luni, 30 martie 2009

Tiberius enamored

Your smile emerges from a numb street
Your sayings sooth me and reveal
Teeth I could trust, moved forth and then receding
Within the fuzzy vowels of your complacent wisdom.
You've entered a land that spreads a thousand miles away
But you could not peel the soundproof oubliette
Tucking it in each night.
You stretched your hands toward me
And failed to see that mine were tied;
You could not hear a voice that stirs
Death sentences enraged to be distracted
From pious masturbations,
And nonetheless the voice embraces them as personal eye-frowns
Each time it dares to utter…
And thus you could not hear
Words tortured in oriental fashions
While drowned in their placenta.
You see that I am on the sleazy side of ribbons
The white I wear from time to time
Is always devoid of symbols
But still, your smile carries on,
Either eyeless, or in spite of me
Forever hand-raised, kindly sending me
Ballet invitations,
Dying to be sincerely mine…

The dawn

And there's a light to dawn on the edge of the cliff
On the slim alley driving south, into the sea…
She grasps her bosom whilst in pain
Her black curls ravished by the breeze
And salted by a wave deranged, she cries
And cries
Fearing this is the edge of dying,
Fearing she might be sliding on a spiral steep.
Her womb is coming off and bursting
Beneath the sky's display of morning colors
Beneath the seedy breakfast it implies.
She's giving birth humming Schubert throughout
To trick sorrow into self-pity,
One hand leaning against a dry tree,
The other one luring her suckling out -
Her spawn, she knows it's there to steal her air and undergarments…
Nonetheless, a mother is a manor cold,
Her chimneys feeding a fire too thin
For the hunting to stall
Once the riffle starts shooting.
There is no escape from her ivy,
Just tentacles stretching to linger on,
Seeming to fail,
But the offspring always forgets its aid kit behind.
She still has that pillow crammed in her entrails
And secretly misses the man of the forest
The man who was ignorant of words but wise to allusions,
The man who lulled her in his hut for an hour or so
And did not deliver a sigh.
She's afraid the hunters will come through the mud
With tartan hats and wood pipes, not to mention their guns
And the old weepers with seafood and rocks in their pockets,
And there's no door to claim manners behind.
She feeds the child emerged from her smolder,
But her milk is too sour, it thickens its blood.
The men have arrived along with the ladies
They all hum Schubert and narrow their compass around her,
Their hands swelling like those in cartoons.
This is a bad dream, she just wished to drain
Some bit of elseness to her girly amusement,
But failed to consider the bloodshed and lullabies.
The child blubbers no more, it simply craves for a baptism
Missing the sea, how awkward, the never acquainted sea…
That will have to wait, though -
The earth is full of ravens that must be kept away from the crops
Fingers will always be needed to build rows of scarecrows
In so rugged a land that delivers no mother-tongue.
The pain is soothed; she slips in her crimson
Now, there's nothing but silence, no one but seagulls to dream of.


A thousand mothers all around me
A thousand tendernesses,
A thousand tricks to date...
Red candies flicker from their pockets,
From their benevolent silk tissues –
Rat traps, spreading a thousand miles away,
Toward me, rendered infant.
The mothers smile at me
And call me names:
Sweetness, my gold, Mo Kushla,
This is the death sentence
I always seem to wait around for,
And always die from in the end,
Or is it from the beginning?
How easily I disappear
Throughout their puppeteering affections...
Some broken shape resembling shelter
Some ritual of common phrases,
Casual fondness, some joyous sketch of me,
With scarlet lipstick on a quiet lip,
And on one that's roaring, too –
Two opposite childhoods on limp high-heels.
And then I slip, unconscious
From my thoughts
Inside theirs, of me.

