Simetria lui „if”

(if I’m not gonna say this I’d just as well catch on a blue fire and burn up my spine until a total consumption would quiet down forever the hidden me)
minte-mi cuvantul care-mi va lichefia lacrima in acest ascunzis
aluneca-ma prin sensurile orologiului tau
te rog
fii-mi sunetul pe lira, motivatia lui
gatul glasului prin care ma scurg catre…
(if someone was to ever tell me that the room I used to play in with Alice and Isabel, when I was a little kid, would end up being the room I made love to you as an old one, I would have said, god, you’re deranged – yet, this is such a small, circular world!)
gandeste-ma la marginea ei risipita pe gandul tau
pierde-ma doar ca sa ma gasesti din nou unde nu am fost niciodata
te rog
creste-mi alte aripi, direct prin suflet
poarta mea ideala catre…
(if you were to bend your head so the image of me gets to you slanted, would you perceive me as being aside from this world, broken by the median of all reasons?)
iubeste-mi doar pulsul de pe incheitura acestor motive
respira-ma cand aerul se sparge la colturi
te rog
fura-ma propriei mele fiinite, uitate
in drumuri impiedicate catre…
(if I was to tell you the truth, you’d break down into an infinite number of possibilities, out of which none would fit the notion of me divided by your desires)
bea-ma din fiecare cupa inchinata in cinstea dorintelor implicate
promite-ma doar altor lumi in care nu incap din acelasi motiv
te rog
crede-mi sangele care curge la deal, mecanic
in drumul catre…
inima ta


food for thought

They say “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. Or that “it’s all for the best”. Hmmm? Is it really so? Who comes up with these sayings, anyway? Who wants to make “us” feel better about our failures, about the general misery that we swarm in, day in and day out? Are these people really generous when they come up with these little pieces of wisdom? Are they trying to fool us? Have they nothing better to do? Are we supposed to embrace all these phrases and live by them, blindly, for they’ll make everything seem less dramatic? And what’s wrong with drama, anyway? Life is what it is, and that’s that. There is no need for sweeteners – they won’t work, unless you float in a dream-like oblivion. All we need is a little bit of grace, I think. And that usually comes from within us.

Personally, I don’t believe that if you’ve survived something that could have killed you it means that you have become stronger. For the life of me I can’t swallow that. No matter how much I would be willing to try. There is no such thing as becoming stronger after you’ve been so messed up that you could have died. Both the body and the mind can, to some extent, heal themselves, but there’s always a scar tissue involved. And a scared tissue loses its elasticity, permeability, sensitivity and all that… jazz. It doesn’t function properly anymore. We do not become stronger, people. We become NUMB! It’s a different story, altogether.

Somnambulism senzorial / Sensorial sleepwalking

Noptile nu au miros
Au gust
De eucalipt de santal de India la vremea musonului
Il mestec pe aceiasi dinti
Istoviti in atatea articulari de cuvinte
Rostogolite de-a valma
Cu sau fara sens
In alte nopti.

Noaptea imi aud pielea imbatranind
Gandurile jucand baba oarba
Viata cu incetinitorul
Vad lumea mai bine noaptea
Fara culori este cu mult mai liniste
Pe retina
Si-n spatele ei.

Noaptea nu ating asteptari
Nu socotesc trecerea
Decat prin caderea in vis
Din care nu ma frang
Pentru ca nu ating niciodata pamantul
Ma trezesc mereu pentru ultima gura de aer
Chiar inainte.

Noptile imi frunzaresc zilele
Aleg cu ochii inchisi
Pun degetul la intamplare
Pagina asta
Am scrisul urat
Nu inteleg ce-am scris
Probabil ceva despre nopti.


Nights aren’t scented
They taste
Of eucalyptus of santal wood of India around the monsoon
I chew it on the same teeth
Exhausted by so many pronunciations of words
Rolled out all mixed up
With or without any sense
On other nights.

At night I hear my skin aging
My thoughts playing Marco-Polo
Life in slow motion
I can see the world better at night
Without colors there is much more silence
On the retina
And behind it.

At night I don’t reach expectations
I don’t keep track of the passing
Other than by dream falling
Which doesn’t break me
For I don’t ever touch the ground
I always wake up for one last breath
Right before it.

At night I fumble through my days
I pick with my eyes closed
I lay my finger by chance
This page
On top
My handwriting is ugly
I can’t understand what I have written
Most likely something about nights.

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