The reality conjecture. Monolithic dreamsWhen you live so long among dreams,they start shaping your realityWhen you live so long without...reality shapes you
FireIf life is a slow torture anyway,Then it is a blessing to be,From time to time,Tortured by loveAnd if be consumed,Let it be by fire
FarulFarul de piatră știecă, pe orice vreme,marea îi va fi tot timpul aproape,duioasă în timpul fluxului,mângâindu-i forma avântată din apă,și acoperindu-l în valuri înspumateîn timpul furtunilor.În ziua când marea nu va mai fi,farul va lumina în zadar,căci el nu a strălucit niciodatăpentru corăbii, pentru oameni,ci, în adâncul nopții,când soarele nu mai era să o încălzească,farul lumina marea.
Hall of MirrorsEvery time I turned an inner eyeall I could see were infinite reflections of myselfin cold mirrorswith no flaws But now I've started to replace each mirrorwith an imageof youand I smileeach time I turnan inner eye
HomesickThey say home is where your heart is.Right now I wonderif that means I am away from home,lost on the roadbetween here and there,or that I amhomeless.
Cronologie IAș fi vrut să te întâlnescîntr-o primăvară luminoasăcu cireșii în floaresub un cer albastru și înalt.Aș fi vrut să te găsescînainte ca toate războaielesă sape brazde adânciîn fruntea și sufletul meu.Aș fi vrut ca rănile-mi toatesă fie închiseși când mă zgârii noaptea pe spatesă trasezi dâre noi pe o piele fragedă.Aș fi vrut ca tu să nu-mi fi simţitmirosul de tranșee, de închisori,de frică și sudoare, saturatecu sânge închegat și vechi...Dar în spatele armuriiîn spatele rânjetului sticlos și nebunîn spatele cicatricilor și oaselor rupte și sudate cârnsunt un orfan visător, alb și deschis,și palmele ce au mânuit atâtea armeși au adus pierzanie atâtor
Ash and SnowThe sun goes outYou close the doorAnd sounds subsideIn your dark roomAs we collideDown on the floorWe lay embracedInhaling slowCocooned in glueIn your dark roomI lay on youLike ash on snow
RozeAm văzut niște roze întunecate, cu spini,Le-am atins și m-am rănit,și am mers mai departe...Am văzut niște roze de un roșu aprins, cu spini,Le-am atins și m-am rănit,și am mers mai departe...Am văzut niște roze albe, fără spini,și am trecut mai departe...
MutantHear me read itI am a mutant. | My skin does not sallow in the sun and I do not blush jaundice through my cheeks. | I do not have extra fingers, or toes - although my spine; it boasts an ironic vertebrae, it is a long tally of the hearts I have broken and when I straighten my spine the bones Pop out of place. I am out of place. | I do not have a super power, I lack exceptionality in all but my ordinariness. | there is a vengeful bacteria feasting - on my shoulder places; betwee
Lilac II - tankaa star-glow connects their breaths -a river path. in lilac light she forgets to sigh.
Andromeda Callingsome dull scrapeover a pretty facegive or taketo put me in my placenaked, beautifulswallowed by the seaisn’t it a pity?I’ll break my chains and then(queen of queens, ruler of men)I’ll stake my claim over whole galaxiesfoolish to think that you could offer me(wasn’t it?)Andromeda callinga mouthful of starsand a handful of batteriesby fits and startswe’ll conquer their batteriesflying powerfulover messes of artillerysee their scales gleamI’ll break my chains and then(queen of queens, ruler of men)I’ll stake my claim over whole galaxiesfoolish to think that you could offer me(anything)Andromeda callinglisten closeI won’t be your scapegoatI don’t carewhether you sink or floatI’m not interestedin playing the maidenI’ll rescue myselfI’ll break my chains and then(queen of queens, ruler of men)I’ll stake my claim over whole galaxiesfoolish to think that you could offer me(to anyon
Talk Therapyby LJ Last night I dreamt of my therapist. Yeah, I go to a "talk therapist," one who has a PhD in Psychology, and I tell her my troubles and she always says, "You have to make boundaries." But how? I went to an Outpatient Behavioral Program many times to learn boundaries. What you learn about is cutting or starving or ex-junkie behavior, plus several other ways people act out trouble. Once I even ran off with a guy I liked there at lunch time. We went to Reno and got married, and drove at speed to get back to the Program and tell everyone. We were kicked out, but so happy for a while. Not long. No boundaries. So last time I saw my talk therapist, I asked if she had to keep taking courses to keep her PhD ("yes") and if she had her own therapist ("yes"). I wanted to turn the subject off me for once. All I do is whine and it sounds the same. I think it started in my youth, because my brother is barely a year older than me. We had nothing between us but a little tim
I, ApostropheLabel me the apostrophe.Providing union propheciesand communion playsto quench your exotic fixationsof fidelity.Coaxing your child-caliber -outthrough coated girth and doubt.Naming off syllables of sitcomstill re-runs act as lungs -breathing mediocrity as geniusand sewing smiles securely to your lips.Undoubtedly, the quill tip sipsthe prayers you pray for mebecause no man's sonnet reeks or bleedssuch as this nomad's need.Ignorantly, my bliss poises your beautyand admits that I -am your sole apostrophe.