The Wall

I miss the window where I heard you chuckle on the phone,
Your confidence sunk deep beneath the possibility of love
Your shyness dying for some wits to place it undercover
My thrills, my voice, failing to find its consciousness,
Stuttering illiterate around your fire escapes.
But then you talked,
And thus I found you in disguise
Our vows of secrecy betrayed,
The inane faith within my childhood fictive tongues
Met with the dryness in your rugged land…
The truth - turned dull by the futility of waiting
And nonetheless, I stretched my thumbs towards your cheekbone,
Wanting to place some tenderness upon its mooning blankness
For no reason, or perhaps
In order to blindfold myself before our grainy buffer zone.
We cannot find the proper spirals
To blow each other kisses within
Together we're haphazard
We finger one another vainly
Longing to find a door
Saddened to touch an even wall
Together makes each of us barren.

The I

I'm out there, on the aloof side of the door
Where there are only particles of me
Spun madly by sour winds
A monolith chipped off,
Its sound obtuseness turned into infinite question marks,
The vassal protuberances within a color self-declared,
Subscribers to persuasion,
All conjured in a fat bouquet under the claims of familiarity
They've parted ways now
Who knows how many cycles until resolving to become new homeland,
How many million hours until subscribing to a new convention,
And a new definition of their spirit
Who knows how much duration of the same old falls
Falls from the feudal grace of reference poles?
Each I ends locked out barefoot in the cold
Driven back to splinters,
Splinters that fail to ever find a knot.

The repetition

An ancient apparition, you have aroused like epidemics
From every tawdry wrinkle of my fan,
From purple peacocks and shiny maggots of distant lands

From ever appetizing feathers of fatherly continents.
You look so different from the neon movie I have tried to rescue
Away from your grimaces,
But still, similar to the tall grin waving good-bye
And shifting harbors and train stations in a reckless haste
Only to land back blowing on its elder sores
It's not the you within your cubic suicides I love
But the absence of you, opening to a prettier fancy -
The scripts and sets frenzying to shape
A brighter, more heroic armor.


It pains so much to fancy you
To need you, though this is what they call being alive
Though in my vanity,
I do dunk my canines in the serum of my love
Of all my rabid spiteful crimson
Since I'm ill-skilled at being human
I never was too good in school
A solemn bust of paint and clay
Covered in postcards, which you sent to me
From foreign doings
From aftermaths of foreign memory
From your stilted rejections of me
Throughout the role-plays carried in my third eye
I'm seeing you close and quiet
Ochre highways of empathy, a selfless thumb bouquet
Towing literacy out of my shrill
And spreading its luxury on my lips
A kind donation, my heart
My speech, cleansed of its handful of veils
A roll call of kernels from all three tenses of me.
My third eye makes a Cyclops of my being
For thus I only see the relevance in us
And in it we are each of our two genuine selves:
The I
And the You and I
One truth combined with another equal mysticism
A particular aura of gold and pallor
Sprayed with utmost surprise
The bare feet of history
Gaining size through its centuries and deserts
I love you
Or maybe I just love the wisdom in our lachrymal round
I shall become oblivious of waiting
Time will turn our language in a stutter
The I of our twosome will be cold case as well
How morbid of both of us to leave me behind
How gloomy of both you and I to lose your trace meanwhile
How sad to go on as thin air
I wish you would call, regardless of when.

Things to see from the moon

It's funny years should pass so negligently,
Sprawling a cunning string of non-events –
What has occurred is somehow poor and toothless
I cannot grab a sense of me throughout.
Pains go numb, but not because I reach a higher power,
Some shred of tolerance
Towards my idling absolution.
It still hurts,
But touching it no longer comes in hand, like in the old days –
It's getting less and less innocent.
No one suspects that I'm unwell,
Not even I can trace my heart's true mien
Among the pompous clutter of self-deceiving stances,
To stab it in my skin and prove them otherwise…
And all they do is think I'm past the evil threshold
On the safe side of darkness,
On the kind half of the moon,
Which complements its halfway horror.
I'm not stronger
I've simply grown a thicker frost…