found myself one day starring lividly at the keys of a typewritter. The notes I took all summer were stained with wine, salt and cicarette ash. The letters were scribbled, as if written in a rush, as if I was performing a duty that kept me from living. Kept me from the world outside that I was so eagerly trying to get back to.
I was drunk on whiskey and I could only read some words:
Casino, waves, sand. I looked outside and the cold rain was throwing itself against the glass.
I had another whiskey. It felt warm and as I closed my eyes and in that wave of warmth I began to dream again.
I opened my eyes to the sound of a piano, trapped between walls from which pink and purple flowers gazed back at me, hypnotized by the music. I sat there for a while, alone in that room. Me and the person playing the piano. I got out.
Passing Colour
At the end of the day, all we`ve got left are our tired bodies. With memories tattooed on the inside and outside of our skin, burning for the right touch.
Fata asta e delir. Ca un vis al unui zeu care, in miliarde de ani de viata, a vazut doar frumusete. O tanara manie care lasa urme de neacoperit in vietile celor prin care trece.
Ochii ei sclipesc, uneori albastri, alteori verzi, mereu acoperiti de culorile in care priveste si isi imprima pasiunea. E imposibil sa nu adori, chiar si de la distanta, felul in care refuza sa fie inchisa in ceva usor de descris. Cu parul si hainele ei care isi schimba stilul si culoarea, totul in cel mai placut haos posibil. E genul de furtuna de care te bucuri, pe care o inviti in viata ta. Cu siguranta nici umbra ei nu ii reflecta formele, ci e ceva mai mult tangibil, ca o bucata de catifea in miscare.
Uneori imi inchipui ca miroase a nopti tarzii, a vin rosu, pagini de carte si piele. A sare de mare sub lumina unei Luni de os. Alteori a parfum din alte lumi, a cafea cu rom si rochii pe care doar ea alege cand le da jos.
Poate e o opera de arta la care lumea se holbeaza fara a intelege prea multe. Dar E haotica. Sigur. Prin felul in care schimba fibra spatiului din jurul ei in obiecte si forme stranii. Si felul in care ridica povesti din nimic, te leaga iremediabil de ea. Poti vedea sute de pesti tropicali, poti sta in mijlocul unui camp de flori salbatice; toate lucrurile astea, iti vor duce inevitabil gandul la ea.
Uneori Imi pare usor distrasa, uitand adesea firul conversatiilor in care e prinsa, nu pentru ca ar avea o memorie indulgenta, ci pentru ca uneori prezenta ei e rapita de oameni care nu-i pot capta atentia.
Dar Trebuie sa fi fost fragila candva. Candva, inainte ca experiente violente sa ii dea stralucirea orbitoare de acum. Probabil sunt lucruri in ea, care au disparut pentru totdeauna, precum fum ce urca intr-un cer de fier.
Cu toate astea, dincolo de distanta asurzitoare, dincolo de orizonturi infinite, dincolo de praf si ecouri, de zilele in care totul amorteste intr-o tigara sub lumina care cade printre stele, ea ramane o enigma. Pentru ca nu are rost sa explici lucruri pentru care nu exista cuvinte.
In lumina rece a diminetii, adorm cu gandul ca noi poate nu suntem chiar asa diferiti.
Fata asta e delir. Ca un vis al unui zeu care, in miliarde de ani de viata, a vazut doar frumusete. O tanara manie care lasa urme de neacoperit in vietile celor prin care trece.
Ochii ei sclipesc, uneori albastri, alteori verzi, mereu acoperiti de culorile in care priveste si isi imprima pasiunea. E imposibil sa nu adori, chiar si de la distanta, felul in care refuza sa fie inchisa in ceva usor de descris. Cu parul si hainele ei care isi schimba stilul si culoarea, totul in cel mai placut haos posibil. E genul de furtuna de care te bucuri, pe care o inviti in viata ta. Cu siguranta nici umbra ei nu ii reflecta formele, ci e ceva mai mult tangibil, ca o bucata de catifea in miscare.
Uneori imi inchipui ca miroase a nopti tarzii, a vin rosu, pagini de carte si piele. A sare de mare sub lumina unei Luni de os. Alteori a parfum din alte lumi, a cafea cu rom si rochii pe care doar ea alege cand le da jos.
Poate e o opera de arta la care lumea se holbeaza fara a intelege prea multe. Dar E haotica. Sigur. Prin felul in care schimba fibra spatiului din jurul ei in obiecte si forme stranii. Si felul in care ridica povesti din nimic, te leaga iremediabil de ea. Poti vedea sute de pesti tropicali, poti sta in mijlocul unui camp de flori salbatice; toate lucrurile astea, iti vor duce inevitabil gandul la ea.
Uneori Imi pare usor distrasa, uitand adesea firul conversatiilor in care e prinsa, nu pentru ca ar avea o memorie indulgenta, ci pentru ca uneori prezenta ei e rapita de oameni care nu-i pot capta atentia.
Dar Trebuie sa fi fost fragila candva. Candva, inainte ca experiente violente sa ii dea stralucirea orbitoare de acum. Probabil sunt lucruri in ea, care au disparut pentru totdeauna, precum fum ce urca intr-un cer de fier.
Cu toate astea, dincolo de distanta asurzitoare, dincolo de orizonturi infinite, dincolo de praf si ecouri, de zilele in care totul amorteste intr-o tigara sub lumina care cade printre stele, ea ramane o enigma. Pentru ca nu are rost sa explici lucruri pentru care nu exista cuvinte.
In lumina rece a diminetii, adorm cu gandul ca noi poate nu suntem chiar asa diferiti.
Sunday 27 September 2015
Nothing 1.0
I lived in room with abandoned manequins.
My lower jaw was rotting from all the
senseless talking.
When I closed my eyes, i dreamed of
myself in my youth. Suit, tie and matching
mask.
When I opened my eyes, I was nothing. I
had no body. Invisible to the world.
So I glared at the world outside in silence.
The way cats must do, after they died their
sixth time.
I'm 26 and I feel a thousand years old. A
caterpillar that ignored each chance it had
to turn into a butterfly.
It is disastruous to live in world of glass
that mirrors your hideous reflection with
each step you take.
There are dusks in which I want to sleep
beneath the snow.
Dawns in which I want to dissolve and flow
with the puddles into the oblivious
darkness beneath the city.
But I fall asleep each morning. And when I
wake up, the sun is gently licking my skin.
And I forget for a while, who I am, what
I`ve done...
Monday 31 August 2015
Walking with Satie
Tracing back my steps in time
All I do is think about you Charlotte
And the love is left behind
I first saw Paris in Soho when I was thirteen
All I do is think about you Charlotte
And the love is left behind
I first saw Paris in Soho when I was thirteen
Sitting on a coffin drinking coffee
I wore black on black with negative feelings
I often go to Paris to live yesterday tomorrow
Because Paris is a place of dreams
I wore black on black with negative feelings
I often go to Paris to live yesterday tomorrow
Because Paris is a place of dreams
Francoise Hardy, tous les garcons et les filles
Juliette Greco, Jeanne Moreau and Catherine Deneuve
And I'm walking with Eric Satie
Along the boulevards of Paris in the springtime
Juliette Greco, Jeanne Moreau and Catherine Deneuve
And I'm walking with Eric Satie
Along the boulevards of Paris in the springtime
Un orchestre d'oiseaux, every so often breaks
This map of feelings
Drifting through these landscapes of love
Watching strays from Pere Lacheise
This map of feelings
Drifting through these landscapes of love
Watching strays from Pere Lacheise
Can you hear the cats purr?
Can you hear the master?
Stone against their velvet fur
Can you hear the master?
Stone against their velvet fur
Girls who travel the metro
Stroking white mice they carry in their pockets
Lost in a day dream
Stroking white mice they carry in their pockets
Lost in a day dream
Daydreaming to be loved by someone
Hurtling myself down into the metro
A train of Latin and African percussion
Turns my day into night
Hurtling myself down into the metro
A train of Latin and African percussion
Turns my day into night
The rhythm of life
The constant arguments between lovers
He wants to listen to the news
She wants to listen to the music
The constant arguments between lovers
He wants to listen to the news
She wants to listen to the music
Tuesday 25 August 2015
Birmingham Blues
Mi-am muscat buza si apoi mi-am adunat hainele aruncate aiurea pe jos.
Oglinda e un purgatoriu incert azi.
Pare ca peste tot in camera e un ocean de carne, par si piele.
Inchid ochii.
Ma topesc incet in podea pentru a mia noapte.
Sub lumina rosie, indoiala se plimba peste mine,neagra, un rau de cerneala.
Ma simt blocat in aparatura interminabila.
In metal si circuite.
Si e frig. Atat de frig.
Din cand in cand, amintiri vagi vin si dispar in cateva secunde.
O pereche de ochelari, o fata intr-o cada plina de spuma.
Totul pare atat de departe, nu stiu daca sunt amintirile mele sau...
Deschid ochii.
Vantul se plimba usor printre blocuri mediteraneene.
Pe masa de sticla, reflexia norilor curge ca un rau ce dispare inexplicabil.
Un fel de jurnal ale caror foi clipesc in bataia brizei pluteste pe marea de pe sticla.
Undeva in casa, o pisica toarce satisfacuta.
Privind acoperisurile de caramida, nu pot scapa de senzatia ca traiesc ceva ce nu e al meu.
Inchid ochii.
Strazile orasului cultiva toamna cumva, alungand viata de pe ele,
prin ploi interminabile.
Undeva, pe o trecere de pietoni, un barbat intr-o rochie de seara se grabeste in necunoscut.
Altul, chel, intr-un costum de inger priveste descumpanit asfaltul.
Si eu eram inger odata.
Acum doar ma imbrac intr-unul din cand in cand.
Am alte lucruri de facut, mai putin divine.
Baieti umbla plini de sange si oase acrilice, dintr-un bar in altul.
Flacari timide de viata, in timp ce Mortii isi poarta mastile acasa.
Isi imbraca pisicile in costum si isi pastreaza in lux, confuzia.
Ploua infernal si prin betonul care claustreaza, soferi putrezesc asteptand la semafoare.
Nu recunosc nimic in lumea asta. Nimic familiar. Doar sunetul interminabil al ploii.
Rulez o tigara.
Deschid Ochii.
Cineva imi atinge abdomenul, apoi aluneca usor mai jos.
Ne lingem si ne futem.
Nu pare nimic uman in asta.
Ii observ incaltarile.
Cumva, lumea se dizolva in jurul lor.
Simt nevoia sa imi cumpar si eu ceva.
