I stuck a sword in my sun’s bubble,
so he could watch the cornfield.
His orb was not perfect.
Or my eye did not see perfectly…
Who the hull did it?
Corners in my perfect cornfield.
I am not afraid of extraterrestrials.
I am not afraid of worms, but mornings scare me.
The bubble bubbles in my orb.
The perfect corn in the imperfect field.
They ask me about meals…
Sword melted in White; like the white milk…
The cows hover around, silent, strong.
The field listens the earth:
steps in the grass—butter…
And they sing in its ear, halfwet, halflie, halfgentle
like her index caressing the mud,
the smell of regurgitated grass:
not enough…not enough…not enough…
More and more.
My golden corn.
Sun! My son! I was stupid.
I bought the sword for my knot.
The bubble bubbles…
Take care of them!
The corn is poisoned
26 martie 2004
Take care of my bags, Milady!
All I can do for you!
The left one: an-ex-multi-champion-Romanian-gymnast!
The right one: fresh-barbecued-meet-my-relatives-from-quartzwood!
2 eyes, 1 abnormal Cyclopes.
2 pens, 1 white ink and 1 coal
pen my style.
This mirror reflects me as a man.
Normal–abnormal. A man I am.
With moustache and tattoo,
It is not love
astrology and astronomy.
My bags filled up with dreams cliché.
My cell rin-gs!
Milady Milady, you are my self, my self ISH.
I am your pet Fish.
My Universe turns around your neck puss
(the kneeled Suns before Copernicus!
I promised you my inspiration…
Impossible. Too much I love life!
(yuppie! I found a rhyme for knife)
I promised me, from you, your expiration…
Impossible. I love life to munch!
Meet the gymnast
With my bags What did you do?
“the Lunch. Crunch!”
Los Angeles, 2004-03-16
Every time I was waiting for you…
I covered my head with an iron helmet
and I dressed myself in a volcano
I felt your expiration on my nape
your gestures in my marrow
your whispers in my clouds
Music. Sounds. Noises.
My favorite noise is your fingers in my hair.
Your dark swords eyes
melted in white
like closed windows
Look at me!
I am the central piece
Magma and gravitation
Iceberg burning in hell (mai mult…)
…or the frustration of the sublingual papilla
His mother was a couturierre and she knew to cook special meals for his son and his guest. Vegetables and seeds. The fruits of Atlantis, yeast of Plato’s Greece. Huge sweet cabbages, mille leaves crowded in perfect spheres. A dialog of senses, uncorked perfume bottles filled with „Cognac 4 stars” fog–tall crystal roofless towers–wet prisons for the lethargic princesses. And sushi. Without fish. Rolled meticulously by expert patient fingers. Roulette. Roulette. Dancing sushi, among the silver knives. Chef d’oeuvre for the last vegetarian cannibal. Tasted recollections of the beginning. Grass-sour-sauce of guilt. (mai mult…)
Motto: ”My uncle loves me too much…”
I don’t know how old I am
perhaps six or seconds before
in the florist-shop across the river
all vases smell like hell he is standing in a floating tub
in the middle
a central-piece on a quantity of water
my uncle is nice
my uncle is fishing
I like him a lot
he loves me too much