075. Ophiuchus palingenesis

Arms leak, needing to hold spheres, like a human Ouroboros, biting its tail where the fingers of the left hand meet the right. Dichotomy between the human skin and the overlapping scales of the snake. Androgynous in caressing, in meeting the opposite watching from above how the skull and the neck and the entire body, except for the arms, melt away, turn into the flavorous clouds the Dark Horse recreates itself from. Shines on recklessly. And the once-human hits his seventh journey, as the metempsychosis closes upon itself, like a self-controlled wooden locker, with deep roots embedded in the Ground, like a red, flashing wound concluding inside itself, covered with thin epithelium, underneath which the volcano will sleep. The Dark Horse climbs up and reaches its place and the man starts resting under a greater placenta, breathing through the limbs of the horse and the snake that’s now dying in the arms that once transcended into Ouroborous.

074. Phantomless

Crows fly in circles above a great whole. Wolves circle it as well and grow broken branches from the paw prints they left in the thin sand. Savage bushes and leafless trees grow on top of each other to form a fortress that holds secluded only ravens and crows and wolves. Winds tends to scatter the birds but then brings them back together and symphonically howls through the rotten smell. Bats clap under the sun and splash in particles that would soon stop upon the skin and the candles. To blow off the candles and hold them in dream catchers.

Image from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/seaglass

073. Le sacre du printemps

Haikus are writing themselves, hang on trees and slide on the back of dragonflies, endangering themselves. Words turn promiscuous as the spring dawn moves forward and unveils their bodies almost completely. Without any resentment and an eclipsed shame they dance in the scalded milk like air, breathing slowly through vocals and puns. At noon they occasionally hide beneath the leafs of plants growing in the dungeons of shores, just to rest for a while. At three o’clock they’re back, lingering around with the same promiscuity, leaving a ghost aftertaste. Some would think specters walk around foolishly, in heavy daylight, compromising the lights they’re made of, when in fact such poltergeists are the bits of haikus striking in the heat, the haikus which were given too much credit. They fall apart like illnesses, at the sunset, these worries-provoking creatures now looking like nothing but broken light bulbs with dim-lights covering their fragile bodies and vanish at midnight, returning to the humble who operated himself, who cut his throat to let the words out and create the haiku he was unable to write. Dark-blue ink tiptoed on the wooden floor.

072. Mellotron scratch

The skin becomes cryptic under the pen, struggling for a different kind of damnation. Killing cells, painting them in ink shouldn’t be tolerated at such levels of creativity, the creation the skin cells would never conjure. Oracles should know the paintings are better on skin, that tattoos tend to create themselves after a while. That it’s the body that needs the drawing in order to remember the moons that passed and the wolves that cried out in the woods. Musically, the pen glazes for one last time and then hits epidermis, succumbing its poisonous colour. Oracles stretch their arms, as the skin screams at first. It soon gets used to it, dealing with the mayhem turning ubiquous. Pens arising from every limb, every face and finger, toppling the temples in which the oracles crush their necks and draw white chalk circles to protect themselves. There’s a signature of every porcelain, building and tissue. The membrane of the world cracks like a nutshell as a giant pen encrypts it under the sign of a giant tattoo of porcelains and buildings and tissues.

071. Nocturne

Tags

my own neverending novel, passed midnight, signs

Simtind parfumul pe carte, imi pot da seama la care pagini ai zabovit, fara insemne pe foi. Miros paginile a tine si stiu unde ai adormit, unde ti-ai trecut mana prin par, unde ai repetat paragraful, unde ai pierdut randul.

070. Organic

Tags

catatonia, my own neverending novel, unfurl

I miss you more after 1 a.m. It’s only then, when things get quiet and real. When solitude occurs like a sharp blade on a whitened forehead, a surreal poppy in a snow field. A magic spell in a ghetto of grey bricks screaming “we dont need no education”. There’ve been enough blizzards for one winter, enough mary-go-rounds for one child. Enough kidnappers for the same butterfly, turning into a spider, crawling behind doors and promising people he is God. In the end it’s just the giant hydro molecule of a dissociative life. Utopically, turning bipolar, splitting in half, in four, in eight, in four thousand ninety-six. Becoming glass, running towards the fire and cracking itself. Foolish hydro molecule aching for reckless metamorphosis. Foolish hydromorphone molecule, defeated by my mind, after 1 a.m…

