Lovely beast

I know you are a bit rude
and you watch smiling young boys while drinking your coffee
at the museum.
and you are not a big fan of Millais
but guys with square glasses and tight jeans that love him
poison your thoughts so sweetly.
you kick me with your left elbow
each and every time i say i am sorry for not having a dick
and i never tell you, but it kind of hurts.
but you laugh so loudly when your humerus kicks into my ribs
that instead of fainting
i stand on my back charmed and amused.
you always say you want to meet my mother,
she's by far more age appropriate for you,
but you wouldn't like her,
she has big breasts and a nasty habit of telling everyone what to do.
now, don't get me wrong,
she is great
but she would never spend her mornings smoking weed with you
while watching artsy porn
like I do.
you say you are in love with me
like you are with the paragons vinyl
you play each time we have dinner.
i know you are...
but i tell you, just because you are in love
it doesn't give you the privilege to see my scars,
but you are not the kind of man who gives up just like that.
so, you stare at my wounds and kiss them,
by the window of your kitchen,
while i watch your cat licking our omelette.
and you are a bit old,
but your wrinkles feel so good under the tip of my fingers
and you have such a perfect hairline, boy
and such perfect teeth
that I almost forget that your tattoos will soon fade
conquered by time.
and you are a bit rude,
i know that
you always keep telling me what a great blow-job
Michelle gives
and that i should try her sometimes,
but the way you sing to me whispering
like a young virgin's phantom
after we fuck
makes it all worthy.
and you don't like art that much,
but you love watching me naked
pushing the button of my camera
as i shoot
the last memory of the last bastard before you
and you say
''i will never allow you to spit up like that
my fingerprints on your neck and thighs.''
and as i puke the thought of a fake friendship
and the image of his unworthy bold skull
i drown in your voice.
black lilacs, black lilacs
so beautiful they blossom around me
just like you said,
only fools could think death is not pink.
we are here with our black hearts
grinning
for we are in love.
your cat is watching us,
but that's ok
radiohead covers its bizarre purring.
the wine made it all clear.
i love you. let's fuck.
you have a plane to catch within 3 hours.

***

there was a boy, he screamed my name,
his lungs were tired standing before my window,
so I thought It would be a kind thing to let him in.
we kissed and played restless for a while,
but
I was just eager to bleed.
September came and my illusion
was standing naked before me.
So I left.
There was a boy,
he used to send me letters.
we played the same rhythm
of misery.
We danced and played games
and drank tea spiked up with vodka
and we had atrocious sushi dinners
and we fought
and we yelled
and we made love.
December came
and
I left.
I am not mean,
I just am what I am.
I see him on the couch,
and I remember how much I used to love him.
Daddy taught me how to laugh,
but Daddy taught me how to cry,
and Daddy knows I am one strange little girl,
and I am going to a quit place,
where I can spite and spit
my egos.
Oh, how I loved you,
but I was never in love,
'cause Daddy told me
I can only choose that once.
And I,
being blind I made my choice
long time ago.

Steppenwolf

Do you remember
how I had no time to fall in love?
my soul was tired of waiting.
I was just happening
on the corner of a pillow
weaving memories we'd never shared.
am I supposed to love all the boys
that find me beautiful?
I've never been keen on disillusion.
if I'm ugly,
than ugly must be
the Steppenwolf I lie next to.
I don't need love,
just mind-fuck me again.
Slapstick is better than any kiss or punch
a boy could give me.

***

So you thought that my heart wasn't brave enough to sing
wasn't brave enough to tell a story
but still it screamed when half beasts were dragging me to bed
and still it sharpened its knife to strike the hunters
that were chasing my hybrid lover.
from wood to tall buildings
it followed your steps,
a half-breed wolf
that was eager to bleed
and it sang while licking your fur
and learned how to play even the strings of silence
that were hanging from your teeth
while sniffing strangely intriguing new prey.

oh, love,
are you happy, love
are the golden girls with coral guns
worthy sopranos?
tell me, love,
don't sing to me, love,
about the foul play of cherry lips
that sting,
about the bones that crack
under the heavy remains of a breath,
about the fireworks
that disguise themselves in atomic bombs.

oh, love,
preach about sin, love,
tell me about the restlessness of your skin
that was tired of all that fur,
tell me about the cage that your throat was
and about your limbs that were willing
just to listen,
and you are going to ask me, love,
was dancing ever a sin?
no,
love,
but have you ever seen angels dancing?

so tell me love,
how come, mute as I am
my heart was brave enough to sing
for all the voices you had ever heard?

loose ends

I've made myself such a pretty ribbon out of all my loose ends, long, beautiful pieces of black dissolving silk, all curled in a heart-shaped knot. But meaningless, senseless words came, like moths, chewing my knot, setting all my questions free, without warning, without permission...I watch them startled, floating around me, sheer threads twisting in tiny, black explosions, all around me, electrifying, touching me as by mistake.

