Eram in firida unui conac foarte vechi, de pe ai carui pereti incepea sa se decojeasca tapetul cu maci ingalbenit. Prin crapaturile din podea intra marea. Langa noi era un cufar cu bijuterii. Inauntru, un colier ruginit, iar prin gaurile unde se dezlipisera rubinele ieseau fluturi albi. Nu existau geamuri, ci porte-fenetres cu motive si forme care ne evocau vitralii si care se conjugau intr-un film alb-negru mut. Purtam fiecare joben. Ti-am dat o piatra din Muntii Lunii. Mi-ai dat un timbru pe care-l furasei dintr-o trezorerie de renume. Ne uitam la filmul mut si mancam licurici. Apoi ti-ai coborat capul pe genunchii mei, iar eu m-am aplecat spre tine si te-am sarutat in timp ce imi plimbam mana usor sub camasa ta. Din tavan a picat brusc o papusa de portelan din Bruges careia ii lipsea capul. Era un miros de scoici si mucegai.
Gentle thumbs, feminine thumbs Fondle my forehead like autumn chill Imogene, so fair and dumb, She grasps my thoughts until they're shrunk And sweeps the branches of my headache Under her palm. She makes it easy for my train to slide Beyond my eyes, inside large Technicolor boxes Piled up on villages of coal mines, Population linen and chants, And spinster daughters of cinder. White is her element Her silence focused and concerned She knows her lullaby is here just for the summer Then I will have to shoot my thoughts alone Just like I did in century nineteen, On my beige horse, When people were dressed in chiffon, Their bouquets gathering four fingers each, Gold filaments kindly inviting me to tea, Kindly inviting me to stay inside a nutshell, Where cuckoos dare, And there is no one else to hate.
Long-haired girls dressed up as Pisces Buoyant maidens stagger seas far from their native shores Black, raven, and blonde, The mystic seams of laughter Virginal landers on so cold a platform Become filtered by Scotland, where red is the rule Black, raven, and blonde are sent to brothels "Exotic misconduct", the euphemism of their rebuttal As well as their appeal Fiona, Fiona, the undressed dame running on snow From graveyard to kindergarten And vice versa, just for the chills of winter touch Driven insane as tribute to the artistry of contrasts Ocular gray and fire, the substance of her madness... Fiona, I am the raven girl, let that be A complement to white instead of crimson Allow me to be my hair, and not my gender I never chose to begin inside this absence Honing its own survival, My addiction to not being seen Do not deliver me to all those armies grinning downstairs To conquerors denying their sores the proper medication Alexander and Charlemagne, the Prince of Aragon, Wearing trim continental hats, While the piano is played by a topless Creole She looks tired, though not particularly hurt Did she fight being chosen? Will I fight wanting it? I am afraid to land on no apologies required I am afraid of Scotland, it's so wild.
Words jostle in my mouth Trying not to be enemies But then I see you, and they hide Confined to the rigors of bashful solely And I become plain crumbs of me, Some odd Egyptian crypt delivering a beam Before your look away shrouds it in beige tarpaulin Words stray from me as you forget to nod at them And build up silly instead, Or my tragic feeling of it. The hungry motion of your eyes Disjoints my self-awareness, And throws me inside tiring interludes, Where all I'm given is a comb. My chatter thieves both of my hands – Left mocks me with incorrigible farewell Whereas the right pushes me in your greeting. My final voice slides through your cleanly ears To thoughts opposite to me, To memoirs devoid of Chekhov… But for some reason, I never stop putting on rags, I never stop to learn the graciousness of quiet, Of muslin walks through my inlying Yorkshire… I comb myself to death instead.
se facea noapte si trimbulind strangea in palma niste hartie hartia era pulpa unei frustrari de a nu se afla inauntrul unei enigme cu silabe ciudate eu zic cuvantul tau, tu zici cuvantul meu, este 6 martie azi, cuvantul meu inexistent, apas pe taste si ma mir de mana care scrie. un cuvant obosit de iubire o atingere intre tacerile noastre ale tuturor o atingere cu care se termina marea. ne stingem pe sarite si privim aiurea ca niste boi prosti asteptam rezultatul testului: oare existam aici? aici – locul unde existam calificat si unde nu suntem deloc.
scris de către: skinimin, buggerit, trimbulind si yours, truly
A stream runs through me with my birthday present: An old decrepit stage It cracks each time my thumbs caress the footprints on its surface The holes through which I eavesdrop in the damp wood Mimic the outlines of my curious ear, drawing a seashell To my childish delight, their prosthetic Abracadabra; I capture music that has never been recorded Tinkles forever in rehearsal, Unable to eschew ingenuity However under pretense of perfectionism. And so I see The Follies crazed and vivid in the backstage Waiting for a command to pop out Hoping to turn a foot stretch in a proud step, And then another But then remembering they're not allowed Remembering they have not yet to master tiptoes; It's quite a life form what they share in the unseen Parallel to the red curtain – The laughter and the small talk; They blush while gazing at the oval they so wish to dance on In order to be baptized – Identity papers only lie in beauty; The limelight is a hoarse seduction Prepared to ossify their chuckle in a diagnosis Of lunacy and nearing death A black voice gently orders them to step ahead and learn A lesson in grace and suicide: Chin up, shoulders pulled back adroitly Precision in the spreading thighs Toes skimming wood while jolting All replicas of jolly living And so they find they cannot match the blubbers of their nameless frenzy With symmetries ending in a rhyme, A vertical demeanor back and forth No thumb's allowed to wave or scratch their heads outside the repertoire No arm can curve while halted by a sudden thought Just mournful lines in compass motion, they render Flawless calligraphy in thinking Their soul assassinated for a baptism.
They conjure red ink to usurp my stream
Proud to be worth every carnation they are darting
On the dance table where I'm auditioning now.
Photo & Source: "Woman in a Corset" by Henri Toulouse Lautrec –www.artunframed.com
The laddish gait the cigarette flaunted in the beginning Dissolves in silence, Imminent orange reduces it to bleach deformity And then to sticky powders of grey, Turning the O-shaped wonder of ashtray in a sense of eerie. I'm lying scattered on the couch beside it The phone cord captures the uneven motions of my thumbs Converting them in Doric demands; And so I have to teach myself the hide and seek The sole back door for blood flow Throughout this treaty for grandeur. My walls are gnawed by rabid colors, Bare diaphragm for Bedouin legends Of eyeballs sneaking Battles ending in suicides flaring upon them Just as the sun is turned off by my aptitude for fearing... I don't quite know where this sequence began All I can see is my afflicted body Dying for some translation of its nightmares; And then A foreign voice slips mildly in my head Sheer clairvoyance, rooted beneath relentless centuries of granite In eyebrows untrimmed Proverbs turn up to spot each grin of my annoying folly, Hoping to send them all to boarding school. And while I hear the gentle utterance on the spirit of my visions Draining like gracious sand from my black telephone I'm undressed and asleep; How odd that she should come upon my nightmares And peel their shrouds off while I'm dormant, How grim her haughty logic should be a limb of dreaming... The cord entwines my hands And I am floating somewhere gluey, equivocal, Between colors defined, Maybe behind the retina of blind; I'm shunning every trick beyond the diction of salvation, Yes, I am sad to say I've been past scalpels and Gesundheit for some time now.