Un tablou, o masina.
Vreau sa captivez cumva.
Ma gandesc o clipa la toti copii care umbla prin gunoaie.
Prin pamant macinat de armament.
O clipa, apoi gandul dispare.
``In a room with no doors I will give myself to you.
In a room, in my house, you`ll be seeing through my eyes.``
Stau pe canapea, Ma uit la tine, stand la fereastra, plangand.
Afara, in lumina soarelui, eu ma sarut cu altcineva.
Inchid ochii. Dementa interminabila. Apoi liniste.
Oglinda e un purgatoriu incert azi.
Pare ca peste tot in camera e un ocean de carne, par si piele.
Inchid ochii.
Ma topesc incet in podea pentru a mia noapte.
Sub lumina rosie, indoiala se plimba peste mine,neagra, un rau de cerneala.
Ma simt blocat in aparatura interminabila.
In metal si circuite.
Si e frig. Atat de frig.
Din cand in cand, amintiri vagi vin si dispar in cateva secunde.
O pereche de ochelari, o fata intr-o cada plina de spuma.
Totul pare atat de departe, nu stiu daca sunt amintirile mele sau...
Deschid ochii.
Vantul se plimba usor printre blocuri mediteraneene.
Pe masa de sticla, reflexia norilor curge ca un rau ce dispare inexplicabil.
Un fel de jurnal ale caror foi clipesc in bataia brizei pluteste pe marea de pe sticla.
Undeva in casa, o pisica toarce satisfacuta.
Privind acoperisurile de caramida, nu pot scapa de senzatia ca traiesc ceva ce nu e al meu.
Inchid ochii.
Strazile orasului cultiva toamna cumva, alungand viata de pe ele,
prin ploi interminabile.
Undeva, pe o trecere de pietoni, un barbat intr-o rochie de seara se grabeste in necunoscut.
Altul, chel, intr-un costum de inger priveste descumpanit asfaltul.
Si eu eram inger odata.
Acum doar ma imbrac intr-unul din cand in cand.
Am alte lucruri de facut, mai putin divine.
Baieti umbla plini de sange si oase acrilice, dintr-un bar in altul.
Flacari timide de viata, in timp ce Mortii isi poarta mastile acasa.
Isi imbraca pisicile in costum si isi pastreaza in lux, confuzia.
Ploua infernal si prin betonul care claustreaza, soferi putrezesc asteptand la semafoare.
Nu recunosc nimic in lumea asta. Nimic familiar. Doar sunetul interminabil al ploii.
Rulez o tigara.
Deschid Ochii.
Cineva imi atinge abdomenul, apoi aluneca usor mai jos.
Ne lingem si ne futem.
Nu pare nimic uman in asta.
Ii observ incaltarile.
Cumva, lumea se dizolva in jurul lor.
Simt nevoia sa imi cumpar si eu ceva.
Un tablou, o masina.
Vreau sa captivez cumva.
Ma gandesc o clipa la toti copii care umbla prin gunoaie.
Prin pamant macinat de armament.
O clipa, apoi gandul dispare.
``In a room with no doors I will give myself to you.
In a room, in my house, you`ll be seeing through my eyes.``
Stau pe canapea, Ma uit la tine, stand la fereastra, plangand.
Afara, in lumina soarelui, eu ma sarut cu altcineva.
Inchid ochii. Dementa interminabila. Apoi liniste.
Thursday 20 August 2015
Ganz Leise Kommt Die Nacht
I am not growing older.
Engorged with thousands episodes of experience, I continue to live submerged in chaos.
I remain suspended in confusion.
There are days in which I lay in bed discouraged of how irrelevant I am. To everything.
My paths lead me to oceans, to cities glaring out into the never ending waters. That is why I probably never liked mountains. The sense of finality I got from reaching the top. The disarming questions: Now what? Where to from here? So I go on about my circular life.
Entangled in metal and meat. In vague answers to questions I`m not entirely sure I understand. There is so much I do not understand. And it all flows out of me, like a haemorrhage of uncertainly.
but I exist, in my own absent manner. Always in the sky, just beneath the clouds. On roofs. Watching armies of others like myself.
Sometimes I sleep. And my breath lets out my soul, to wander. And it goes to so many places. And it stays there for days on end, wanting to move away from me.
During this time, I wake up empty each day. And I go to work and I laugh and say things I don`t mean. Everything without an echo of doubt in my voice. I am convinced that I am well without it.
And when I feel that I have fixed myself, I hear it soaring in the air. Floating on seagull wings. On the sound of waves crashing to the shore. It brings with it fiery sunsets and mornings of beautiful silence. My soul, the animal that writes poetry on the inner walls of my chest. The force that keeps me in the rain some nights, waiting for something that only it knows what it is.
So we fall asleep frequently, in the morning light, me and him, both dreaming of our own different worlds. It of tattoos that shine in the sun, of eyes that glare back at us from books or windows. Of liquor that warms the mind and leaves the skin less tense. Turquoise buildings and myriads of orchards of sound. And I...I dream of not getting ill. Of not being pathetic. Not being forgotten.
Engorged with thousands episodes of experience, I continue to live submerged in chaos.
I remain suspended in confusion.
There are days in which I lay in bed discouraged of how irrelevant I am. To everything.
My paths lead me to oceans, to cities glaring out into the never ending waters. That is why I probably never liked mountains. The sense of finality I got from reaching the top. The disarming questions: Now what? Where to from here? So I go on about my circular life.
Entangled in metal and meat. In vague answers to questions I`m not entirely sure I understand. There is so much I do not understand. And it all flows out of me, like a haemorrhage of uncertainly.
but I exist, in my own absent manner. Always in the sky, just beneath the clouds. On roofs. Watching armies of others like myself.
Sometimes I sleep. And my breath lets out my soul, to wander. And it goes to so many places. And it stays there for days on end, wanting to move away from me.
During this time, I wake up empty each day. And I go to work and I laugh and say things I don`t mean. Everything without an echo of doubt in my voice. I am convinced that I am well without it.
And when I feel that I have fixed myself, I hear it soaring in the air. Floating on seagull wings. On the sound of waves crashing to the shore. It brings with it fiery sunsets and mornings of beautiful silence. My soul, the animal that writes poetry on the inner walls of my chest. The force that keeps me in the rain some nights, waiting for something that only it knows what it is.
So we fall asleep frequently, in the morning light, me and him, both dreaming of our own different worlds. It of tattoos that shine in the sun, of eyes that glare back at us from books or windows. Of liquor that warms the mind and leaves the skin less tense. Turquoise buildings and myriads of orchards of sound. And I...I dream of not getting ill. Of not being pathetic. Not being forgotten.
Exile
Since I huddled in exile
my women are made of gin,
running on rum.
And they run fast.
Far
Forever.
my women are made of gin,
running on rum.
And they run fast.
Far
Forever.
Thursday 9 July 2015
Episod
mergeam pe strazile constantei,
pe bulevarde ale caror nume le-am uitat.
Cu sange in gura, cu o tigara in mana.
Murdar de praf si disperare.
Oglindit in geamurile masinilor,
corpul meu imi era strain.
Si inchis in sticla lor,
fugea atat de des de mine.
Atat de departe.
Uneori, visez cateva secunde.
Noptile pe care soarele si marea,
le mancau in linistea diminetii.
Corpuri pe care timpul si necunoscutul,
le-au inghitit in tablouri neterminate.
Apoi ma trezesc in lumina rece a zilei...
pe bulevarde ale caror nume le-am uitat.
Cu sange in gura, cu o tigara in mana.
Murdar de praf si disperare.
Oglindit in geamurile masinilor,
corpul meu imi era strain.
Si inchis in sticla lor,
fugea atat de des de mine.
Atat de departe.
Uneori, visez cateva secunde.
Noptile pe care soarele si marea,
le mancau in linistea diminetii.
Corpuri pe care timpul si necunoscutul,
le-au inghitit in tablouri neterminate.
Apoi ma trezesc in lumina rece a zilei...
Saturday 4 July 2015
An Electrical Storm Put to Sleep
It was the beginning of summer. One early morning, slipping between the shadows, I left home. I hurried down the streets to Digbeth, underneath a bored, bone-white moon. In this fictional city of mine, where man-made dreams tower above me, I entered the stomach of a machine and I was carried away to Manchester on highways, where souls move aimlessly in all directions. And I was one of them. With nothing to offer except my own confusion.
It felt so good to expect nothing for the first time in such a long while. No hope, no anticipation. Either A last farewell, or the start of a season in green. Or none of the above. It made no difference. My thoughts raced each other out of my head, growing wings and wheels that carried them into the unknown. And I was calm.
As the engine roared I peered above the sunglasses and above them, above me, airplanes seemed to hover beyond the skies. Indifferent metal gods, going about their business. I wondered for a second, how her life might be, among them. And if she looks down sometimes, at our ant-like buildings and wonders what's happening to the people she cares about.
The car stopped. A faint noise coming from a jet plane signaled my arrival, like an alarm clock for my sleeping courage. I got out of the car and went out to meet her.
We hugged in a hotel hallway and I dissolved in those arms. There are parts of me that fell to the floor and broke that day, when I broke free from her embrace. Entire ice statues of emptiness that I have built for months shattered and melt into the ground.
So We drank champagne and we talked. And in the way she sat on that hotel bed and I, on that armchair, at that particular moment in time, amidst the chaos in which our lives are so deeply submerged, a spark of order could be seen there. A carelessness that most of us run frantically towards yet never fully grasp it. It was there. And I sighed for a second, not knowing if I'll get to feel it again.
After a while we went out. He had some more drinks. The sky seemed a bottle of wine in which clouds floated like rosy petals. We walked among strangers, our eyes obscured by beautiful lenses. There was an ocean of sound pouring in the streets that day, but I was deaf. I could only hear her language, slowly being absorbed on my skin.
Eventually, we got back to her room. We sat in silence, each on his side of the bed. I knew I didn't love her and I knew she didn't love me;
and yet there was a sense of defeat in that silence.
And in those last seconds of being a awake I could feel that little spark of order dissolving back into the chaos of things unsaid and things unlived.
It felt so good to expect nothing for the first time in such a long while. No hope, no anticipation. Either A last farewell, or the start of a season in green. Or none of the above. It made no difference. My thoughts raced each other out of my head, growing wings and wheels that carried them into the unknown. And I was calm.
As the engine roared I peered above the sunglasses and above them, above me, airplanes seemed to hover beyond the skies. Indifferent metal gods, going about their business. I wondered for a second, how her life might be, among them. And if she looks down sometimes, at our ant-like buildings and wonders what's happening to the people she cares about.