I just want a home.

***

am incoltit intr-un colt de odaie
si in timp ce ma dezmuguream
plangandu-ti uitarea
un cuvant mi s-a frant peste umar.
sunetul sau mi-a desenat umbra
si-atunci mi-am vazut chipul in ochii lui.

***

i'll indulge myself another cigarette today, i'll indulge us another kiss today. Tomorrow I might decide to get finally some sleep.

Ana's last thought

I lie now in my cement bed
bricks draw up my spine
I can only think of how you've never brought me flowers
of how I used to change my shadow
to match your body size
of how I used to play forgiving
while you were denying all my sins.
I'm no pure sacrifice, my darling
tomorrow you will be surprised
when you rise from the mighty dust
and your bones won't hurt,
you'll see a beautiful sun dissolving a young girl's common thoughts
and you'll forget the last brick
you've seeded on my shoulder.
by the time our pagan Christmas will come
I'll be a stone, too
and my shade of black will frozen
into a last dream, into a last thought
of shamelessly missing you.

24.12

black box in my room
with black ribbons
it is written on it
with fading chalk
happy birthday to you, my dear story
I cannot open it
I know it's you inside
naked and unwilling to talk to me
if you could only say
"I don't love you"
it would be so much easier for me
to look for you
and make you want me
but ribbons remain glued
to that cartboard your skin is
whispering
"happy birthday, my bruised justine".

presa corta

me ha robado todas sus caras
mi piel ha acabado
cierrese mi ojo, lo piden
no podria sonar solamente en blanco.

hunger

I swallow second after second
airy pills
that no longer keep me asleep
solid water
like an egg in my womb
I'll soon give birth
I eat chalk
the walls are almost ending
this cactus in my stomach
can no longer bare the desert
my needs unfold
cold sweat decompressing my limbs
my sins run naked
so does my sleep
no longer I can hide the monster
so open your thorax
and
feed me.

la nausee

Ma dezgusti.

***

you, you, who had the arrogance to look inside me, to look at that so little part of myself that I've allowed you to see and declare that you know me, you had the courage to come and say "hello" with that so familiar voice and words. as if we were old friends.have you ever seen me dancing? no. have you ever seen me dying? no. have you ever seen me crying? no. so a stranger you are. not because I don't know you. but because you don't know me. so , please, say "hello" as a stranger should.

amounts

it took the cut of several knives to make my body inherit life
and it took a man's hands and words to make me kill my other self
and dream in pastels
but still with fear.
I retained that privilege
since we seemed to enjoy so much theorizing your anxieties.
enough is not enough if there's not plenty of it
and I had enough of you
not to desire for more
but there's wasn't plenty of you for me
not to need more.

futility

what good in standing in this skin and waiting
if there's no you for me to wrap my limbs around?
what good in sharing kindness to others
if there's none of you here
in this great, great room of my soul
to balance my existence?
I've got moist cinnamon soil on my floor
and pieces of blue velvet sky on my celling,
jasmine tea pours on my neck and shoulders,
but if you don't have the courage to enter
what good in growing roots to all this?

little guevaras

we draw lines. moist graffiti on old buildings. we write that so obnoxious street poetry. we have long hairs and short skirts. we preach for the holly sweet tomatoes and the raw and fresh cucumbers. no funky instant dressing in our 100% ecological salad. we mock. we extract the vocals from the shriek of bombs. we rip and prick them swollen bellies with our compassion. we write the new Evangelia with a www. in front. we throw bottles in the crowd. plastic water wrapped in mineral bottles. we save ideas. such great jesuses we all are. we stick our crosses with sticky superglue and eat burgers. we give birth to great revolutions with a little help from a six pack. we suck red from a bloody marry. we point the finger but we have two others crossed. we have our little red stars on our t-shirts. and we don't stay on line to buy a loaf of bread. we screw the system. and we feel good. fuck it real hard in the ass. and feel good about it. too bad we can't see that the system is kind of gay and it kind of likes it.

