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 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.

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.

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.

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.