The car stopped. A faint noise coming from a jet plane signaled my arrival, like an alarm clock for my sleeping courage. I got out of the car and went out to meet her.
We hugged in a hotel hallway and I dissolved in those arms. There are parts of me that fell to the floor and broke that day, when I broke free from her embrace. Entire ice statues of emptiness that I have built for months shattered and melt into the ground.
So We drank champagne and we talked. And in the way she sat on that hotel bed and I, on that armchair, at that particular moment in time, amidst the chaos in which our lives are so deeply submerged, a spark of order could be seen there. A carelessness that most of us run frantically towards yet never fully grasp it. It was there. And I sighed for a second, not knowing if I'll get to feel it again.
After a while we went out. He had some more drinks. The sky seemed a bottle of wine in which clouds floated like rosy petals. We walked among strangers, our eyes obscured by beautiful lenses. There was an ocean of sound pouring in the streets that day, but I was deaf. I could only hear her language, slowly being absorbed on my skin.
Eventually, we got back to her room. We sat in silence, each on his side of the bed. I knew I didn't love her and I knew she didn't love me;
and yet there was a sense of defeat in that silence.
And in those last seconds of being a awake I could feel that little spark of order dissolving back into the chaos of things unsaid and things unlived.
Railway randomness
I often find myself looking at photographs of people.
The ones with whom I took turns in taking each others breath.
And the ones that were just shadows lost in the cold light of morning.
I see them gazing into a vague horizon.
Lost. Disconnected.
And I can"t help but wonder sometimes if there"s me at the end of their thoughts.
I find myself too often awake at 3 am, with my hand against the wall
fingers playing with the black and white keys of memory.
Too often I find myself sunken in pages,
swimming in oceans of distilled carelessness.
Anything to distract me.
Paper, glass, nicotine and entire worlds inbetween.
Time changes the setting. The soundtrack. The supporting characters.
26 and my photographs are starting to lose their colour.
I am a sane man, slowly awaking from his insanity.
And it's a sad and boring world to wake up to.
Unless you have your wheels in motion and keep moving.
Because when you stop moving...
The ones with whom I took turns in taking each others breath.
And the ones that were just shadows lost in the cold light of morning.
I see them gazing into a vague horizon.
Lost. Disconnected.
And I can"t help but wonder sometimes if there"s me at the end of their thoughts.
I find myself too often awake at 3 am, with my hand against the wall
fingers playing with the black and white keys of memory.
Too often I find myself sunken in pages,
swimming in oceans of distilled carelessness.
Anything to distract me.
Paper, glass, nicotine and entire worlds inbetween.
Time changes the setting. The soundtrack. The supporting characters.
26 and my photographs are starting to lose their colour.
I am a sane man, slowly awaking from his insanity.
And it's a sad and boring world to wake up to.
Unless you have your wheels in motion and keep moving.
Because when you stop moving...
I"m lost for words but you can keep this map of my soul.
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Wednesday 27 May 2015
End
Nu stiu ce se intampla cu mine.
Nu am stiut niciodata. Nu stiu daca voi sti vreodata.
Am inceput de la zero de atatea ori doar pentru a realiza ca trebuie sa uiti un milion de vieti anterioare pentru a trai un singur prezent, Uneori sunt atat de beat incat arunc dopuri de sticla in pahar in loc de felii de lamaie.
As vrea sa fiu cineva. Jur. Dar e atat de greu sa stii cine vrei sa fiu.
Si toate camasile din lume si toate costumele cumparate nu valoreaza nimic atunci cand trebuie sa verifici un program inainte de a te arunca cu totul in aceasta salbatica si necunoscuta lume.
As vrea sa am pe cineva. Ceva catre care sa inclin cu disperare cu fiecare celula din corpul meu.
E atat de greu sa ramai in viata zilele astea. Dar vor veni si zile mai bune. Trebuie sa vina.
Si apoi auzi sunetul rasunator al libertatii. Imi seama ca desi nu sunt o pasare, picioarele mele ma pot purta oriunde.
Peste munti si peste nesfarsite campii cineva e acolo care face aceleasi eforturi demente ca si tine sa te tina in brate. Peste zidurile oraselor, Chiar daca nu am gasit inca ce cautam.
Vor fi 31 decembriuri in care imi voi ura viata. Vor fi duminici insangerate in care arcada imi va varsa lacrimi rosii pe trotuare straine. Si va fi liniste. Si te vei bucura pentru fiecare lovitura. Pentru fiecare ban pierdut. Si voi indura. Si voi fi fericit. Poate in 5 ani de aici incolo. Poate in ultimii 5 ani de viata.
Voi cunoaste fete vulcanice care imi vor distruge pentru un timp orasul interior. Si voi reconstrui. Din fotografii imi voi da seama din nou cine sunt.
Voi fi constant patat de muzica americana si sub soarele nemuritor in ochii mei, voi avea rani ce ma vor intoarce din nou si din nou pe malurile Constantei. Poate gandurile mele de a fi tata vor fi sarutate in uitare. Poate pe 3rd avenue masinile cu un singur far vor fi si ele un vis placut pe care il voi povesti cuiva intr-o zi.
Totul va fi desfacut in cea mai uimitoare poveste pe care am avut-o vreodata de zis. Momentele in care am fost un monstru ca atat de multi alti barbati ca mine vor fi cumva sterse de altele in care ma voi dovedi mai uman decat orice om. Imi vor trebui probabil mii de lire, euro, dolari, yeni sau franci. Imi va trebui muzica interminabila sa imi scriu povestea peste orase. Peste iarba care incolteste in orice colt imputit al planetei.
Undeva o femeie va spune: am iubit odata un barbat cum te-am iubit pe tine. Dar nimic nu conteaza cu adevarat in viata asta mai Mult decat prezentul si apropierea. Si atunci imi voi aminti mereu ca am inima. Ca bate. aruncand o dragoste interminabila pentru viata asta defectuoasa.
Nu am stiut niciodata. Nu stiu daca voi sti vreodata.
Am inceput de la zero de atatea ori doar pentru a realiza ca trebuie sa uiti un milion de vieti anterioare pentru a trai un singur prezent, Uneori sunt atat de beat incat arunc dopuri de sticla in pahar in loc de felii de lamaie.
As vrea sa fiu cineva. Jur. Dar e atat de greu sa stii cine vrei sa fiu.
Si toate camasile din lume si toate costumele cumparate nu valoreaza nimic atunci cand trebuie sa verifici un program inainte de a te arunca cu totul in aceasta salbatica si necunoscuta lume.
As vrea sa am pe cineva. Ceva catre care sa inclin cu disperare cu fiecare celula din corpul meu.
E atat de greu sa ramai in viata zilele astea. Dar vor veni si zile mai bune. Trebuie sa vina.
Si apoi auzi sunetul rasunator al libertatii. Imi seama ca desi nu sunt o pasare, picioarele mele ma pot purta oriunde.
Peste munti si peste nesfarsite campii cineva e acolo care face aceleasi eforturi demente ca si tine sa te tina in brate. Peste zidurile oraselor, Chiar daca nu am gasit inca ce cautam.
Vor fi 31 decembriuri in care imi voi ura viata. Vor fi duminici insangerate in care arcada imi va varsa lacrimi rosii pe trotuare straine. Si va fi liniste. Si te vei bucura pentru fiecare lovitura. Pentru fiecare ban pierdut. Si voi indura. Si voi fi fericit. Poate in 5 ani de aici incolo. Poate in ultimii 5 ani de viata.
Voi cunoaste fete vulcanice care imi vor distruge pentru un timp orasul interior. Si voi reconstrui. Din fotografii imi voi da seama din nou cine sunt.
Voi fi constant patat de muzica americana si sub soarele nemuritor in ochii mei, voi avea rani ce ma vor intoarce din nou si din nou pe malurile Constantei. Poate gandurile mele de a fi tata vor fi sarutate in uitare. Poate pe 3rd avenue masinile cu un singur far vor fi si ele un vis placut pe care il voi povesti cuiva intr-o zi.
Totul va fi desfacut in cea mai uimitoare poveste pe care am avut-o vreodata de zis. Momentele in care am fost un monstru ca atat de multi alti barbati ca mine vor fi cumva sterse de altele in care ma voi dovedi mai uman decat orice om. Imi vor trebui probabil mii de lire, euro, dolari, yeni sau franci. Imi va trebui muzica interminabila sa imi scriu povestea peste orase. Peste iarba care incolteste in orice colt imputit al planetei.
Undeva o femeie va spune: am iubit odata un barbat cum te-am iubit pe tine. Dar nimic nu conteaza cu adevarat in viata asta mai Mult decat prezentul si apropierea. Si atunci imi voi aminti mereu ca am inima. Ca bate. aruncand o dragoste interminabila pentru viata asta defectuoasa.
Thursday 21 May 2015
Mine is the Ocean
Close your sky and take a stand
Dear sons of never, Neverland
Silver trees and stars will fall tonight
Vesper shines from nine to ten
Echo and the Bunnymen
Close your eyes and take a walk tonight
Saw you out at night again
Swore to give the best you can
Hurry up the train will leave tonight
Eye for eye is what she wrote
Jesus Christ in save-up mode
Hurry up the ship will leave in time
And all the stars we count will hide their smile tonight
Return, return
Mine is the ocean
Return, make them burn
Cry for emotion
Return, return
Mine is the ocean
Return, make them burn
Cry for devotion
Welcome to see the dark behind
Wake up to see the hollow minds that we've become
Welcome to watch your life
Welcome my sole believer
You know the ship has left in time
Dear sons of never, Neverland
Silver trees and stars will fall tonight
Vesper shines from nine to ten
Echo and the Bunnymen
Close your eyes and take a walk tonight
Saw you out at night again
Swore to give the best you can
Hurry up the train will leave tonight
Eye for eye is what she wrote
Jesus Christ in save-up mode
Hurry up the ship will leave in time
And all the stars we count will hide their smile tonight
Return, return
Mine is the ocean
Return, make them burn
Cry for emotion
Return, return
Mine is the ocean
Return, make them burn
Cry for devotion
Welcome to see the dark behind
Wake up to see the hollow minds that we've become
Welcome to watch your life
Welcome my sole believer
You know the ship has left in time
Ce?
Nu mai e nimic placut in a inventa povesti. Ce se intampla, se intampla. Viata nu e vin si dansuri tango. Oricat de multe sticle cumperi si oricat de mult exersezi.