saltimbaco

I cannot stay still
my eyeballs bounce between red and violet
as I glide back and forward on this arc
my circus in the clouds
explodes in multicolored glass drops.
7 ways to deceive a thought,
twisted in this garden of desires.
I cut my fingers once
and poppies cover your bewildered lips
I cut my fingers twice
and tropics move to the north pole
I cut my eyelids
and Moses drowns in my saliva
he splits my tongue,
waves burn my thighs
for fire could reach me not.
moist psalms embalmed in this voodoo prayer,
somewhere, on a narrow shore,
between the nexus and the plexus,
I pierce your silhouette,
a tiny shadow carved on my palms.
I cannot stay still
I am a sky acrobat,
I dance on 7 strings,
no ground could swallow me,
my dreams weaved this web of air beneath me.
my mother is an axiom
my father is an answer,
still I am not a question,
but a fact.
we are impossible,
my breath would make you choke,
so let me dance on my 7 strings alley,
I shall sing you my story,
my lovers name?
that I cannot remember,
a hidden face I have inside my womb,
it will take me ten more beginnings of ourselves
to recall you,
ten more endings
to resemble you.
I cannot stay still,
this vertigo dresses my skin,
so naked I cannot be.
the sun spills its rays over my head,
a remaining of the moon I am,
yesterday is my cradle...
watch where you shine,
that is my shadow you're dissolving
watch where you step,
those are my dreams you're wandering on.
I cannot stay still.
I dance through this valley of your egos
and 7 strings keep me suspended.

colin

it was raining sand that night
wet and liquefied
its vapors crept in my lungs
cunning thing a grain of sand can be
its seed planted itself
and grew blossoming stones on the branches of my throat.

you said "I feel like crying"
but you were just willing to cry
such strange phobias a man can invent
to keep his instinct of self-preservation satiated.
a gazelle would be startled
by the dreadful mimicry of your will.
so it was raining fake tears,
expanded clouds were mocking your sterile lacrimal gland,
such a waste of gestures
your cold hands and your breath were.
you clocked off,
such a pretty good-bye you fetched for me,
or so you thought,
as you turned off the lights
clouds could no longer harm you,
"the employee of the month I am'',
you must have said to yourself,
another can of beer,
another little chat,
that simple the dissection of a special someone is.

it was raining that night
the waterlily on my left lung
was growing bigger and bigger
its white petals turned into horns
like twisted origami
pushing against my chest.

I said "I wish you well"
joyful odes and libations
rain was singing for my milky flower,
so it kept on spreading
its claws tore my tissues,
painting itself on the canvas of my muscles.
stroke after stroke,
like a lazy pagan god
it resembled you more and more.
deliriously the notes of the orchestra
blew the spheric sounds inside me
turning them into a silent vertigo.

it was raining mute words that night
a fake hero with a 7 days passing-ticket
had just finished his 5 o'clock tea on the battlefield,
he took his para solar and left.
as my Colin was going west to climb the Berlin wall,
the waterlily on my lung was laughing...

33&2

how come the snow on a grave doesn't melt?
the memory of bones keeps intact
all the violence,
all the purple dreams
and all the curtains of shadows
that have ever covered ones body.
hands never waved that last goodbye,
no promises were made
before you left.
a tiny blood spot on a white pillow was your last signature
before your eye-lashes turned stiff
and your dreams cold and unworthy.
your face, that arrogant nazi face,
vitrified,
spread shades of guilt on mine.
your body, that hypocrite hippie body dressed in dust and venom
lied there, on the dinning table
asking for tears and forgiveness.
first course, my wife
second course, that bitch my mother is
third course, my daughter.
was I a good dessert, daddy?
was the bitter flavor of my skin worthy of such an imperial feast?
you said you would have eaten earth for me, daddy,
but now the earth has swallowed you
and the ghost of a coarse ikebana watches your sleep.
saints were watching you
as if you were some sort of cheap tv show
so petty and ridiculous
but still with a 33.7 rating point.
green fields and endless blossom cherry trees were promised to you
but, daddy, we both knew that the only
never ending blossom was that of the rotten wood of your coffin.
the only genuine things you had
were a round golden chain on your finger
and a bundle of pink flesh.
but, daddy, the golden chain became a spoon
which priests use to eat their moist boiled eggs
and
that pink flesh turned violet.
and now you're a joke,
an invented name on a cross
and
an uninvited chromosome in a girls muscles.
you said that white doves would bring me home,
but, daddy, you forgot to tell me where my hut was,
on which shore the first brick was put,
and now
I sit on the edge of this cold ocean
and
I grow seashells right from my skin,
'cause you should know better than anyone
what a great fertilizer a wounded soul is.
you said that flowers would spread on my skin
and
that roses would pour out every time I would swear
but, daddy, thorns are growing from myself now,
'cause you never bothered to tell me
that ones sins become yours
once you touch him.
it felt like craving for your redemption, daddy,
when I kissed him.
it felt so incestuous
while I fucked him, daddy.
yes, don't be so surprised.
I fuck. I fuck.
just like you did.
and now
my womb is empty
because his dick is hollowing someone else
just like you, daddy,
just like your dreams hollowed my mother's.
his name is...
but you already know his name,
don't you daddy?
'cause you were there, on the corner
watching us,
watching me.
smiling while I became you.
why do I feel like I am 33 already, daddy?
I am only 22.
and
there are 11 more years for me to crawl...

