"...it is such a peculiar thing how your actions speak in different manners to different people. How your very own way of being becomes somewhat like a business card that random individuals pick up and then discuss it without reading. I remember this guy S, let's call him that. He told me once : "Boy you must really hate us people, going to clubs, drinking and paying a shitload of money for basicly nothing." I arched my brow and asked why would I do that? So he went on: "Well you, going on your little trips and writting your poetry and being deep and everything; you must think the rest of the world is a damp place filled to exhaustion with shallowness." I laughed. I really did, yet I felt like I owed the man an aswer: "Truth be told, the thought did cross my mind. But I did realise that all of that is none of my concern. What you choose to do with your life affects you and you only. I could tell you that your music is shit, that the people you meet are idiots or the life you live is meaningless. That everyone you know thinks you're either fat, or stupid, or horribly disfigured and laugh at that plentifuly. I could tell you that you are not loved but tolerated for your financial potential. And you could say that I'm a faggot for writting poetry or say that I'll end up in some parking lot in a god forsaken country, begging for change. You could say that I lack depth and all my motives are actually rooted in my unability to coexist with others. And the list goes on. But how would we know all that? By looking over some pictures? By listening to some empty shell of a man talking about us behind our backs? We couldn't possibly know. For all I know you might be living a life of sweet delight. Maybe you wake up everyday with a smile on your face, being thankful for being blessed with the marvelous souls around you to share this short but glorious trip through life. Maybe your heart races to a different beat. To different music. Maybe your people do admire you and your life is filled with purpose. Or maybe not. But really now, how would I know? And would you listen to me? Would you take my word if I talked about YOUR life in any way? Of course not. I wouldn't take your word for it either. To be honest I couldn't care less about what you do and how you spend whatever resources you've got. If it keeps you alive in this world by all means do it. I don't claim to know some sort of universal truth that you've been severed from. I don't think you are blind nor deaf nor stupid for living the way you do. I believe that you are enslaved by something only if you believe it to be so. If you need God, or heroin, or any other savior, do go ahead and bring homage to any of them. We all have some sort of choices to make. Just don't act like yours are better than mine. That's just being a condescending piece of shit." - The Book I Never Wrote by Marius Cristian

Simplitate

Simpla nu e ploaia
Ce curge doar de sus in jos.
Simpla nu e nici marea
Ramasa mereu in acelasi loc.

nici pasari ce spinteca cerul
Nici pesti ce aluneca in ape.
Nici barcile de lemn
ce fura suflete din ale noastre brate.

Simplii nu-s ochii mei
Cautand grabiti, privirea ta.
nici urechile nu-s simple
incordate langa soapta ta.

O inima, si poate gresesc,
Dar nu prea e simpla nici ea
Cand refuza sa bata
In ritmul celui care o purta.

Si pielea zice ca nu-i simpla
Incalzindu-se-n atingerea ta
Si milenii de povesti binare
nu cred ca s-ar insela.

Mainile si ele se ascund
Sub creion, culori sau clape.
Sa-ti creeze un monument
Lipsit desvarsit, de simplitate.

Sincer, nu vad nimic
Niciodata, nicaieri
Sa pot spune ca e simplu
si lipsit de interes.

Habits

I used to feel
But now I think.
It made some sense,
and made it quick.


I used to think
But now I dream
It made me numb
It kept me clean.

I used to dream,
but now I drink.
it made me calm.
It made me sick.

I used to drink
and hoped I live
It made me love
enough to breathe.

I used to hope
But now I don't.
Now I just wander
Through my thoughts.