E gin la 350ml si apa tonica din alimentara. Se scurge in intrebari indiscrete si incomode pe care le pui si ti se pun; iar raspunsul se lasa mereu asteptat,
E un sir interminabil de conversatii in care fiecare asteapta sa isi toarne viata pe tine, ignorand-o complet pe a ta. Zilele sunt monologuri, auditii. Sunt muzica aia cretina pe care o asculti dintr-o masina in trecere. La radio. In casele pe unde umbli.
Viata e o dimineata de joi in care esti beat mort la ora 11 cu un pahar cu maslina inauntru. Dimineata in care cineva urla disperat sfaturi spre tine dar tu privesti absent de sub o pereche de ochelari spre soare.
E o deziluzie imputita in care oameni trag de tine in toate partile si apoi nu stiu unde sa te puna odata ce te obtin. E o curiozitate obtuza care se dilueza odata cu primele conversatii. Viata e un defect din nastere. O nefericire care creste constant, nestiind de unde si de ce.
E furie oarba atunci cand cineva iti asculta sangele varsat infulecand un castron de cereale cu lapte preocupati mai mult de ce intra in ei decat de ce iese din tine.
E un set de fotografii, de clipuri, de sexuri tari sau slabe care ar face orice doar sa distraga atentia de la faptul ca suntem pe marginea prapastiei, de la faptul ca daca nu ar exista consecinte ne-am arunca demult in gol.
Viata e amanare. Pentru ca maine am munca. Pentru ca nu mi-am baut cafeaua inca. Pentru ca nu am destui bani. Pentru ca nu imi merge netul. Pentru ca o sa imi ia ceva pana am incredere iar in oameni.
E un furt. Pentru ca nimic nu merita nimic. Cu atat mai putin banii mei cumparati cu timp irecuperabil.
E o barfa. Despre oameni care ii cunosti sau de care nu ai auzit niciodata. E o sugestie subtila ca ti se simte lipsa dar prea subtila ca sa o poti sesiza. Despre oameni care isi vad de viata lor dar isi vad si de a altora.
Viata e despre oameni care sunt un milion de alti oameni in fiecare zi. Care se indragostesc si au relatii de 40 minute pe net.
E un joc in care mimezi interes pentru cele mai ridicole lucruri. Apoi te pierzi in ele, iar lucrurile care te marcheaza cu adevarat cad usor usor sub nisipul uitarii.
Viata e restul putinelor zile in care nu esti fericit cu adevarat.
E gin la 350ml si apa tonica din alimentara. Se scurge in intrebari indiscrete si incomode pe care le pui si ti se pun; iar raspunsul se lasa mereu asteptat,
E un sir interminabil de conversatii in care fiecare asteapta sa isi toarne viata pe tine, ignorand-o complet pe a ta. Zilele sunt monologuri, auditii. Sunt muzica aia cretina pe care o asculti dintr-o masina in trecere. La radio. In casele pe unde umbli.
Viata e o dimineata de joi in care esti beat mort la ora 11 cu un pahar cu maslina inauntru. Dimineata in care cineva urla disperat sfaturi spre tine dar tu privesti absent de sub o pereche de ochelari spre soare.
E o deziluzie imputita in care oameni trag de tine in toate partile si apoi nu stiu unde sa te puna odata ce te obtin. E o curiozitate obtuza care se dilueza odata cu primele conversatii. Viata e un defect din nastere. O nefericire care creste constant, nestiind de unde si de ce.
E furie oarba atunci cand cineva iti asculta sangele varsat infulecand un castron de cereale cu lapte preocupati mai mult de ce intra in ei decat de ce iese din tine.
E un set de fotografii, de clipuri, de sexuri tari sau slabe care ar face orice doar sa distraga atentia de la faptul ca suntem pe marginea prapastiei, de la faptul ca daca nu ar exista consecinte ne-am arunca demult in gol.
Viata e amanare. Pentru ca maine am munca. Pentru ca nu mi-am baut cafeaua inca. Pentru ca nu am destui bani. Pentru ca nu imi merge netul. Pentru ca o sa imi ia ceva pana am incredere iar in oameni.
E un furt. Pentru ca nimic nu merita nimic. Cu atat mai putin banii mei cumparati cu timp irecuperabil.
E o barfa. Despre oameni care ii cunosti sau de care nu ai auzit niciodata. E o sugestie subtila ca ti se simte lipsa dar prea subtila ca sa o poti sesiza. Despre oameni care isi vad de viata lor dar isi vad si de a altora.
Viata e despre oameni care sunt un milion de alti oameni in fiecare zi. Care se indragostesc si au relatii de 40 minute pe net.
E un joc in care mimezi interes pentru cele mai ridicole lucruri. Apoi te pierzi in ele, iar lucrurile care te marcheaza cu adevarat cad usor usor sub nisipul uitarii.
Viata e restul putinelor zile in care nu esti fericit cu adevarat.
Monday 13 April 2015
It's Too Early in the Day to think of Love
Dreams crawl on the walls
like steam from a broken jar,
as I lie awake
in my first minutes of day.
I jumped panicked from my bed,
at the sound of whispers.
but there was only music,
timidly entering my room,
from invisible speakers.
A voice reminded me:
"Mother will not give you
the softest of kisses"
and I let my eyelids close
heavy with paracetamol and caffeine,
slipping patiently into delirium.
Days in which I played
in southern orchards.
Maps that came to life in my head.
How happy I was to have my hands in my pockets
instead of having them reach for other hands to hold.
But it's too early in the day to think of love.
like steam from a broken jar,
as I lie awake
in my first minutes of day.
I jumped panicked from my bed,
at the sound of whispers.
but there was only music,
timidly entering my room,
from invisible speakers.
A voice reminded me:
"Mother will not give you
the softest of kisses"
and I let my eyelids close
heavy with paracetamol and caffeine,
slipping patiently into delirium.
Days in which I played
in southern orchards.
Maps that came to life in my head.
How happy I was to have my hands in my pockets
instead of having them reach for other hands to hold.
But it's too early in the day to think of love.
An English Cold
I heaved
On the 8th day of the week.
My body, stuffed with air and benzedrine.
It was an unnatural morning,
one of the many,
a stranger to sleep.
Laughing discreetly
at the glorious feeling
of not having to go to work.
Of not having to cross the countryside,
to the warehouse where I sell my time.
Of not having to see strangers in my lane,
chasing these east anglican skies.
on that day, death was where your sky was.
And I remember us playing on that abandoned stadium
at dusk.
I always loved disheartened places.
Cloudless climes and starry skies.
I remember us, around august country fires.
Lost airmen, waiting to land,
Last, of a fading generation.
On the 8th day of the week.
My body, stuffed with air and benzedrine.
It was an unnatural morning,
one of the many,
a stranger to sleep.
Laughing discreetly
at the glorious feeling
of not having to go to work.
Of not having to cross the countryside,
to the warehouse where I sell my time.
Of not having to see strangers in my lane,
chasing these east anglican skies.
on that day, death was where your sky was.
And I remember us playing on that abandoned stadium
at dusk.
I always loved disheartened places.
Cloudless climes and starry skies.
I remember us, around august country fires.
Lost airmen, waiting to land,
Last, of a fading generation.
Wednesday 8 April 2015
!
I'm a peaceful Goliath among angry Davids.
I walk carelessly, hands in my pockets
past pentagrams and crosses.
Past Half moons and meat altars of chakra's.
I want love.
I want it to cost nothing
but my time.
In my live stream biography,
a woman's breath will always be the soundtrack.
Even if it's only the echo I remember.
But so it goes
that each day,
as I stumble out of bed,
And put my warm feet
on the cold floor,
I find my soul
to be a swamp full of creatures
that howl their advices at me.
Over all of it, ethereal dreams
pour like amazonian showers.
There was no need for me to cry.
My eyes we moist already.
From liquor. From drugs.
From the mocking piss
that angels let down from the sky.
It's the little things that kill, you know.
a passing silhouette, with vermillion hair.
The empty echo of a number no longer available.
The thought that while you're on the other side of the world,
back home, Laura still plays the piano,
Paul still has two fingers stolen from him,
by a moment of neglect.
I revel in urban violence,
I felt my own blood flood my mouth
a thousand times.
I felt hatred and humiliation flood it,
a thousand times more.
I wanted to be driven until the end,
but There is no end to this world.
So I sleep in the backseat,
in a car without driver,
on a highway pointing to a single way:
Tomorrow.
I walk carelessly, hands in my pockets
past pentagrams and crosses.
Past Half moons and meat altars of chakra's.
I want love.
I want it to cost nothing
but my time.
In my live stream biography,
a woman's breath will always be the soundtrack.
Even if it's only the echo I remember.
But so it goes
that each day,
as I stumble out of bed,
And put my warm feet
on the cold floor,
I find my soul
to be a swamp full of creatures
that howl their advices at me.
Over all of it, ethereal dreams
pour like amazonian showers.
There was no need for me to cry.
My eyes we moist already.
From liquor. From drugs.
From the mocking piss
that angels let down from the sky.
It's the little things that kill, you know.
a passing silhouette, with vermillion hair.
The empty echo of a number no longer available.
The thought that while you're on the other side of the world,
back home, Laura still plays the piano,
Paul still has two fingers stolen from him,
by a moment of neglect.
I revel in urban violence,
I felt my own blood flood my mouth
a thousand times.
I felt hatred and humiliation flood it,
a thousand times more.
I wanted to be driven until the end,
but There is no end to this world.
So I sleep in the backseat,
in a car without driver,
on a highway pointing to a single way:
Tomorrow.
Si motoarele incep sa-mi tremure
Sangele meu e coclit de fier.
De lumina grizonata a norilor.
Strain
De culoarea care curge
din pamant spre cer,
dupa ploaie.
Aude melodii,
cand plec, le vad.
Are prieteni imaginari,
care refuza
sa devina materie.
Sangele meu e un vas,
care naviga printre stele,
comunicand
printr-o purtare apatica,
simturilor ce nu diferentiaza
Aurul de piatra.
Si motoarele incep sa-mi tremure.
De lumina grizonata a norilor.
Strain
De culoarea care curge
din pamant spre cer,
dupa ploaie.
Aude melodii,
cand plec, le vad.
Are prieteni imaginari,
care refuza
sa devina materie.
Sangele meu e un vas,
care naviga printre stele,
comunicand
printr-o purtare apatica,
simturilor ce nu diferentiaza
Aurul de piatra.
Si motoarele incep sa-mi tremure.
Albastru
Piele albastra in ore,
departe de meridian.
Albastra ca marea
ascunsa de soare.
Albastra precum o umbra
distrasa de o sublima teroare.
