Ploaia însăți

 

(Foto: Eric Lacombe) 

a încetat

ploaia însăți

un colț de acoperiș

mai fumegă

ca o îngenunchere

sleită de mușchi

plecați dupa foste ape

și ții un roi de înaripate

scurte într-o bucată de vară

nu știi

înfigi

îți tragi mâna

ce ocolește ca o întrebare

răspunsul

altor lumi scârțâie

pe urmele tale

de-a lungul unei

poteci boreale

ce stă răsucită

oglindită în spatele tău

privești ca un ghem

cu sfiala unui donjon

ce se rostogolește

drept prin secole.

 

Open the tombs of November

                                                           (Foto: Natalia Drepina)




You blink gray
to fade
nourisher
holder of spears and honey
you jingle
no borders in a row

I see waves
greater than my childhood
what is weaving
in velvet fluttering loss
I feel it here under
uncover
your glowing limb now
wich was made in times unknown
to fold the chapters
we learned too well

You say
open the tombs of November
we are all teachers
when the sun sets
there are shouts so mute
in there
and my throat is bound
to unearthly words

Your eyes are writing
the last moisture
the fame
for the dessert that will follow
the crescent slain on dunes

You say
open the tombs of November
I wear one of the rings of Saturn
and a very long engagement
is waiting for me
in there
where enough is out of filling
and tasks are empty gallows
my ears are scratched
in my ribs
cathedral buttresses
will welcome echoes

air be quite.

Să-mi smulgi calea

                                                                       (Foto: Bartek)

dacă am să uit

să mă ridic

ca un fulg de ancoră

din sarea mea nespusă

să-mi smulgi calea

s-o uşti cu braţele ei deschise

şi cum împart totul cu uitarea

îmi va îndrepta plecăciunile

şi-mi va soarbe până şi

prezicerea

şi atunci nu voi mai şti...

dar să-mi smulgi calea

s-o uşti cu braţele ei deschise

voi şti doar să îmbrac arătări

ce cuvântă la fel ca mine

dar numai dacă suflul lor

va umple zâmbetul întors

al amintirii de mine

atunci

să-mi smulgi calea

şi verile

să le agăţi

de capătul lor ofilit

într-un cotlon de ploi

căci unde-i veşted

eu ştiu că şade începutul.

Sweet amok of blue

                                                                   (Foto: JackRaz)

I dreamed that I couldn’t olden

a view

and I couldn’t propose a body for

two hearts

Then I looked down the valley

of the keen passages

a seduction pregnant with

skirmishes and

a blessing with a wooden leg

were walking there

it felt like I had lungs

to only breathe within that world

and I suddenly plugged

all the cracks on my body

from which the memory of you

flowed in the form

of small ribs

I watered my cravings until floods

kissed every mistaken volume

shivering questions in lazy mouths

a thorny ether selling sympathy

to a scratched passing

just like a nun in her abandonship

with the cross

just like ashes from my past

blinking in the eyes of playful children

on a sunny day

a promise that will rot like a flower

preserved for its dried beauty

in books unwritten

I think I followed a dirge

a rebellion-like silence

or it was a hermit

revived from a loneliness

that I drove away

We entered a garden

full of arrows

relics from left handed

cupids

and he said nothing is fated

but everything’s an epoch

on the side of a dice

Then I looked up

it was somehow blue

sweet amok of blue.

Beyondness as a whore

                                                                        (Foto: HellYesArt)



it was on a cold August morning
When I was returning from Bucharest
to my hometown
and after arrival
at 7 AM
I spent a little time in the train station
I smoked a cigar and drank a cup of coffee
walking around and puffing
through misgrown flesh-like advents
destiny stalkers
hearses having pale on pale disscusions
fingers hollowing a beautiful child
stifled, chewed into oblivion
one of them smiled
and said
give me so I can be

I was puffing and mumbling
and watching
then it was certain
that we were all in a cell
where others devoured a heaven sent protein
amongst mills where the brightest ones
were grinding up their ardors
for the good of filth

I heard nothing but
silence like drops of rain
on the roofs of their inner wars
and the need of liberation
was crawling at the bottom
it was beyondness as a whore
sipping from the eves.

Unsafe cutting of symbols

                                                                (Foto: Daniel Hillier)



she's this tipsy
skin on the wet
morning's soil

and I'm staggering
and watching
for there in the distance
I walk through a qliphoth
stuffed with sunflowers
holding a smoldering
trumpet
it should be the only
tune for
when we can't...

and at the end of the field
I sense rooted in the mark
of the sheep
I howl that way
I howl this way
and here I am

staggering
and watching
this tipsy
skin on the wet
morning's soil


we're just so much flesh
the rest is
growing
knowing
together
devouring backward

believe me
she tickles the earth
underground
with those sloppy, little
roots

go away now
I'll wait here
I have a rosary
with three knots
remember, remember, remember

these are the only
bullets against my gun