cinnamon and a dark night

Ne pictam trupurile in tacere. E frig. Noaptea e inalta. Nu mai atingem stelele cu varfurile genelor.

Nadirul se scufunda lenes in golul claviculelor. Zenitul se pierde in zare, alunecand matasos spre finalul timpului

last century, night was day was night and day again

your scent on the pillows and the bed sheets is gone. worn off. night is yawning, lazy and bored of all the affairs she witnessed in the shades. sun should be coming out soon, but it seems it`s going to be late this morning. streets are grey and quiet. even the autumn sleeps. and i can`t find any shadow of you in the house.
my mind is constantly searching for some rest, my fingertips are constantly searching for the warmth of your body, your skin, your messy dark hair in the late night.
peaceful breath in the early sunshine, the twist of a shy curl over your moving eyelids, hot hands curling my body into the dreams that chase away the shiver, the yesterday, maybe the time itself.i hear the minutes dripping off on the cold floor, seconds scratching the colors off the walls, hours howling at the moon. but i can`t hear what makes me drift off into the dream world: the rhythm of you breathing in your sleep.

life is like a box of chocolates

someone i loved once gave me a box full of darkness. it took me years to understand that this too was a gift – mary oliver
and i dilligently carried that old box with me, heavy on my heart, not being able to open it or to throw it away or to return it. or for that matter to do something with it other than carrying it along, just like a child drags his favorite broken toy for days before letting it go.
well, you never called back, he says a bit disappointed at the other end of the line
i tried… i had things on my mind… there was no time… i do what i always do, seeking excuses because the truth would be too hard to explain.
actually, to be honest, i can`t do it anymore. i can`t sing or play anymore. not since i met him and started loving him.
Hey! you still there? he thinks the signal is poor.
yeah… still here… sorry, got a bit distracted. you were saying?
we didn`t get to make that acoustic night… we were supposed to rehearse a bit after all these years…
oh… right… sure. sorry. let`s have a beer these days and we`ll talk more, ok? He`s one of my oldest friends, he cares. But he can`t see it… the storm circling down deep in my eyes.
Through the crack of my bedroom door i can see my guitar. i should sell it. not for the money, but because i can`t play it anymore. and i can`t sing. or write poems. i should trade my words too. not for money.
i traded one love for another. or so i thought at least. but every single second i think of moving on from my poems and my songs and my love, my soul crunches. just like dead leaves on autumn. and i can`t breathe. this must be some parallel universe, in which i trade dreams for common feelings.
through the cracks in my skin i can see lines of my soul. i hear those nights with whispers and laughters… velvet ribbons around me. i feel wild heartbeats mixing with the heavy rain on rooftops…. body curves slowly in the soft satin of the night. i smell the calm sea under the full moon, breathing in the rythm of love…. the air gets stuck in the lungs, silence breaks the bonds for a few second, words mix inside and get stuck middle way, eyes closed, time runs between hands, hold tight, don`t let go.. clear blue sky in a cold morning, room is warm, silence is bliss.
i`m above the city. city is cold and sleepy. time… time? what does that word mean?

i used to be a rainbow [older post]

thought from the other side

in the garden of thunders there are only black flowers. flashes of light burn their souls and their eyes.
the only music the ear knows is the howling of the storm. all those black flowers forgot their names..

ravenheart

cand mi`am venit in fire, am realizat ca uitasem incotro sa`mi indrept privirea ca sa numar stele, uitasem cum sa ascult greierii in noptile calde de mai, unde cresc flori gingase si albe care miros a vise de copil, cum suna marea si ce placere zace in noptile cu luna plina si fluturi in stomac. a trecut ceva vreme de atunci. si inca mai am gust nisipos de celula sapata adanc in pamant sterp, in decenii de urlet mocnit dincolo de zabrele de gheata, cu aripi smulse, pene albe si ofilite in tarana intunecata. gust de seceta, de gri spalat in lacrimi. inca ma dor ochii in fata curcubeielor mari si pline, in fata fluturilor moi, inca tresar sub murmurul ploii de vara pe iarba incinsa de soare. lumina rece a diminetii mi se pare stinghera pe sub pleoapele adormite.
ma infiora atingerea calda a mainilor tale inainte sa mi se topeasca visele in zi si trupul sa mi se materializeze in realitate.

journal between 2 slices of orange and a twist of lemon

life is easy. sometimes. for some. obviously for those smiling and chatting every day, at work, at school, at home, when they`re out with friends, having fun or just spending crumbles of the shallow time. and what about those who do that every single day… at work or school or when surrounded by people, but deep inside they rip their hearts out and drown them in the dark, black, thick night that follows everywhere they`d go? what about those happy faces that cry for help from under the laughters? what should they do when they struggle and fight in the morning just to open their eyes? in those moments, the air gets too thin, then too thick and then thin again… breath… don`t breath… clash against the grey light of the tired city… pain…. no, not pain.. just a drop of biterness. sour like green lemons… get out of bed! wait.. stop fighting… it`s cold… and dark.. wasn`t there supposed to be a light? a white, warm light?? between the heavy eyelids, the pale sun. there! the city is awake… a bit of sunny morning. a slice of orange and some toast.. too burnt.. half black.
work.smile!!! a twist of lemon, yellow like the september moon, cruel and sharp like the end.
end of day. warmth. another soul melting slowly. summer breeze, his breath against the cold skin…eyes grow bigger and darker. depth. fever. the dark, black sea dreams away, drowns inside herself and revolves… clear, blue sky. a bunch of sun rays. rainbow. smells like fresh oranges, another slice of sweet delight, drops of sugar and moonlit summer nights. and that twist of lemon, goddamit!