puppy

raw meat growing greedily between bleeding lips
makes her swallow her inflamed tongue
and choke.
her eyelashes paint the air in shades of crimson.
she moans while she's being pushed down.
her stomach becomes one with the rotten floor.
perhaps a nail pierced her left thigh.
pieces of her are spread all over the furniture.
bones frame bits of flash.
a museum of pleasure into a room of torture
needs a first daughter to be built inside its dead walls.
an ancestral need that is.
the collapse into dirty sheets makes her turn into a wounded dog.
Jesus leaves his perfect spot on the wall and comes to me.
he looks a bit drowsy, a bit bored.
perhaps a bit stupid. lights a cigar and nods his head.
''c'mon, there's nothing here.''
we leave the room.
we walk the alley. the smell of lilac makes our silence smile,
but me and Jesus,
we both know there was a girl in that bed.
now you leave your perfect spot from the wall and come to me.
you look a bit drowsy, a bit bored.
perhaps a bit stupid. you light a cigar and nod your head.
your psalms pour out of your mouth.
they lead me far away.
the white field of guilt where my soul lies drowns in black milk
and poisoned ambrosia.
you sing me a lullaby.
I wake up with your marks on my palms.
your last kiss on my forehead was the one of Judas.
the moon throws shades of bitter red over my room.
I see her right next to me. She sits and watches the tall buildings with me.
out there, between bricks and steel, out there are people.
thousand of Jesus and Judas exchanging parts every day.
out there, a few blocks away, there is your breath preaching for yourself.
she is dressed in cinder and wax.
pale and rinsed.
but I can still see the collar of the four-legged hybrid she became.
''How could you let him do this?''
she doesn't want to touch me.
packs her skin and goes into the darkest corner of the room.
I can't see her anymore, but I hear the sound of her tongue licking her wounds.
the sound of her saliva.
''I thought...
he was going to be nice to us.''

the gallerist

such collapse into soul electricity
makes me perspire
the atoms of an orgasm
do decompose into smaller ones
each and every one of them
is an exhibit
of this large museum of my muscles
my pores frame them
the visitors are intrigued
but the grimace on their faces shows disgust.
the gallerist won't contact the artist again.
ever.
not under any possible circumstances.
such art made out of pure instinct and selfisnesh
is beyond post-modernism.

poor lil' butcher

I'll kill you
I'll cut your throat
and then
I'll bathe in your blood
and sing gospels
just because I know you're such a devoted agnostic.
I'll kill you
and then become a necrophiliac
just because I know you're so sensitive when it comes to such "complex" things.
I'll kill you
because I'm so fucking special
and I have the power to surprise you.

fading sigh

I lie on this desert
right next to the ocean
roots are growing from my soles
into the water
I spread like an old mangrove
no tsunami could crush me down.
the view on my porch is peerless
I sit on it
and look at myself mixing up with the ocean.
slide,
slide into my chamber of torture
I have my nails sharp
and my tongue dressed in venom
we could develop a particular case
of the stocklom syndrome.
we could exchange parts.
let's take this silence
and throw it on the others lips and thoughts.
break me into pieces
sail the ocean for a while and fight the sea dragons
and than come back
into this panoramic post-card I am,
remove the dust and the scratches
and
renew my skin.
I'll grow basil,
oregano,
tarragon
and marijuana
right on the sand in front of my house.
let their scent lead us
to the soul kitchen
where we'll end up
decomposing into each others flavors
so slide,
slide into my chamber of tortures
where no one else
has ever entered.

we share the same skin but not the same thoughts

''My name is Mariane'', she said. ''I am 15 years old. My skin is dirty. I have muddy fingerprints all over my body. I've swallowed a desert, so I'm now perfectly drained. My tongue licks my soul in vain. I'm spineless. My bones are moist and soft. I'm a jellyfish. Do you remember me?''
I do.

fresh meat

40 kilograms
of red meat
waiting for me to devour.
even the thought
of chewing them
properly
itches my gums.
my tongue drowns
in soft saliva.
the bitter poison
makes my fangs
shatter impatiently.
each joint
I
gobble up
makes my pharynx
ecstatic.
the sound of
chewing,
crunching,
and
splashing
is
pure eurhythmy.
why should
I
bother to think of
the nausea
and the loathing?
each pleasure
ends up
in abhorrence.
bulimia
makes no exception.
it tastes so good.
better than pork,
beef,
mutton,
salmon,
sausages,
better than anything
I've
ever had.
it feels so good
that
I
almost have an erection.
the skin
on my belly
stretches with satisfaction.
big proportions
don't scare me.
the geometry of my soul
is far too important
for me
to care for the
shallow architecture of my body.
don't bother
to prick me.
I'm
not afraid to blow.
floating on the surface
of my own shit
has always seemed
intriguing.
shhhh...
fresh flesh
and
viscera
are waiting out there
for me.
shhhh...
I
now ruminate
you
with disgust.