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.

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.

!

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.

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.

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. 

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."

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.