Six Word Stories - Life, LoveNaturalThe rainbow dripped colours of happinessLossThe newspaper read, folded away, goneLeavingThe suitcase packed to the brimLeftHer hair tore out in bitsSunlightDances slowly across the spiders webDepressionNowhere to go, a lonely roadScareCold snow, dry ice, black curveThe InternetLove, Happiness, Sorrow, Peace, Education, ChangeThe Camping ManHe had never seen the internetOn her deathHe reached for a strand hairTrue LoveSign a death certificate for twoLoveMy head is on backwards, happilyLove songsSound sweet -- to those in loveLost love SongsMy heart bleeds, turn it offYour leavingSent shivers down my inner soulThe nurseHeld hands, as she faded awayMy dogs deathI felt her soul, disappear awayLost loveBeing busy -- puts off the agonyLost love questionsAsking people, who have no answersThe Brady Bunch MagicLied to us, it wasn't true
Jealous WatersPale twilightfrosted the waters;nymphs sigh, jealous of Pan.
InconsequentialSuch an irony, to be so close to you,so accidentally intimate. So sad those costumeswe had borrowed, disguises for those whootherwise might have recognised our shades.If only the moment had supportedthe depths of our hidden agenda, if onlyour potentiality had exploded around us.As I departed you proffered your hand,I felt your transcendent smile. Youturned your back, for your next assignmentwas closing in on you. I walked awayas the door was closing behind me.
the consequences of walking in circlesThe lady wore black and her eyes shone gold,veiled face and veiled intentions, a smilein her right hand, a dagger in her left.Slicing with either in confident stridelike the sea-breeze slices across the morning airand the ocean of her heart bled,beckoning with wave after wave of depths untold.When first I gazed upon lascivious lips, I pinedfor the days of old, I dreamed of songbirds.I spoke in languages forgotten. (or maybe never learned.)I learned quickly the dark plays tricks on the mind.She spoke, her voice was a shadow on the night's breezecarried away on a landslide of eluvium. Her teeth were sharp,and strangely intoxicating. Her scent, like gentlest whispers,spoke to me of nurture and reminded me of death.Her pupils were impossibly large. She smiled,and I felt my will unfold like petals and fall away like leaves.She stripped me of my outer bark, it fell away in clods of excuses.I was adrift in an illusion of confusion. And her final wispy wordsstill echo in wha
ThursdayRumors of tumors, chatty neighbors, the grateful deadA broken swing on a deserted playgroundAnd bones; oh, the bones that pile up, more everydayThursday I had nothing to sayA weak and pale moon glares down at the snow, impotentStars in motion whisper my star-name, callingTiny spiders build homes in my beer-soaked brainThursday I had nothing to sayPizza or Chinese for dinner? I can't hold a thoughtCraftsmanship went out on a three-hour cruiseThrough the swamplands of South Carolina in the rainThursday I had nothing to sayA brass-toothed journeyer shines a light in dark cornersNudges and pokes at the beasts sleeping thereScraps of re-arranged words piled with the bones rot awayThursday I had nothing to say
Baby's lullabyall of the children went to their beds,a soft starry light guarding their heads;hush now baby, don't you weep,silence is just music put to sleep.