Femeia care isi umbla pe sub piele
verificand mereu nereguli in organe.
Intinde maini ca flori uscate,
Catre vartejuri de lumina
in care amintirea mea
tot mai adanc dispare.
Departe, deasupra valurilor,
sirene se dezbraca de straturile de noapte,
cu ochi inaripati si pete de cerneala.
cu parul ars de o nedefinita indoiala.
Inca imi inoata prin ganduri uneori,
atat de rar,
aceste fiinte cu ingheieturi legate,
din care gura mea candva tanara, naiva,
tanjea sa smulga atat de multa carne.
Baiat orbit, inconjurat de animale,
ma tem ca mi-am uitat reflexia,
printre anii ce ar vrea sa-mi puna la tample
o coroana de nimicuri albe.
Acum as vrea sa zdrobesc strazi,
sub talpa care imi atinge asfaltul,
Dar abia ating pamantul,
suspendat
de catifeaua streangurilor
inghitite de albastru.
departe de meridian.
Albastra ca marea
ascunsa de soare.
Albastra precum o umbra
distrasa de o sublima teroare.
Femeia care isi umbla pe sub piele
verificand mereu nereguli in organe.
Intinde maini ca flori uscate,
Catre vartejuri de lumina
in care amintirea mea
tot mai adanc dispare.
Departe, deasupra valurilor,
sirene se dezbraca de straturile de noapte,
cu ochi inaripati si pete de cerneala.
cu parul ars de o nedefinita indoiala.
Inca imi inoata prin ganduri uneori,
atat de rar,
aceste fiinte cu ingheieturi legate,
din care gura mea candva tanara, naiva,
tanjea sa smulga atat de multa carne.
Baiat orbit, inconjurat de animale,
ma tem ca mi-am uitat reflexia,
printre anii ce ar vrea sa-mi puna la tample
o coroana de nimicuri albe.
Acum as vrea sa zdrobesc strazi,
sub talpa care imi atinge asfaltul,
Dar abia ating pamantul,
suspendat
de catifeaua streangurilor
inghitite de albastru.
Tot Ce nu pot Vedea
Oh cat iubeam viorile,
care ne aduceau pasarile inapoi in Constanta.
Primavara orchestrata,
intr-un hol, din parcul de la Mircea.
Cat adoram aprilie,
care decora ruinele Constantei in lumina sangerie.
Furtunile sfarsitului de august
care bateau violent campia fara forma.
Si apoi muzica in care am ars.
In care am inghetat.
In care am crezut ca mor inecat in aburii etilului.
De singuratate.
Si apoi cuvintele in care am trait.
In care m-am fortat
sa revin la viata in fiecare inceput timid de martie.
"Dar cuvintele anilor trecuti
apartin limbii anilor trecuti.
Iar cuvintele anilor viitori asteapta o noua voce."
Sunday 5 April 2015
Spiraling out of depression.
Days spent entirely on a couch. Feeding on Marlboro and wine.
I remember having a bottle opener for a hand. An ashtray for a mouth.
Packs stacked into small, frail houses. Bottles gathered around like a small city rising out of my coffee table.
And in my mind, indifference bloomed. It painted never ending gray landscapes.
It never got bored of all that nothing.
Every once in a while I would chew something vaguely edible.
The same thing over and over again.
Once a week I shaved. To look in the mirror. To see if I'm still there.
And there was someone. But somehow it felt like he was my substitute. Someone vaguely familiar.
Days spent with the blinds closed. In silent desperation.
I smoked. There was nothing else to do.
I smoked anything I could get my hands on.
I liked to imagine that the smoke, losing itself in the room was my soul.
That I would die at the end of the cigarette.
A common fantasy, I suppose. But I enjoyed it nevertheless.
Oh, and there was the music. Slow, sad and soothing.
I never imagined you can survive on noise until then.
Most nights I spent in a park near my apartment.
I walked around the darkened paths avoiding any human contact.
Sometimes I turned away from trees because I felt they somehow knew me by then.
On my way home, I'd buy a bottle of Jack, and head on home.
There, I took shots like fists to the jaw until I knocked myself out.
I would wake up the following morning, in the cold light of day,
with massive headaches that would keep me in bed until late in the afternoon.
I used to look at the carefully folded clothes
that I wore the night before standing on the chair.
They seemed to remind me that I will function again one day.
I spent a lot of time indoors.
I remember just sitting at the window.
With a look of loss I stood and watched the world outside for hours.
I can't really recall anything else than having questions in my head.
Questions with no particular direction.
Just a plain and never ending curiosity that I was never really bent on satisfying.
My mind felt like a river flowing from and into the unknown.
By that time, all the flowers in my apartment had died.
The birds stopped coming to my window.
I didn't eat anything so there was no thrash to take out.
I was living in a sort of functional coma. I just breathed, smoked and drank water.
Gary Jules/Lana del Rey - Born into this Mad World.
After a couple of weeks, I left home. I left the city.
I started eating and working.
My body seemed to bloom, wrecked as it was.
My arms unfolded and grew. My stomach, shy at first, started to make demands again.
By the time I came back home, I had already written half a notebook.
I started doing chores around the house. I started dressing decent again. For a while.
Then it hit me again.
It was sort of like a flu that you just can't shake.
It goes away for some time then it comes right back.
I remained in my apartment, convinced it would pass again. I drank, I drew, I dreamed.
One morning, after my first shot of whiskey, I looked outside the balcony.
The world was the same. But it was a bit warmer.
You could barely notice, but it actually felt like a something had changed.
I went out that day. It was 10a.m on a rainy Sunday and the churches still rang their bells.
I bought a type writter. And from it, color slowly seemed back into my life.
I remember having a bottle opener for a hand. An ashtray for a mouth.
Packs stacked into small, frail houses. Bottles gathered around like a small city rising out of my coffee table.
And in my mind, indifference bloomed. It painted never ending gray landscapes.
It never got bored of all that nothing.
Every once in a while I would chew something vaguely edible.
The same thing over and over again.
Once a week I shaved. To look in the mirror. To see if I'm still there.
And there was someone. But somehow it felt like he was my substitute. Someone vaguely familiar.
Days spent with the blinds closed. In silent desperation.
I smoked. There was nothing else to do.
I smoked anything I could get my hands on.
I liked to imagine that the smoke, losing itself in the room was my soul.
That I would die at the end of the cigarette.
A common fantasy, I suppose. But I enjoyed it nevertheless.
Oh, and there was the music. Slow, sad and soothing.
I never imagined you can survive on noise until then.
Most nights I spent in a park near my apartment.
I walked around the darkened paths avoiding any human contact.
Sometimes I turned away from trees because I felt they somehow knew me by then.
On my way home, I'd buy a bottle of Jack, and head on home.
There, I took shots like fists to the jaw until I knocked myself out.
I would wake up the following morning, in the cold light of day,
with massive headaches that would keep me in bed until late in the afternoon.
I used to look at the carefully folded clothes
that I wore the night before standing on the chair.
They seemed to remind me that I will function again one day.
I spent a lot of time indoors.
I remember just sitting at the window.
With a look of loss I stood and watched the world outside for hours.
I can't really recall anything else than having questions in my head.
Questions with no particular direction.
Just a plain and never ending curiosity that I was never really bent on satisfying.
My mind felt like a river flowing from and into the unknown.
By that time, all the flowers in my apartment had died.
The birds stopped coming to my window.
I didn't eat anything so there was no thrash to take out.
I was living in a sort of functional coma. I just breathed, smoked and drank water.
Gary Jules/Lana del Rey - Born into this Mad World.
After a couple of weeks, I left home. I left the city.
I started eating and working.
My body seemed to bloom, wrecked as it was.
My arms unfolded and grew. My stomach, shy at first, started to make demands again.
By the time I came back home, I had already written half a notebook.
I started doing chores around the house. I started dressing decent again. For a while.
Then it hit me again.
It was sort of like a flu that you just can't shake.
It goes away for some time then it comes right back.
I remained in my apartment, convinced it would pass again. I drank, I drew, I dreamed.
One morning, after my first shot of whiskey, I looked outside the balcony.
The world was the same. But it was a bit warmer.
You could barely notice, but it actually felt like a something had changed.
I went out that day. It was 10a.m on a rainy Sunday and the churches still rang their bells.
I bought a type writter. And from it, color slowly seemed back into my life.
Germinatie
Pasi grabiti se intrepatrund. Incerti.
Precum combinatii de safe.
Imi pierd viata prin apartamente straine.
Ma trezesc si adorm.
In jurul meu obiecte ma trag de maneca.
Pe o masuta un pahar intreaba: "What are you thinking of?"
Nu stiu. Nimic important. Nimic.
Sunt trecut. Pe langa cladiri. Pe langa oameni.
Trecut de amintiri.
De episodul in care ingerez ceva si trec.
Mai departe. Mai aproape.
As vrea sa pot trece peste. Sau pe sub. Sau pe oriunde.
Cu ochiul liber observ atomi de indiferenta.
Se aseaza cuminti unul peste altul.
Se ascund in mine prin rani.
Si adorm. Adorm visand Praga.
Visand picturile din colturile carora un nume musca discret: Selenne.
Ma trezesc oftand.
In iad esti singur. La fel si in paradis. Si in purgatoriu.
Si pe pamant.
Umblu pe sub stalpi de inalta tensiune cu propria tensiune la pamant.
Un spectru de carne bantuind silozuri, hale.
Alte spectre de ciment si caramaida.
Mergand, aud soapte.
Imi e greu sa ma conving ca toti oamenii din mine sunt unul singur.
Antene Tv, incearca precum maini bolnave sa prinda cerul osos.
Le ignor de multe ori.
Le iau cu mine acasa si le contemplez acolo in liniste.
Uneori, pe pereti, din mila, universul imi scrie cate o poezie.
Ma incanta gestul copilaresc dar raman o molie neagra cautand un bec.
Precum combinatii de safe.
Imi pierd viata prin apartamente straine.
Ma trezesc si adorm.
In jurul meu obiecte ma trag de maneca.
Pe o masuta un pahar intreaba: "What are you thinking of?"
Nu stiu. Nimic important. Nimic.
Sunt trecut. Pe langa cladiri. Pe langa oameni.
Trecut de amintiri.
De episodul in care ingerez ceva si trec.
Mai departe. Mai aproape.
As vrea sa pot trece peste. Sau pe sub. Sau pe oriunde.
Cu ochiul liber observ atomi de indiferenta.
Se aseaza cuminti unul peste altul.
Se ascund in mine prin rani.
