dedicated to Jason
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
family is my uncle
a central-piece in a tub with
birds barracudas and flowers
one day he told me a secret
a florist I’ll be six feet under
his tub full of birds barracudas an flowers
I am not even a woman I think
I am not even a girl
perhaps an ear around his tongue
he loves me dangerous my uncle
I’ll be a feather
I am a vase
I do not like my uncle anymore
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
The cat found a radioactive spot in the dog’s white fur.
She slept over there waiting for the ballet.
The black waiter was waiting. Naked, in the dark wall
wearing an imaginary white tutu.
Bring me a saucer of milk, boy
and a comb for teeth!
She died in a silent bark
Thinking there was a celestial song
From Orion constellation
pic from moshe&mordechai
The funerals—whenever you want—at the “swan tune cemetery”, on the burnt side of the sun