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.

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...

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

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

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

Un orchestre d'oiseaux, every so often breaks
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

Girls who travel the metro
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

The rhythm of life
The constant arguments between lovers
He wants to listen to the news
She wants to listen to the music

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.

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.

Exile

Since I huddled in exile
my women are made of gin,
running on rum.
And they run fast.
Far
Forever.