069. Le temps elastique

Tags

orange eyes

Fictional but humdrum, the princess seeks to jump out of narcolepsy. She ossifies the world she sees on the window of her drawer, then puts it to rest, shaped into the shape of a lizard, on her bookshelf. Another perspective, mundane in its fiction for the invokes fiction every hour, another lizard. Such phantasmagorias take place under the eyes of owls, the seven white owls guarding the room, with threatening, philippic beaks. Under such dictatorship she would normally fear giving birth to the lizards, as the owls watch their pale, greenish bodies curling into this air from her small palms. But the wardrobe would grow and overflow, releasing those maliciously creative nemesis of what she couldn’t see on the real window of her room. She needed to lock them in fetid lizards, lugubrious, with intolerant orange eyes spinning in orbits. Her knuckles whitened every time another lizard came to existence, as if holding the heaviest gun with both her hands and clenching to hold her body straight. Soon there will be too many of them in her room. The owls would refuse to eat them, so they would refuge in the back of the princess’ eyes, in her wrists and joints. And continue to paradoxically grow out of fear and hunger.

068. As the seas are emptying

Tags

consonance

Mornings now look like grass on fire. Underneath the fire, the grass still breathes. Lacks any consonance, lacks colour and weight, stares at the sky and waits for the plea of whatever may come and give the void a sense. Dreams upon dystopias that fail to appear, fail to break into pieces of what is real. And it struggles to keep content and lucid, to keep alive the possibilities that now tend to paradoxes, but of course, imminent and forseen, the fires cools and the grass decomposes in ashes.

And now mornings smell like burned faces. Flesh and skin and plastic and the wood underneath the plastic, the ground with the mud and the soil and the creatures that live there, in the odour of people call air. And this is what it’s left to be seen on an empty surface, of no people and no knowing and no buildings and no remorse, just as the words remain catatonic under leftovers, no prophetic skies and eschatologic clocks running counterclockwise, with subtle grins on the faces of the clocks.

067. Our broken garden

Tags

darkness; december; winter

Dear Darkness,

You stop me from seeing. And I can’t force my eyes upon such a blankness any longer. It’s getting frustrating, although I know I have made promises. Promises regarding what to do and what not to do, what to see and what to ignore, what to let flow into oblivion or let drown in it, sucked by the waves. But right now I’m not sure I’m still comfortable with you and your obscurity. Your shallowness. You’re too eager to keep me blind, to unfold every thought I might have about every color or bright light. And I hate bright lights, they injure my eyes. But you hurt them too. And they start to succumb back into the orbits, touching my brain and the cells start to push and maybe I’ll lose my eyes. Because of you.

You stop me from talking as well. I know I promised I’ll be silent, but this is breaking my lips and I can’t lose my lips. They’re dry and I’m thirsty and I need to scream or at least to pronounce a few words, or maybe some syllables only so as to prove to myself that I can talk, again. Losing my mouth will make the words push against my brain. And it won’t put up with this and I’ll be losing them too, like the birds I held in my hands and lost out of nothing. Out of your bare, thick promises and got me nothing in return. I wasn’t expecting for anything in return. Regardless, I was waiting.

And now you won’t stop. And it’s my fault and no one sees this, as we’re both buried under billions of footsteps and basements, under the graves and the coldness outside, away from any sun and any tremenduous earthquake and drum rhythms. I wanted my chaos, but now it must turn back into my utopic nightmare. And you stay away, you keep blind and silent until I call you again.

066.The soil set to black

Arms are pretty and still warm, but the face is dark. And so it goes everytime the sun comes above, lighting a sky that doesn’t want to be enlightened, while pouring savage flows of crows deep into the ground, on the ground, around the ground and the earth, circling in endless spirals of corpses. They smelled the corpses and knew it was the peak of pomp and the edge of hunger. Decomposing, the corpses await for the birds; kings do too. The sun breaks itself, breaking into pieces taken on the wings of the crows, flying with them on their backs. Black backs. It’s still warm and it’d burn their feathers, macabre paintings depicting birds set on fire, flying above the kings of men emptying their heads and hearts, asking for an anachronistic, impossible, utopic forgiveness. The sky decomposes too, some parts melt down into the oceans or others fall deep into caves, impregnating themselves in wounds of soil and dirt. And the crows continue to fly, to rend the flesh, alive or rotten, white or pale or darkened or swollen or bruised, still moving or on a static self-imposed rendering. And the sun burns in the bass creeks called the orbits of the eyes.