Si adorm. Adorm visand Praga.
Visand picturile din colturile carora un nume musca discret: Selenne.
Ma trezesc oftand.
In iad esti singur. La fel si in paradis. Si in purgatoriu.
Si pe pamant.
Umblu pe sub stalpi de inalta tensiune cu propria tensiune la pamant.
Un spectru de carne bantuind silozuri, hale.
Alte spectre de ciment si caramaida.
Mergand, aud soapte.
Imi e greu sa ma conving ca toti oamenii din mine sunt unul singur.
Antene Tv, incearca precum maini bolnave sa prinda cerul osos.
Le ignor de multe ori.
Le iau cu mine acasa si le contemplez acolo in liniste.
Uneori, pe pereti, din mila, universul imi scrie cate o poezie.
Ma incanta gestul copilaresc dar raman o molie neagra cautand un bec.
O Liniste Trecatoare
Imi amintesc cand ti-am vizitat casa.
In cuier erau sase perechi de aripi.
Pe masa din camera ta era vara,
departe,
de iarna scarbita de afara.
Mi-am facut o tigara,
si ne-am intins impreuna pe pat.
De la geam se auzea marea Bucurestiului,
si dupa ce fumul s-a catarat pe tavan,
eram amandoi leganati de un vas.
Dar razand, timpul trecea,
mancat de apropierea diminetii.
Iar expirand, confuzia,
m-a adus inapoi acasa
tinut in palmele cetii.
In cuier erau sase perechi de aripi.
Pe masa din camera ta era vara,
departe,
de iarna scarbita de afara.
Mi-am facut o tigara,
si ne-am intins impreuna pe pat.
De la geam se auzea marea Bucurestiului,
si dupa ce fumul s-a catarat pe tavan,
eram amandoi leganati de un vas.
Dar razand, timpul trecea,
mancat de apropierea diminetii.
Iar expirand, confuzia,
m-a adus inapoi acasa
tinut in palmele cetii.
A natural disaster
My myth is born of the sea.
The never ending water.
I flow with it.
In warmth, I climb to the sky.
When the cold comes, I plunge into the earth and sleep there.
For a while.
I do not seem like much.
But this body has sewn so much destruction and despair around the continent.
It is feared in some places. Adored in others.
Absent in most.
The never ending water.
I flow with it.
In warmth, I climb to the sky.
When the cold comes, I plunge into the earth and sleep there.
For a while.
I do not seem like much.
But this body has sewn so much destruction and despair around the continent.
It is feared in some places. Adored in others.
Absent in most.
The trick is to keep breathing
These are our last nights on Earth. They have been flowing into the unknown since we were born. Either down in a hole, ecstatic, or miserable in a sand castle of artificial joy, they travel liquidly, carrying our bodies into the ground. I don't plan on delivering a chunk of meat to the mighty Mother Earth. But a map of fascinating experiences.
So with a devil's haircut and enough ink pollution on my body my mind travels along with the hours. Desperately wanting, it gazes at the stars and bursts out into the world. Have no worries. If your blood is good, no rain can wash it. No greedy flies will touch it. You can be torn apart and rebuilt a million times. Deconstruction only serves to know what you are made of. And the more you know, the better you are. Don't be stingy with your liquor. Be careful that it waters your soul but don't let it drown it. Let it strip you of your armor, but don't let it leave you pathetic on the sidewalks of life.
Decembers will be more gentle upon you, I promise. Springs will no longer catch you in your house of flies. You will no longer want to save the best nights because you will know, blissfully that others, better, will follow.
My vow of loyalty goes to the unorthodox. To those captivated by the slow dripping of rain. To stupid girls and boys that drink milk. I will push and crash forever. Paranoid, I will gravitate to the strange and when I'll grow old and my clothes will look better than me, I will be at peace with this world that seems to be a bit too small for me right now.
I will miss a lot of mouths shut between cherry lips. I will miss being asked a thousand times: "why do you love me?". But there is no other way. I do not bleed like everybody else. I have no words to say where it hurts although the sighing stopped millennia ago.
If you need to know these things, we can share them. We can shelter them in cups of coffee that we'll buy with our golden silence. You will drive me home, in the most beautiful parade of defeat. Each knowing we are loved but incapable of loving back, untouchable behind our seat belts. Both, red roses that might never see spring.
But that is a story for another time. Right now, right between our eyes, shades should rest. Not bullets. On mine at least. I am a terrible person and each day I get to wear sunglasses and hide it, is victory to me. To be offered all the pleasures of the world and pay for them only with time is a little privilege of mine that I will never let go of. Know only this:
Temptation waits. But it does not wait forever. Sometimes you might resist it, by mistake, by following false advice or just by being plain foolish. It will be followed by unimaginable regret. The trick is to keep breathing.
So with a devil's haircut and enough ink pollution on my body my mind travels along with the hours. Desperately wanting, it gazes at the stars and bursts out into the world. Have no worries. If your blood is good, no rain can wash it. No greedy flies will touch it. You can be torn apart and rebuilt a million times. Deconstruction only serves to know what you are made of. And the more you know, the better you are. Don't be stingy with your liquor. Be careful that it waters your soul but don't let it drown it. Let it strip you of your armor, but don't let it leave you pathetic on the sidewalks of life.
Decembers will be more gentle upon you, I promise. Springs will no longer catch you in your house of flies. You will no longer want to save the best nights because you will know, blissfully that others, better, will follow.
My vow of loyalty goes to the unorthodox. To those captivated by the slow dripping of rain. To stupid girls and boys that drink milk. I will push and crash forever. Paranoid, I will gravitate to the strange and when I'll grow old and my clothes will look better than me, I will be at peace with this world that seems to be a bit too small for me right now.
I will miss a lot of mouths shut between cherry lips. I will miss being asked a thousand times: "why do you love me?". But there is no other way. I do not bleed like everybody else. I have no words to say where it hurts although the sighing stopped millennia ago.
If you need to know these things, we can share them. We can shelter them in cups of coffee that we'll buy with our golden silence. You will drive me home, in the most beautiful parade of defeat. Each knowing we are loved but incapable of loving back, untouchable behind our seat belts. Both, red roses that might never see spring.
But that is a story for another time. Right now, right between our eyes, shades should rest. Not bullets. On mine at least. I am a terrible person and each day I get to wear sunglasses and hide it, is victory to me. To be offered all the pleasures of the world and pay for them only with time is a little privilege of mine that I will never let go of. Know only this:
Temptation waits. But it does not wait forever. Sometimes you might resist it, by mistake, by following false advice or just by being plain foolish. It will be followed by unimaginable regret. The trick is to keep breathing.
Sentimental Violence
The fallen pieces of domino-past lives must be left behind.
You will learn about it in your own terms.
As for me,
my soul is southbound.
Each cell of this body, yearning for warmth and curved lips to the sun.
Directionless I drift towards the southern hemisphere.
My doubts only surface every now and then regarding the direction.
No more ratfinks, suicide cars and cannibal girls.
I am here. With another 2 million souls.
It's rather pointless to shout at the sky: is anybody here?
The Woman I'm looking for lives on the moon.
but I carry the burning eyes of stars.
There is nothing to be done except
to build a continent over the ocean between us.
No use crying rivers.
Every drop will only further the distance.
You will learn about it in your own terms.
As for me,
my soul is southbound.
Each cell of this body, yearning for warmth and curved lips to the sun.
Directionless I drift towards the southern hemisphere.
My doubts only surface every now and then regarding the direction.
No more ratfinks, suicide cars and cannibal girls.
I am here. With another 2 million souls.
It's rather pointless to shout at the sky: is anybody here?
The Woman I'm looking for lives on the moon.
but I carry the burning eyes of stars.
There is nothing to be done except
to build a continent over the ocean between us.
No use crying rivers.
Every drop will only further the distance.
Point drop.
Weeks flew by and I discovered that my hands would rather do anything else than write.
I found that despite the snow, the rain and the sea of unfamiliar faces, within me, a spring had turn my soul into an endless field of green.
I realize I carry paradise within me. The way my heart stops or races at the thought of those I care for. At the thought of how little I care about the rest. I found shelter within empty walls and painted them with the colour of my tranquil dreams. I kept the lies I brought with me from home, carefully packed in my bags. Gazing at the sky, I realized the sky will never be over. But over me. With gentle wings I flew beyond the silence and every "you" was crystalized into candy angels that I ate, as I roamed the City of Night. I no longer ask the moments to stop. Nor for the stars to point a way. Everything I have to say will be said in the most afectionnate closeness. Everything else will be noise.
I found that despite the snow, the rain and the sea of unfamiliar faces, within me, a spring had turn my soul into an endless field of green.
I realize I carry paradise within me. The way my heart stops or races at the thought of those I care for. At the thought of how little I care about the rest. I found shelter within empty walls and painted them with the colour of my tranquil dreams. I kept the lies I brought with me from home, carefully packed in my bags. Gazing at the sky, I realized the sky will never be over. But over me. With gentle wings I flew beyond the silence and every "you" was crystalized into candy angels that I ate, as I roamed the City of Night. I no longer ask the moments to stop. Nor for the stars to point a way. Everything I have to say will be said in the most afectionnate closeness. Everything else will be noise.
Tribulations
I
As years passed by
I found in me an endless patience for the mad children of the world.
I can sit and listen for days
to the ravings of a cocaine induced monologue.
I am glad to be around those
that bark wildly at the moon.
Those that toast champagne today
and tomorrow they're sharing beer with you,
from a plastic bottle on a sidewalk.
Those that, like me, have no home.
No real place in the world.
All of us dogs, chasing cars into the unknown.
II
I suppose we weave some sort of spell.
We throw our glamor of the damned into the world
and it makes others build prisons from their arms.
To trap us into growing roots.
I could never understand why one would want to be a tree
when feathers wait anxiously beneath the skin.
But I suppose that life outside my shoes
should be none of my concern.
So I walk around the continent and try
to plant more courage
into the hearts of those courageous enough to let me know a bit of who they are.
III
I live. I love. I leave.
I am no different than any other animal.
My affection is violent. Diabolical.
I take great pleasure in small and discreet signals
I receive from those few that still think of me.
IV
I always liked women.
As a child I treated them as equals.
I had a sense that we are all
shipwrecked in the cosmic ocean of time
Although I had no language to explain it.
As a teen,
they grew into planets, distancing themselves away from me.
while I remained, barren and hideous,
Watching. Sighing.
I did not hate them for that.
Even then, I understood the aesthetics of this world.
Now, while collapsing silently into adulthood,
I find myself admired and it feels
like water flowing backwards
into the sky.
