Through you(*)

It is the confessional tone that appeals you, isn’t it?
A proof of dissected intimacy,
An invasive yet pertinent incursion
Inside me. What is there for you to see,
Feel, Touch, Retain, Disdain?
A scented curio, a prickly nimbus, a filthy fiasco.
Yes, I am that peculiar babe of trois couleurs:
Destined to sheer greatness,
Preceded by (followed too?) recurrent dejection
And consuming infirmity.
There is no vestige in it of fortune or good will
Hunting, collapsing and hackling, there is only malice.
A manner of natural entropy, an incidental sorting.
Yet attuned to
An origin, a gender, a background, a status.
Disparities. (conquerable in times)
La strada and the agora of high defiled by vile,
Utter melancholy imbued in the Mona Lisa smile,
Defloration colligated with stealing beauty.
Nevertheless, still strolling along, still affronting the odds
Of inevitable, belated integration into a
Dead Poets Society.
Still I unfold, spontaneous or elaborate, and you sneak
In as I invite you to and carve me
Farcical, deluded and representative masks,
With your volatile translations…
What do I mean, what did I mean, mean and altruistic,
Unfeigned and egoistic,
When I flew beyond the vapid rainbows, when I danced
With the blind ravens on moonlight, when I lamented
Kelebeğin rüyası ravishing me?
How could I still know then,
How could I make you see?
Stymied the creativity when precariously analysed, no freedom
Writers, such ludicrous, conceited and flagellated
With intrinsic calamity creatures!
All in. A beautiful mind, a corrupted corpus, a wretched soul.
What more is there to scribble on?
Bruise your lips in my cavities,
Suck my turbulent biography as if a hard candy.
Am I venerable, am I evacuable?
Clench your fingers around my liable pores, hold.                                Sweet dekalog:
Hold me as if I were the brave one that redeemed you
From the ultimate hell,
The one that on your raw scratch applied the healing patch
Adam s to your Eve s, Eve s to your Adam s. Absolute match.
Pouring my poetry into you as transfiguring transfusion, a spell
Of sacred duty, to live through you,
As ce que le jour doit à la nuit,
The completion. In your womb,
I giggle and I scream.
The rite, oh, let me through, one day only through you
I live and die, as in a jeux d’enfants, a sempiternal dream.


(*Tribute to cinema and my subsequent readers)


The photos’ sources: & personal archive

Cinereous vulture

The histrionic seduction of elevation dizzies my taut
Organic essence.
I am a bare Aegypius monachus, the largest bird
Of prey
With description of ascetic and bluish beak
That forages, with lasciviousness, carcasses away
From human disturbances.
No extraneous hunting of animate flesh. No sponge-like 
Bone marrow, as my other Old-World cousin.
The beauteous pleated crag is the most authentic harbour for
My hatched spirit,
Flame hidden beneath inflated sacks of air, suppleness and feathers.
There is no tint of ruse in my chestnut beads, 
Exalted with unquenchable vision of endless ether and
Unordered ~ in ticking boxes ~ instants.
The unruliness of this swooped missile of natural flight is
Never incongruous in the infallible sensation
Of repetitive trajectory.
Arrow up, arrow down. Unpierceable delusion of
Unpredictable target?
No, an ecclesial hoopla to wring alert stimulus from.
When you rise as a cinereous vulture, you bleed 
As one on the way down. And back up again.
A plus 3-meter wingspan of impervious, atavistic liberty.


The photo’s source

Conception, perusal & scission


Reproached he laughs too much, too often. If only they would read him! But then he would be reproached he hurts too much, too often. And yet, the genuineness of his peaceful, simple and content daily existence imbued with scarce but utterly healthy and harmonious relationships, despite his ransacking and soaring aims, is indisputable. Because in literary form he spouts out all the poison that simmers in him, just as in any striving creature.