065. Saint-Exupéry rendering

Leaning towards a strawberry moon

holding the little prince inside a test tube.

I feel his eyes portraying the moon upside down

because of the tiptoeing

and the cold outside

and the heat inside

and his breath

making the test tube steamy.

He wishes for the fox,

the flower and his planet,

but the strawberry moon fades away back to

a greater oblivion

so I let him out.

He would have no strawberry moon towards

which to run

anymore

Indefinite, pretty so

Well I woke up and it was all white outside, a thin type of white, somehow torn apart from the real notion of…white. But it’s still white. And my eyes hurt and it was a nice feeling. Although there isn’t so much to tell about it, or about Fowles and how it keeps me from staring at the window or about the absence of septum pellucidum and I hate the thought that it’s still November and there’s more to come. December’s always been cozy. But I’m not ready for December right now. And this doesn’t feel right. Bah humduck.

Brains are falling out

I’m starting to realise that the posts from my upcoming book (whether in English of Romanian) sound a bit anachronistic on this blog and what my initial blogging intentions were. It’s one of those moments when I feel like collecting it all and throwing it to some savage beast ready to devour its meal, while I’m watching everything from a distance, finally fulfilled for trashing all my literary work in the last four years. Ain’t gonna do that now. But tomorrow is a brand new week, the 4th week that I’m spending at home, INDOORS, because of the freakin blood test results that show i got a buzzed off liver and yata yata I’m sick of this I wanna go out and run until I reach Congo. I watched 16 movies in the last two weeks and it’s starting not to sound normal anymore and I’ll stop numbering the posts (I will only number the posts of prose). I need a hobby, something that’s not too demanding and exhausting, something like creating dresses for dolls or nurturing parrots or I don’t know, I’m out of ideas. I can’t even think and I need tips. Anyone…?

Kimmidoll. Off-topic ♥

064. White lipstick stains her glass of red wine

People fall from bridges. Just the way frost stumbles upon buildings. Hands freeze and almost fall off. Lips are sealed but persuade this delusive heat to outburst and eyelids become solid blocks, sugar cubes holding tight to the eyes. Apocryphal steam tickles the skin, an incandescent overflow of nothingness in its pure essence, but dressed up in a fluctuation of benevolent coziness. But there’s no such thing in the heart of a frozen river, freezing by the minute, sleeping unconsciously on the edge of its own death.

Everyone denies this coldness, all those who have golden raindrops in the apple of their eyes. It’s not possible, to burn in ice like never before and swallow everything while your chest gently becomes an open cage. A birdless cage. A wall with no bricks or an odd cake, flavourless or a jejune phoenix throwing itself in the fire right after rebirth. Well we turn into Greek statues. When the statues stop having sight, but just stoned eyes, then the Gods are dead. And the statues now look at the steep cover of ice that circles their eyes. And smile at this peaceful insanity, this murderous healing of everything that ever hurt. And the Gods choke and die. One by one.

Birdy – Skinny Love

063. Fire walk with me

Îi văd silueta feminină, neomodernist pictată prin focul stârnit pe bârnele de lemn. O văd desculță, cu fața acoperită parțial de părul lung până la talie, îi văd pistruii și obrajii zâmbind ca o didascalie improvizată, adăugată într-un ultim moment. Îi văd brațele nepăsătoare pe lângă corp și copilul ce s-a oprit să primească focul în inimă – pentru că pe acolo trec flăcările înnegrind bluza albă simplu cusută – copila ce uită că focul doare și bucățile de carne arsă, ruptă din piept îi picură pe picioarele întruchipate în podea, androgin om-lemn. În apa strâmbă din pahar îi văd din ochi, element romantic în plin naturalism al cărnii ce frige la metri în fața mea, la milimetri de pieptul meu și eu neputând opri focul, cu aripile vulturului deschise pe spate și bătând, rugându-mă din răsputeri să se oprească, împiedicându-le cu brațele cruciș, nerăzbind sub nicio formă. Deveneam oximoron, cu franchețea aripilor nonșalante și paralizia brațelor, iar obrajii cărbune continuau să zâmbească anemic, din ce în ce mai anemic, până când s-a adunat stolul de ciori scotocind cu ciocuri ferme în praful cu nuanțe de piersică de pe bârnele de lemn.