Long years have gone by and I watched
disappointment curl into a fist that split my jaw
and let every word pour out.
V
I understand the irony now.
As years passed by
I found in me an endless patience for the mad children of the world.
I can sit and listen for days
to the ravings of a cocaine induced monologue.
I am glad to be around those
that bark wildly at the moon.
Those that toast champagne today
and tomorrow they're sharing beer with you,
from a plastic bottle on a sidewalk.
Those that, like me, have no home.
No real place in the world.
All of us dogs, chasing cars into the unknown.
II
I suppose we weave some sort of spell.
We throw our glamor of the damned into the world
and it makes others build prisons from their arms.
To trap us into growing roots.
I could never understand why one would want to be a tree
when feathers wait anxiously beneath the skin.
But I suppose that life outside my shoes
should be none of my concern.
So I walk around the continent and try
to plant more courage
into the hearts of those courageous enough to let me know a bit of who they are.
III
I live. I love. I leave.
I am no different than any other animal.
My affection is violent. Diabolical.
I take great pleasure in small and discreet signals
I receive from those few that still think of me.
IV
I always liked women.
As a child I treated them as equals.
I had a sense that we are all
shipwrecked in the cosmic ocean of time
Although I had no language to explain it.
As a teen,
they grew into planets, distancing themselves away from me.
while I remained, barren and hideous,
Watching. Sighing.
I did not hate them for that.
Even then, I understood the aesthetics of this world.
Now, while collapsing silently into adulthood,
I find myself admired and it feels
like water flowing backwards
into the sky.
Long years have gone by and I watched
disappointment curl into a fist that split my jaw
and let every word pour out.
V
I understand the irony now.
Saturday 21 February 2015
My mistakes were made for you
Each year in December I celebrate with a down tone abuse, The Great Fire. The day I turned myself to ashes. It was the day I angered my heart and brought down on me the hatred of all the gods I have in my head. They turned me into an animal. The gave me the hunger. For what I thought I had to let go of, the punishment was to carry it with me always.
And so, each week for two years now, I dreamed of prickled tattooed skin. Of lips like airports on which my kisses never land anymore. My entire world is on hold. The object of my religion is lost somewhere, on the bottom of the sea. In a town I still call home from time to time.
All this thinking has corroded me somehow. Transformed my emotional landscape into an industrial park where worry flows from factories of doubt.
I was cursed with the conviction that there is fun in fright. Beauty in terror. A sublime wonder in every attraction. Now that I look closer, the flowers watered by this belief always wither before their time.
Days are spent beautifully but in the company of blind horses and sinister birds. My body will migrate to Budapest, Berlin, Monaco, and eventually die in Montevideo. It peered from rooms at mountains dressed in snow. And from this body, this windowless room, my soul peered outside.
It often thinks that my mistakes were made for you. That you are the reason I still play with the last of the shadow puppets. It believes in secret messages that only you can get...and sincerely hopes you ignore them.
I have proved to be poison, time after time. And I am conscious of my nature although I completely despise it. I am the shadow of the devil on a seashore, but my coat hangers are filled with angel wings. I fear sometimes that I am nothing but form and no substance.
That my toxic dreams of us hanging out clothes to dry under a foreign vanilla sky are just sick fabrications of a man obsessed with torture. His own and of the things he loves.
I have hanged out on rooftops for centuries drinking from crystal glasses. I drank from plastic bottles on never ending empty sidewalks. I played with cats and they played with me.
I have seen the finale of a thousand lives. I have seen snow bury me and melt on me in cold showers. Yet you are my oldest memory.
I remembered you at 3 when I fell of a horse. At 13 when I slipped silently into a coma. At 3 a.m when my arm hurts. On the 31st at the funeral of each year.
I remembered you from uncountable time before I met you. You are my catastrophe. The voice that crumbles the buildings I plan in my head. The wind the pulled me from little Tuscany. The voice that made me abandon Rome, Lausanne, Marseille Moscow and probably will throw me out of Birmingham as well. The desperate hope that returns me to my home every once in a while.
To watch with blood shot eyes, the flags on our streets lying dead in the morning.
Yea, each time I'm home. I hope. Nothing more. Because I have rules by which I function. I know that I deserve what I have been given. The loss, the confusion, the tragedy. I earned each bit of it. This heart is on quarantine. I made it ill trying to forget everything. It will not function anymore. It will not let anyone else in.
Now, at 6 am in the morning, I effortlessly remember: my whole existence this past couple of years was but a resurrection call. But the dead should stay dead shouldn't they?
And so, each week for two years now, I dreamed of prickled tattooed skin. Of lips like airports on which my kisses never land anymore. My entire world is on hold. The object of my religion is lost somewhere, on the bottom of the sea. In a town I still call home from time to time.
All this thinking has corroded me somehow. Transformed my emotional landscape into an industrial park where worry flows from factories of doubt.
I was cursed with the conviction that there is fun in fright. Beauty in terror. A sublime wonder in every attraction. Now that I look closer, the flowers watered by this belief always wither before their time.
Days are spent beautifully but in the company of blind horses and sinister birds. My body will migrate to Budapest, Berlin, Monaco, and eventually die in Montevideo. It peered from rooms at mountains dressed in snow. And from this body, this windowless room, my soul peered outside.
It often thinks that my mistakes were made for you. That you are the reason I still play with the last of the shadow puppets. It believes in secret messages that only you can get...and sincerely hopes you ignore them.
I have proved to be poison, time after time. And I am conscious of my nature although I completely despise it. I am the shadow of the devil on a seashore, but my coat hangers are filled with angel wings. I fear sometimes that I am nothing but form and no substance.
That my toxic dreams of us hanging out clothes to dry under a foreign vanilla sky are just sick fabrications of a man obsessed with torture. His own and of the things he loves.
I have hanged out on rooftops for centuries drinking from crystal glasses. I drank from plastic bottles on never ending empty sidewalks. I played with cats and they played with me.
I have seen the finale of a thousand lives. I have seen snow bury me and melt on me in cold showers. Yet you are my oldest memory.
I remembered you at 3 when I fell of a horse. At 13 when I slipped silently into a coma. At 3 a.m when my arm hurts. On the 31st at the funeral of each year.
I remembered you from uncountable time before I met you. You are my catastrophe. The voice that crumbles the buildings I plan in my head. The wind the pulled me from little Tuscany. The voice that made me abandon Rome, Lausanne, Marseille Moscow and probably will throw me out of Birmingham as well. The desperate hope that returns me to my home every once in a while.
To watch with blood shot eyes, the flags on our streets lying dead in the morning.
Yea, each time I'm home. I hope. Nothing more. Because I have rules by which I function. I know that I deserve what I have been given. The loss, the confusion, the tragedy. I earned each bit of it. This heart is on quarantine. I made it ill trying to forget everything. It will not function anymore. It will not let anyone else in.
Now, at 6 am in the morning, I effortlessly remember: my whole existence this past couple of years was but a resurrection call. But the dead should stay dead shouldn't they?
Given to Fly.
Defeat is never easy. Especially if you survive it. If you're forced to get up and move on. And I moved alright. All of my life I have been moving.
Depression does not make me inert. It makes me light. And light things often have the tendency of being carried by the wind.
I woke up one morning with a stomach full of whiskey and a bag full of clothes. Beneath me, the ocean hit the rocks like fists to a jaw. I remembered all the times I thought I was going to die. All those days engulfed by nothingness. It all seems like a stupid joke that nobody even got to hear. And I'm glad.
I'm glad I left. I'm glad I was the cynic this time. That I shook my head in the face of alluring promises. Now, in my cola stained blue jeans I am slowly getting born into a new world. One in which I'm not racing for some obscure purpose. One in which people laugh and ask if I'm American. A new world. An electrical world where blue velvet skies are shouting proud thunders like national anthems.
in this paradise, I am sold to the radio waves. To the magic of perfectly orchestrated names. My ten pence dreams dismantle and disappear into thin air like cobwebs on fire. I am slowly forgetting the soft and sad dreams of summer. Of being in wrong places at the right time.
I left no more room to longing for the sea. Now I sit and watch the ocean and my mind flies across the Atlantic to a future. A good one. In warm weather and beautiful company. Where everything is new and strange in infinitely charming ways. And I will not be here forever either.
Depression does not make me inert. It makes me light. And light things often have the tendency of being carried by the wind.
I woke up one morning with a stomach full of whiskey and a bag full of clothes. Beneath me, the ocean hit the rocks like fists to a jaw. I remembered all the times I thought I was going to die. All those days engulfed by nothingness. It all seems like a stupid joke that nobody even got to hear. And I'm glad.
I'm glad I left. I'm glad I was the cynic this time. That I shook my head in the face of alluring promises. Now, in my cola stained blue jeans I am slowly getting born into a new world. One in which I'm not racing for some obscure purpose. One in which people laugh and ask if I'm American. A new world. An electrical world where blue velvet skies are shouting proud thunders like national anthems.
in this paradise, I am sold to the radio waves. To the magic of perfectly orchestrated names. My ten pence dreams dismantle and disappear into thin air like cobwebs on fire. I am slowly forgetting the soft and sad dreams of summer. Of being in wrong places at the right time.
I left no more room to longing for the sea. Now I sit and watch the ocean and my mind flies across the Atlantic to a future. A good one. In warm weather and beautiful company. Where everything is new and strange in infinitely charming ways. And I will not be here forever either.
A passing thought in a Lobby
Fitzgerald once said that you can never know exactly how much space you occupy in someones life. And he was right. You can only guess once in a while, but it's all just a stab in the dark.
At times, I feel discouraged by this neverending uncertainty. I want to believe that disorder is my lover but at times I grow so tired of it.
I'm 25. I am at the age where life should have unraveled its meaning already yet I wander around the continent, confused and misguided. An insect that lost its head and yet continues to live without any direction.
Sometimes, I get angry at myself for allowing disappointment to seep discreetly into my heart. I know that I am to blame for these emotional crashes. But it is so hard to come to terms with the world regarding the way you give your affection. I live the lives I read about in books. I move, I laugh, I breathe in deep and smile. At times I have no sense of what is real and what is not.
I sleep less and less because i want my eyes to encompass so much more than dreams. I want to devour all this passing beauty that surrounds me and I want it to nourish this soul that hungers desperately for shreds of love. I wonder sometimes if love truly can shine over affection. But who knows what love is anymore? After a thousand battles, one only sees death.
Here I am in the heart of England, my mind flying, on a plane to Berlin.
I have an apartment to shelter me from the violent summer sun. A house to warm me when the mountain breathes out the winter snow. But it/s nothing.