The man on the last floor

I opened the door. The door to the my apartment. The last apartment of the building. Steps echo through the large corridors. That and music. An orchestra greets the solitude. I left the music playing before I left. It's always the same song. Samuel Barber's Adaggio for strings. I live alone here in the heart of Florence. Three large rooms compose the labyrinth in which I'm never lost. I light up a cigarette and open the window. The sun is shining timidly and the streets are still paved with the rain that fell this morning. On my desk, a half empty glass of water with lips printed on the sides. As i look at it, it feels that it turned away. On a bed left undone, laying open upside down is the Sacred and the Profane. Lines and paper to fill the void. Unsuccessfull. A scribbled notebook waits patiently on one of the wooden chairs. That and pens on the floor sticking out like daggers. A withered small branch from some unknown tree still leaves a pleasant smell in the room though It lies crucified in a plastic cup filled half way with water. A smile cracks in the corner of my mouth as I think that there's nobody to see the mess. Nobody on some faraway shore to wonder what has become of me. nobody on top of a mountain to take a picture with me in mind. Nobody to ask, nobody to answer. As I lead this darkened procession to the bathroom and completely undress, a large mirror projects the image of a gargoyle. I touch the mirror and and it is as cold as my fingers. My skin, appears in tones of blue in dim light. I remembered for a second the days when I got here. A weak and shaky body that could still mimic a smile. Now, the body is firm, the jaw clenched and the eyes motionless. A demon of marble staring at itself. As i follow the lining, tattoos seem to fade and hide underneath the skin. I want to cry but this blue tinted carapace would not let a tear go. i remain lost in this thoughtful reverie for a couple minutes when a strange beat of drums suddenly invades the whole house and a voice bursts like a siren song straight into the brain. Suddenly I felt nothing. I treaded softly towards the room that sprung this symphony of calm. The voice beckoned.
Holy water cannot help you now. A thousand armies couldn't keep me out.I closed my eyes and felt my right fist clench, as my smile once again seethed with purpose...

Am stat la feareastra
ultimului etaj.
Privind cum scrum ploua
linistit, din palma mea.

Privind cum scutere
vin si pleaca.
Pierduti grabit prin beton
hibrizi de metal si om.

Cum nori trec
peste noi.
Rusinati de ce-am ajuns,
o rasa magnetica de nepatruns.

Ambulante bazaie zgomotos
muscand asfalt.
Crezand ca poate ajuta
suflete ce isi doresc doar somn...

Din camere vizibil reci
ca primavara goala.
Se imprastie aburi de mancare
ce nu hranesc fiinta goala.

Un tremur greu se strecoara
prin moile oase.
Si vantul care mangaia
acum taie calm in carne.

Am privit si iedera cum
rabdator se catara.
Pictand un stomac de lume decazuta
sub stropi de ploaie nehotarata.

As fi plans sa contribui stiind
ca apa sarata este sfanta.
Dar am o tumore de marimea egoului
ce orice regret usuca.

Nu mai am nici tigari s-ascuta
sabia mea franta.
Si orice pahar e o grenada
in stomacul meu de ceara.

Asa ca aplec capul peste
lume cufundata in vise
Sa uit de sufletul difrom
incet adorm...

Viata ca un hobby

Viata e o lupta cu o prastie un fata unui tanc. O biografie pe care nu o citeste nimeni dar toti pretind ca o cunosc. Vei innota impotriva curentului spre o insula insorita dar vei fi purtat de valuri  inapoi la mal cand corpul iti va amorti din cauza efortului. Un joc de sah unde vei pierde toate piesele, pana si regina. O piesa fara ritm pe care vei dansa sub stele. Un parfum intepator care iti va umple pieptul. O poezie divina din care nu vei intelege mare lucru si totusi ti se va imprima pe inima. Un tablou pictat intr-o culoare, culoarea ta. Va fi cea mai mare opera de arta a existentei tale si se va pierde rapid in uitare. Contributia ta la oceanul interminabil al timpului. Un dans nostalgic dar totusi plin de speranta. O enumerare de evenimente fara a duce la ceva mai mare. Va fi perechi de incaltari rupte prin gunoaie sau un trotuar de marmura. Va fi un munte in varful caruia nu e nimic. O floare fara petale ce va smulge unora zambete si lacrimi iar pe langa care altii vor trece indiferenti. Va fi o scara dintr-o groapa catre ceruri si inapoi. Va fi electricitate ce va lumina cateva secunde inainte de a se pierde pentru totdeauna. O privire calda printre blocuri de gheata. Ultimul pahar din care vei sorbi cu paiul sperand sa tina cat mai mult. O tigara din care fie tragi cu sete fie te uiti la ea cum se consuma. Va fi creatie, dragoste si zambete. Va fi distrugere, ura si regret. Va fi nastere si moarte. Si cu toate astea, fara doar si poate va fi cel mai bun lucru pe care il vei avea vreodata.

Legat in bratari de piele
Pentru ca a mea
Nu-i suficienta.

Hranesc asfaltul mocnit
Al oraselor ce-au promis
Un leac pentru decenta.

Dar cerneala mata in tesuturi
Nu-mi lasa corpul sa invie
Si ma trezesc uscat si maleabil
Precum o foaie de hartie.

Vezi, nu din vorbe, ci suflare
Canta un Orfeu schilodit
Ce se topeste in mare.

Lipsit desavarsit de rabdare
Cu care pasari zboara
Doar cu gandul anemic de plecare.

...