Blouse – Into Black…

062. Common burn

There’s a baby lion swimming in the swimming-pool. It stretches its back once in a while, yawning loudly, spitting the water. It watches the clouds intersecting with soap bubbles and the forest running through the sun. It glazes at the white house with white curtains, the silver blinds and golden rooftop, at the flowers blooming like nut cracks cracking because of sunlight, at bumble bees that smell like honey. And yet… There’s a baby lion swimming in the swimming-pool.

Mazzy Star – Common Burn

061. When the nightingale sings

Beating frantic paces in loops and wolves cry out for food,

It comes from woods and decks the hooks of the ground and tunes

as it then fades to greater sounds and swollen wounds

cracking inside the bone

while whistling in darker tombs.

060. The nostalgic Prufrock

And I wonder how Argentina looks under the sun of autumn, for I miss anything of Cortazar and the joy of reading it for the first time. But Prague smells lovely when covered in snow. Feels like cold, freezing fingers and tastes like hot cups of coffee suddenly bursting into ice. I miss Prague. Every November. I remember how it stroke and knelt in such low temperatures, with its rooftops falling under the icy chimneys. You had a castle, more like fortress behind you and the whole city rolling at your feet, along with mistletoe bridges and frozen water. And it was 4 a.m, your eyebrows so caught between your palms, your eyelashes heavy as a dark colour of a lightly painted field. Your eyes glittering because of the cold and yet refusing to close. And lips sealed on the semi-empty streets and the bridges like necklaces unfolding on the river’s neck, their overflow stopped and held loosely under the tip-toeing of raindrops in early, such an early November.

“Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets/ And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes/ Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?” T.S.Eliot 

059. Endorphin

It slides on a steep road throughout the woods. It’s dark and cold. Crows are singing death wishes and in the sea there are fish bones. Millions of fish bones. Funny how silence evacuates other creatures and departs them. Not the woods are empty, but filled with a misguided light that had lost its original path. It follows the branches and jumps on every leaf, like a horrific hopping up and down to scare children and make them go to bed. Branches crack. Trees move like ghosts, they go south and try to breath. But it’s impossible to breathe through such deep fog, under such a heavy, metal pressure. Unseen hands crawl from the ground and then dance violent tangos. They can be heard from a distance, bouncing the earth, making it cry and promise to forgive them later. In such a dark hour, slowly moving in the river to its peak, the momentum is hanging by a bell, up in a church, down the valleys, where dolls play and cook. Footsteps creep and something falls, the moon is dethroned and dragged down, placed in a giant cup and drank by the misguided light, coming from somewhere else. The crows stop and the fish bones listen to what seems to be a hypnosis that undergoes the structure of words. The stresses on syllables. That shakes off the face and leaves the bone naked, with nothing but a smell of flesh that used to be and cover it like a lovely dress. There is no sky, just a canvas with hiragana and no one to read it. The umlaut of the wind fades, the cedillas of nature burn in seconds. Prosody fell and so did the rest of skins. So many bones left uncovered. So many tautologies that are now obvious.

058. I will lay down my bones, among the rocks and roots

Katatonia’s in the teapot, running up the hills of sugar in the cup and blood in the veins. There’s dilated crimson poison in the cheek of the puppet and the children who kiss it all die suddenly, with restless hearts. Earthquakes abound sea-shores that make waves of salt. There’ll be more salt in plates and animals will float on the water. Light-bulbs fall on the ground and spark under chairs. Children hanged their backs on these wooden platforms used as scenes, on which they dance and sing. Birds fly in cafes and people try to make them go away, but they wouldn’t fly out, they’d occasionally hit the windows, break the glasses. And then the tea would shiver in the teapot and the nostalgia would vanish along with the birds, that’ve been persuaded to leave the café. Although cafes get lonely when autumn strikes; they ask for mercy of lonesome sad faces to gather, each alone at one of the four windows, to breathe on the walls of wood and paint figures with warm fingers on cool surfaces. To whistle rhymes that don’t sound good. That don’t even fit. Autumns get so cold, always.