Her grandfather said, find a reliable man that you can build with, as I found your grandmother. Later figured out, in love, friendship and elsewhere, the unreliable ones pervert into fury and frustration the joy in the strong one that cares and passively destroy the sense of self-worth in the weak one that begs. Charm, intelligence and style altogether are outweighed, in any space and time, by reliability. So, never self-condemn yourself to unhappiness. Compromise your ego and its derived resolutions, but never lower your minimal threshold of standard expectancies. Cut off a bit of your soul, rather than have it corrupted all…overwhelmingly truthful providential guidance.


Signs of “predestination”…what we make of coincidences when we adorn them with expectancies. The almighty creations and connections are accomplished only by gradually mastering the art of commitment, not by depending on the adventitious nature of intuition and conjecture. Be prudent with those that desperately seek variation and distraction outside as to enrich their life, because they rarely possess inside the fecundity needed to blossom a durable edifice with you. Also, be wary with those that attempt to juggle their sensible and lyrical pith with a flamboyant and self-protective persona, as they often end up stifling their un-manifested and inestimable gist rather than being disloyal to their carefully crafted mask, solely for the sake of a lukewarm acclaim or a delusional dominion.


Moral enigma…is the fear that manufactures cowards, or the cowardice that yields poltroons? People that constantly externalise their guilt and never admit their own shortcomings while you declare yours and apologise for, people that fail to grant a basic explanation for their reprehensible manner or at least point out justly the flaws they see in you so that you can attenuate them, briefly, people that avoid any mature interrelationship, do elide them. No trauma validates sustained inhuman treatment; if one can’t fathom at least an inch of your value as human being, they will mistreat you all the time, through thick and thin, in present and future. Be empathetic, not pathetic. Don’t victimise, but don’t condone, not even slightly; cease your crippling biding, fly away and, without further second thoughts, seek another lay.


p.s. nu mai am nimic pentru tine, omule. lașitatea ta, frica ta, tăcerea ta, sau dumnezeu (dacă există) știe ce, a ucis tot cântul născut în ființa mea pentru tine. îți doresc, cu tot suflul meu, doar bine…departe de mine.


The photo’s source

In the attic

This is the realm of my erratic jaywalking,
Dangerous fairyland of nostalgic tribulations.
My bones reduced their density as the spiders here
Their venom’s quality and their web’s resistance
Due to the eons that tautened our silk-threaded patience.

There’s a bridle in my throat, it pulls my breath on 
Intermittent stops, when I drag on the narrow ladder my now
Resigned, despised body. Crackling as these steps of yore.
I am housed into a ‘naturalized by decades’ relic.
Never mind, dear. You’ll eventually get here too. No disguise.

The miracle: my hefty burden of memory slivers remoulds as
Puny caw when I creep up here. Door unlocked and opened.
There is no piteous soreness that can’t be supplanted here,
Nor any haunting bouquet of repentances.
I close my eyes, then open them onto a different scene.

A pockmarked urchin rises towards me on a genuine smile
From the black and white snapshots arranged on the tiny
Round table on which I scrawled my first artless rondeau.
Hopscotch, wild berries, seashells medallion, Christmas globe.
Growing up, valediction, perfumed letters, oracle of friendship.

I must pause. Warmth trickles gently beneath my ribcage. I listen.
The cooing sound of a swing, my resting lullaby.
It hosts a young gracious woman wrapped in ivory taffeta,
Haloed with crimson roses and shimmering tears of pure
Joie de vivre. Aspiring trobairitz.

Amidst the démodé medley of old crates, frames and souvenirs
The sophisticated chandelier, whose multifaceted diamonds
Fell and got lost inside holes of oblivion,
Festoons with suggestions of affluence
The aporia of my aching psyche.

As cascades, sequences of bestowed dryad, honeyed empanada,
Tattoo engraved on heart by first lovemaking,
Golden rings of completed circle, motion of blooming-in life,
Feigned imperturbability and concealed loss redraw the lines
Of my once smooth complexion.

