there on the heavy table
i reimagine the taste
the room is small
or the world
itself for this
this small area
the room to me
is like a tongue
tasting not much
more than its own
but i believe
in the minimum
and reimagine the
of being nothing
The horizon alights like a dormant lip.
The most important thing of the day
was not seen but felt.
Joy was not in me but around me.
Like a pool of emotion, I drift from
one spill to another. Joy. Boredom. Dread.
I’ve been wandering the whole day. Looking
at things as if they were rocks covered in moss.
The clouds were protagonists .
They are immobile, the city below balloons in ripples.
The line between the lips swallows the light,
the waves and the purpose.
A delicate gulp. Swollen with twilight.
One single nerve aches.
The one whose function
is to sense life.
when you lift
as a weightless
fish in your hands
when the road
becomes your tail
as the endless
echo of the earth
when nothing else
and the eyes dance
as flies in the darkest air
within the last
pause of perception
the blood becomes
still as the shadow
on the ground;
a white butterfly
leaves your mouth
to be carried away
by the gale of
The curtain gilded by hidden source
everything is wrestling in a futile battle for birth
it is underground miasma where my eyes
fall upon like castles of music;
barely a cusp from the fountain of indifferent distribution
the memory of existing essentially empty of existence
colorless fraction of silence
floating in the stream that roams
through the anfractuosity of the event;
my toy car
the fuel of phenomena
distant but within sight
the constellation of the hunt
blue impermanent struggle
words as the indeterminate quarks of reason
my folded heart
in the plenitude of the unknown.
The axis of third world haircuts
the bland greed of vodka drinkers
the pale skin of the lonely heart
the tomato sun of the market
the prison noise of the taxi-bus
the Cyrillic insistence of the numbered floor
the deathblow in the eyes of the stranger foe
– Chisinau my jail –
the guilty joy of soaring through the clouds
the change and the chaos
and the wait.
I only dream
of filling the body with dry sand
to relegate desire to veins of darkness
flowing relentlessly towards a dragging sea –
if hands and fangs were buried in true illusion,
thirsty accidents and ultimate beginnings;
the taste of polar penumbras
to blind the eyes with totality
defoliate the skin as absurd autumns
to lay thought as a carpet over existence
and roll down the slopes of nothingness,
as the denuded birds throw off their wings
to join the worms wallowing in the mud
of my ancient heart.
Of the living
clod of reality,
the bladed streams
in the incinerated rush
miracle of memories,
the enigmatic ordeal
of existing –
in the lethargic hum