departe de…

Uscata vara in sufletul de-o schioapa.
Camp steril de inspiratie 3D. Scriitorul, cu dibacia chirurgului, isi trage manusile sterile peste mainile fierbinti de ne-scris si despica suprarealist hartia alba al penitei imbibate cu cerneala albastruie. Cerneala mirosind a spital vechi. Taieturi precise si rigide, conturate clar in culoare, menite sa vindece coala alba de paloarea cronica a tacerii si de lipsa acuta de cuvant.
Uscaciunea verii, imprimata in cerul gurii ca un tapet ieftin de hartie reciclata. Maini incatusate in latexul pudrat al manusilor chirurgicale. Penita tremura nesigura, stiloul aluneca haotic printre degetele de cauciuc.
Arida si stearpa vara, cu briza incinsa si seaca, aducand miasme de moarte. Hartia primeste pasiva seva chimica a literelor. Cuvinte se nasc, dar sensurile si emotiile sunt plecate in alte parti, unde briza umeda si sarata miroase a mare si a nisip si a saruturi.

pinocchio

o lume de marionete. aproape toate stricate, cu piese de imprumut luate de la alte papusi, care ar fi fost intregi acum daca nu le-am fi lasat noi nepereche atunci cand am considerat ca ne sade bine cu putinul imprumutat.
si sforile…. mult prea vechi unele, nasc jocuri dezlanate si lenese. jucand mereu acelasi teatru, sforile se uzeaza si se subtiaza, mereu in acelasi loc, mereu la aceeasi miscare si se rup exact inainte sa cada cortina, lasand in vazul spectatorilor – marionete stricate la randul lor – mormanul de piese alandala, de imprumut, prinse fie la nimereala si-n graba, fie pictate cu dibacie. dar cat de bun sa fie pictorul sa recreeze nuantele intiparite in trupul unei alte papusi, sa treaca dintr-o simpla miscare de pensula viata uneia pe trupul alteia?
si stand acolo, in mijlocul propriei piese, cu sforile rupte, cu papusarul prea sus ca sa ne poata ajuta, cum sa ne mai ridicam? cu ce priviri sa scaldam fata uimita a celui care ne priveste singur din primul rand? care maini sa mai opreasca din zbor speranta celui care, stiindu-se nepereche, a restituit partile imprumutate impins de la spate de certitudinea ca si-a gasit pereche o marioneta cu stele in ochi si fulgi de nea in par?… o marioneta de la care nimeni nu a plecat vreodata cu nimic, pentru ca ea ii e pereche. si pentru ca o inima poate sa bata si pentru doi.
dar vaaiii… ce nevoie ar avea o marioneta de inima? si cu ce suflet sa visam asa de sus?
mai bine, sa ne scaldam in roua dimineata, iar seara culorile vor fi ca noi, caci luna se pricepe de minune sa puna umbre suave unde cariile au tocat deja pana`n abis lemnul putred.

dupa care s-a trezit….

ardem ca jaraticul, mocnit sau cu flacari inalte, sub fierbinteala sarutarilor, in caldura imbratisarilor, in nopti prea scurte si prea pline, lasam rasuflari de viata pe buze straine ce se intredeschid doar atat cat sa le primeasca, dar nu suficient cat sa imbrace iubirea in cuvinte… alunecam spre trupuri straine, dar dragi, ne confundam cu ele, le pictam cu vise rotunde de “impreuna” ca sa ni le facem casa, caci trupurile noastre nu ne mai apartin; sunt tot ale lor, ale celor carora le picuram farame de suflet in ochii intredeschisi. si nu ne dam seama ca buzele lor nu se vor deschide vreodata suficient de mult cat sa ne lase din viata lor, ca ochii lor sunt mereu intredeschisi pentru ca in spatele pleoapelor mijesc altfel de vise, cu alte trupuri ca si casa, cu alte maini pictand iubiri din alt pamant.
ne prefacem incet in scrum usor si gri de tigara, pentru ca ne mistuie doruri si nazuinte, pentru ca murim cate putin cu fiecare sarut, privire, respiratie, cu fiecare clipa cand ne tinem de mana. ne risipim. pentru ca avem impresia ca iubirea chiar e nobila si ne salveaza… si ii salveaza si pe cei pe care ii pictam cu ea de sus pana jos, din afara inauntru si dinauntru pana la cer. si ardem toate sperantele si amorurile pana la filtru si ramanem cu gustul amar si prafuit al nimicului ce ni se intinde din palmele deschise pana in strafundul ochilor inchisi spre neant.
si-n gustul amar se ineaca toate. si toate imprumuta acelasi miros infect de sfarsit de lume si inceput de nimic.
dupa care… ne trezim…. din viata in pustiul de a nu exista pentru ca, in fond, ce alta existenta mai intensa cunoastem decat cea in care iubim pana la filtru?