I am lost. I have been walking for years. Each time I stop I'm swallowed by nostalgia and regret. There must be a refuge somewhere. Somewhere warm and...I don't even know.
At times, I feel discouraged by this neverending uncertainty. I want to believe that disorder is my lover but at times I grow so tired of it.
I'm 25. I am at the age where life should have unraveled its meaning already yet I wander around the continent, confused and misguided. An insect that lost its head and yet continues to live without any direction.
Sometimes, I get angry at myself for allowing disappointment to seep discreetly into my heart. I know that I am to blame for these emotional crashes. But it is so hard to come to terms with the world regarding the way you give your affection. I live the lives I read about in books. I move, I laugh, I breathe in deep and smile. At times I have no sense of what is real and what is not.
I sleep less and less because i want my eyes to encompass so much more than dreams. I want to devour all this passing beauty that surrounds me and I want it to nourish this soul that hungers desperately for shreds of love. I wonder sometimes if love truly can shine over affection. But who knows what love is anymore? After a thousand battles, one only sees death.
Here I am in the heart of England, my mind flying, on a plane to Berlin.
I have an apartment to shelter me from the violent summer sun. A house to warm me when the mountain breathes out the winter snow. But it/s nothing.
I am lost. I have been walking for years. Each time I stop I'm swallowed by nostalgia and regret. There must be a refuge somewhere. Somewhere warm and...I don't even know.
Vineri. 13
Intr-o dupa-amiaza m-am trezit, cu ochii inrositi de oboseala, si m-am holbat prelung in oglinda.
Nici un fir alb de par, nici o urma pronuntata de riduri. Dar sunt batran. Consumat de vise excesive care se detoneaza de peretii realitatii precum masini sinucigase.
In prezenta luminii plictisite, mi-am inchis nasturii rabdator. Mi-am citit cartile, vazut filmele si scris randurile. Am baut cafeaua si berea neagra si aruncat o prelata rosie peste tot ce am sub coaste ca totul sa fie macar in aparenta viu. In fiecare zi in alt loc. In fiecare loc, golit de oameni. Golit de vreun ideal bine definit. Ascultand Cave, Cohen, Dylan sau Waits. De fapt ii aud doar.
Intr-un final nu are importanta unde esti atat timp cat esti relativ sanatos si relativ liber. Viata functioneaza dupa aceleasi reguli oriunde ai fi. Cunosti, te incanta, uiti. Totul in cea mai eficienta orchestratie a unei cauzalitati efemere. Existi in fractiuni neglijabile de prezent. In conversatii, in saruturi, in oftat. Cand buzele se racesc si bagajele sunt facute, ai murit. Cand te muti sau pleci undeva, mori intr-un loc pentru a te naste in altul. Depresia, dezgustul, dezamagirea. Toti le gustam in nuante atat de diferite. Pe unii ii anesteziaza. Ii lasa inerti un timp. Pe altii ii arunca aleatoriu catre necunoscut.
Sunt zile in care beau sticle intregi fara a sarbatori ceva. Altele in care un pahar de vin inchide un intreg capitol de viata.
In cele din urma, te saturi sa fii o litera intr-o lume de cifre. Sa cauti Muzica pierduta in mari de zgomot. Obisnuiam sa ascult la nesfarsit zgomotul desi nu il intelegeam. Acum. e doar o tragedie fara sens. O filosofie a infinitului pentru oameni fara ocupatie.
Vad, fara indoiala, ca lumea continua sa existe cu sau fara aprobarea pulsului meu. Iar dragostea in sensul ei obscur continua sa traiasca in alte case, unde probabil e mai multa caldura si mai putina cerneala varsata, unde e mai multa mancare si mai putine tigari. Mai multa liniste si mai putina muzica.
Dar nu e chiar asa de rau. Mai am cativa ani pusi deoparte in care pot trai complet strain de disperare.
Nici un fir alb de par, nici o urma pronuntata de riduri. Dar sunt batran. Consumat de vise excesive care se detoneaza de peretii realitatii precum masini sinucigase.
In prezenta luminii plictisite, mi-am inchis nasturii rabdator. Mi-am citit cartile, vazut filmele si scris randurile. Am baut cafeaua si berea neagra si aruncat o prelata rosie peste tot ce am sub coaste ca totul sa fie macar in aparenta viu. In fiecare zi in alt loc. In fiecare loc, golit de oameni. Golit de vreun ideal bine definit. Ascultand Cave, Cohen, Dylan sau Waits. De fapt ii aud doar.
Intr-un final nu are importanta unde esti atat timp cat esti relativ sanatos si relativ liber. Viata functioneaza dupa aceleasi reguli oriunde ai fi. Cunosti, te incanta, uiti. Totul in cea mai eficienta orchestratie a unei cauzalitati efemere. Existi in fractiuni neglijabile de prezent. In conversatii, in saruturi, in oftat. Cand buzele se racesc si bagajele sunt facute, ai murit. Cand te muti sau pleci undeva, mori intr-un loc pentru a te naste in altul. Depresia, dezgustul, dezamagirea. Toti le gustam in nuante atat de diferite. Pe unii ii anesteziaza. Ii lasa inerti un timp. Pe altii ii arunca aleatoriu catre necunoscut.
Sunt zile in care beau sticle intregi fara a sarbatori ceva. Altele in care un pahar de vin inchide un intreg capitol de viata.
In cele din urma, te saturi sa fii o litera intr-o lume de cifre. Sa cauti Muzica pierduta in mari de zgomot. Obisnuiam sa ascult la nesfarsit zgomotul desi nu il intelegeam. Acum. e doar o tragedie fara sens. O filosofie a infinitului pentru oameni fara ocupatie.
Vad, fara indoiala, ca lumea continua sa existe cu sau fara aprobarea pulsului meu. Iar dragostea in sensul ei obscur continua sa traiasca in alte case, unde probabil e mai multa caldura si mai putina cerneala varsata, unde e mai multa mancare si mai putine tigari. Mai multa liniste si mai putina muzica.
Dar nu e chiar asa de rau. Mai am cativa ani pusi deoparte in care pot trai complet strain de disperare.
Untitled
From my window
I follow the planes
in and out of the Birmingham airport.
I wonder
where are all those people heading to.
Beer buzzed.
Hours before going to work.
I blame it on nothing.
Nothing is guilty of anything.
Rather...
I try to stand for a bit
but my battered feet are stinging.
I should move.
I should be moved.
I put on my angel uniform
and I go to work.
Tranquil and sighing,
I find myself to be a symetry
of questions without answers
and answers not asked for.
The radio mumbles something about 50 shades.
This body mimics some excitement.
Its mind, void of it.
Completely void.
I follow the planes
in and out of the Birmingham airport.
I wonder
where are all those people heading to.
Beer buzzed.
Hours before going to work.
I blame it on nothing.
Nothing is guilty of anything.
Rather...
I try to stand for a bit
but my battered feet are stinging.
I should move.
I should be moved.
I put on my angel uniform
and I go to work.
Tranquil and sighing,
I find myself to be a symetry
of questions without answers
and answers not asked for.
The radio mumbles something about 50 shades.
This body mimics some excitement.
Its mind, void of it.
Completely void.
Friday 2 January 2015
Micul Istanbul
I love this small and naive city. With its humble buildings lulled to sleep each night by the constant whisper of the sea.
Its boats rock back and forth, all trapped in a nostalgic memory of summer. The mosques point spears against the stomach of the sky. The churches winking their metal roofs to the sun. Even in winter.
I love its streets and the way they wash themselves of people during rainy days. The coffee shops that smell of affection to the wandering soul. The music stumbling drunk from bars to be carried home by passing thoughts.
I love the way it crushes the egos of those that ask too much from it and the way it smiles to those few that offer it their enthusiasm.
Its boats rock back and forth, all trapped in a nostalgic memory of summer. The mosques point spears against the stomach of the sky. The churches winking their metal roofs to the sun. Even in winter.
I love its streets and the way they wash themselves of people during rainy days. The coffee shops that smell of affection to the wandering soul. The music stumbling drunk from bars to be carried home by passing thoughts.
I love the way it crushes the egos of those that ask too much from it and the way it smiles to those few that offer it their enthusiasm.
It has a romantic flair to it. It smells of defeated idealism because
you see, This place is built on the uncountable dreams and fantasies of
strangers, that time patiently withers into oblivion.
Here, I have split my heart open with the blunt edge of a thousand heartaches and I will rather see it ripped to shreds before I have it completely sealed. Despite the way my affection always heads for closed doors.
In this small village of souls, mine bumps into casual lies that make all truths questionable. The confusion we create for one another has left a curved line on my mouth. A smile to remind me in the mirror of how strangely we decorate pain.
Perhaps the saddest aspect is the way women peer within them sometimes, with coroner eyes, looking for a reason to their lack of affection. Not all the time, just when all the eyes of the world seem to be averted. I read the worry. I felt the discouragement. I felt guilty.
I wanted to hold them. I wanted them to follow me in savage journeys around the continent. To show them that there are roses and wine out there, not just pizza and beer. I supposed I wanted them to look at me, carefully. To understand this uncontrollable chaos I free in the evening when I take off my tie and put on my leather jacket. In the long run, I never dreamed of fixing women, I just hoped that they might fix me.
These women are no doubt the expression of our city. The broken beauty of something mistreated by experience and harassed by its memory. And yet, it endures. Because the city turns into a whole world when you're in love with one of its inhabitants.
Here, I have split my heart open with the blunt edge of a thousand heartaches and I will rather see it ripped to shreds before I have it completely sealed. Despite the way my affection always heads for closed doors.
In this small village of souls, mine bumps into casual lies that make all truths questionable. The confusion we create for one another has left a curved line on my mouth. A smile to remind me in the mirror of how strangely we decorate pain.
Perhaps the saddest aspect is the way women peer within them sometimes, with coroner eyes, looking for a reason to their lack of affection. Not all the time, just when all the eyes of the world seem to be averted. I read the worry. I felt the discouragement. I felt guilty.
I wanted to hold them. I wanted them to follow me in savage journeys around the continent. To show them that there are roses and wine out there, not just pizza and beer. I supposed I wanted them to look at me, carefully. To understand this uncontrollable chaos I free in the evening when I take off my tie and put on my leather jacket. In the long run, I never dreamed of fixing women, I just hoped that they might fix me.
These women are no doubt the expression of our city. The broken beauty of something mistreated by experience and harassed by its memory. And yet, it endures. Because the city turns into a whole world when you're in love with one of its inhabitants.
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