My lovely, inimitable vanitas.
Oh, dear, how inventive one most become to avoid malingering!
To assuage the eloquent demons that scorn in every alcove
The decrepitude. The augur of denouement. Even so,
Up here my frail bundle of recollections is unconquerable life.



Wild roses die in winter and love…

Frânturi. Through you.

91190871“If I say your voice is an amber waterfall in which I yearn to burn each day, if you eat my mouth like a mystical rose with powers of healing and damnation, If I confess that your body is the only civilization I long to experience…would it mean that we are close to knowing something about love?”(Aberjhani)

Where the wild roses grow, by the still and translucent river
I am waking, at your sobbed melody, with a glacial shiver.
Lurking, folded in petals and undiluted perfume, I adjure,
Doleful and insistent, your wanton soul in amour to abjure.

Ruby and sultry as the blood that meekly trickles when you squeeze,
Opiated, your palms on the thorns that complete my beauty with
Suffusing agony, your mouth conjures me up, and on gentle breeze,
Esoteric and erotic, I disclose my flesh of enduring love’s…

View original post 14 more words

On the row 14 of the flight (back) to

The metal box, bridge between worlds, echoes
Whirlpools of animate spectra.
Chatterbox: the guy sat behind,
Rattle of casual soliloquy.
He is as an efficient automatic clock,
Tick tock-ing in all weathers.
Undisturbed by the take-off
Or the soothing sound of her voice.

The blue-eyed stewardess with
Dark skirt, fine stockings, tidy bun and
Peachy layer of makeup
Gently brushed
In her smooth, round complexion.
Her way, lovingly affected: doll like
And sweetly amiable.
As a warm tart on a frozen dull night.

The all's I can see consult the medley of
Packed and wrapped offers.
A not too expensive measure of quenching
The rumbling guts, of dissipating time on
The less than 3 hours' journey.
Flipping through smeared
With foreign touch
Pages, they slightly ponder on choices.

Selections resemble crossroads,
Intermingled boughs flourishing
Distinct afterwards. Rosy, gray.
My eyes feel ardent and sunken,
Too rinsed with outwardly
Demanding attention.
"Oh, how nothingness carves
Our pitiful wholeness!"


The photos’ source: & own archive

How wicked the *fruitless* anonymity is…

Dull activity, shopping, had to do it, we badly desired
Spaghetti for supper. We were by the fresh veggies’ sector
When it happened.
I’d noticed it before, that dusty aquarium filled with
Sturdy, fat carp, the scales of some removed by
Inevitable friction against the others,
Greenish-golden lustre reduced by indefinable time of captivity.
But only with passable pity,
Had never lingered my flapping thoughts on them.
Until that instant. A sudden splashing sound,
Our necks automatically turning their carried globes,
The sight stuck since then in my inner mechanism.
One of them jumped out, somehow its fins functioned
As what they were never meant for,
Shiny, wet wings that hovered it over the tank and,
Obeying gravity, on the cold grey tiled floor.
It twisted and writhed for seconds before a skinny young man,
Wearing the typical apron of the shop,
Put on quickly a pair of gloves, grabbed it
And threw it back in the cloudy water, a spot
Next to the impassive others.
We laughed, madly laughed at the scene and he looked at us,
Laughed too, his face ~ to me, utter image of cerebral stupidity,
And muttered
“Never mind, someone is going to buy this one too”.
We barely got ourselves together and went away while I
Wondered loudly, was it a suicide attempt
Or an initiative of revolution?
Either way, it failed, and as the poorly built guy pointed out,
Someone will eat it too.
But will they feel in its bruised, flavoured body
A different resistance,
In its stifling and gasping,
After tossed in a plastic impersonal bag
And hit through it with their specific hammer,
A memorable struggle?
This question haunts me as a mortal futility with no echo
Of plausible or satisfying answer.
How wicked the fruitless anonymity is…


The photos’ source