caring for p(o)etsscribbling down vicious verses ontissue napkins while seated atthe corner of a sidewalk cafe isabout as romantic, raw andhonest a p(o)et -outside of the four corners of your bedpost-can getif you've got that person dreading overdrafts and dreams on end -of you, for you-consider yourself a new ownerit is now time totame this p(o)et's perverse maneyou've got your hands ona fragile purebredwhich can be very tricky forfirst timers
I will remember for youDo you remember;It was September and I was seventeen.I was gnarled into the corner of a busMithering away at my gloomy mood;Trying to shake the oppressive landscape in my mind.It was unexpected.A blow,A shock.It was unexpected to see you there.You were folded primly onto a bus shelters seatWith her hand enveloped in yoursYou both lifted your other hands, synchronised,And waved to me with your familiar smiles.I was surprised.Was stunned.Was overjoyed,I was surprised to see you there.Your grey hat tipped so rain slipped offAnd her glasses whitening with the steam of her laughI just looked at you, gluttonous,I absorbed every detail of that moment.It was unexpected.A blow,A shock.It was unexpected to see you there.But there you were nonetheless,Eighty years old, clasping hands awaiting a busMy eyes leaked they were overfull of the sightOf two people, quietly, silently in love.I was surprised.Was stunned.Was overjoyed,I was surprised to see you thereAs your
ScarsSee the sharpness of my tongue-nibAs the metallic taste in my mouth draws outA barking cough, forced outBy the dirty nicotine lining my lungs.See the blade of stubbornnessThat slices across my cheek bone;An amalgamation of all the times you pushed me.See the residue in my eyes,The remnants of all those times you forced meAnd I forced myself not to cry;Those tears condensed into a thick blinding syrupThat colours all things red.See the crinkle in my nose,The wrinkles on my heartAs I remember how you didn't love me. (Don't love me).See the burns on my psalmsAnd fingerprints singed offBy all the times you called me nothing.See the manacles, the barnaclesThe mutations and tumours.See the invisible scars of the Battle of Us.
O altfel de corabieDac-ar fi existat un sărutar fi fost cu siguranţă Sărutulpe care ţi l-ai fi smuls de pe buzeşi l-ai fi închis imediatîntr-o sticlă de vin goalăpe care ai fi aşezat-o apoiorizontalpe o etajerăsă te-ntrebe toată lumeacum de a-ncăput un asemenea sărutîntr-o sticlă atât de mică,dar mai ales,de unde şi-ar putea cumpăra şi ei una.
you!you!vagabondfaeriewhirling brightblinkingbluegrindingdiamond dustbeneathyourheels—witchharlothussyhoydenwhoreyour eyesglintinglikecoinsas youtwistcrackpivotpopswirlin afrantic,mystichabaneraand god damnbut you'rebeautiful
Styrofoam BreathA new sun rises, A day has dawned.The tables have turned And the curtains are drawn.Static faces in blank disguises, Two suns can't set before another rises. Gazing to the unknown horizon,My whole world is torn.Flowing from her eyes and into mine, Prospects are reborn. The vision forever lingers:Hair clasped in rigorous fingers. The sky was murky,Two drops of color lost in a glass.Stirred once and left...Left to sort things out with the amorphous deep. Frail foundationsWithout fair warning,And angels at nightHave never dreamt of morning. Expressionless smiles,Wrinkled, cracked plastic... Hollow words neither believes.
A naibii hartieO inimă de hârtie.Sânge de cerneală ar trebui să adaug, dar nu. Sângele meu e normal.Doar... o inimă de hârtie. Nu mai e nevoie de nici o altă metaforă. Asta e de-ajuns, pentru că nu e o metaforă.E adevărat.Am o inimă de hârtie.E ușor de îndoit. Ușor de rupt, ușor de pătat. Și are mult prea puține momente când taie și e feroce.Nu poate fi folosită la prea multe.Nu e de gheață, dar nici nu-i caldă. Nu e din piatră, dar oricum n-are viață.Dacă respir prea adânc s-ar putea s-o mototolesc. Dacă fug și fac efort, s-ar putea să se șifoneze. Dac-o apropii prea mult de căldură s-ar putea aprinde.Și ar arde și s-ar face scrum.Pentru că e hârtie.Iar hârtia e ușor de rupt. Ușor de pătat. Ușor de îndoit.Ar fi frumos ca acum să scriu ni
ZenSometimesIn the zen gardenRocks contemplate people