The demon outside my dream

I woke up
in the middle of the night,
all sweaty and shaking,
And I could swear
There was a Nightmare
with a foot on my chest
Because in my dream
I couldn't breathe
and you weren't there.

I prayed then
with a kiss on your shoulder
Empusae stay out of your way
in your neverending trip
to Neverland.

Am cam atata avere,

dar am ramas fara hartii.

Am pixuri sa-mi pun si-n cap

si cuvinte cat sa-mi fac haine din ele.

Sunt facuta din idei legate

cu muschi fragili,

iar drumu-i departe

pana la magazin.

Sunt uimita sa aflu ca

Timpul s-a scumpit la Bursa.

cred ca o sa-mi scriu pe piele.

Put your masks down

Strip your shoes, your clothes,

your skin and flesh and bones

and show yourself to me.

The matter that makes you,

The energy you're shining,

The sparkles you're craving

and the ways you are dying.

I want to know you all:

the sinner, the saint,

the lover, your hate,

the kid, the adult,

your victories and faults.

Don't wake me up just yet

Through both heaven and hell                                                           

your shadow shall lead mine,

Through smoke, rainbows and tears

I really wouldn't mind.

Build cities on my naked body,

drain blood and alcohol out of it,

make music of my desperate screams,

For I would know it's worth it.

Now, for a moment,

let's not go there in chaos,

Let this 10 second dream

in our skins emboss:

You put your nice suit on,

I'll wear my lovely dress,                                         

keep the red wine coming,

let's finish it with a dance.  

Imagineaza-ti. (work in progress)

Se indreapta spre el cu pasi hotarati. Si ii zambeste de departe. Mainile si picioarele ii tremura de emotie sa-l revada. Il trage inspre ea, il imbratiseaza strans la piept si ii sopteste ceva la ureche.

     El aude metalul rece cum isi face loc printre coaste. Durerea il amuteste si o priveste in ochi in timp ce ii ingenuncheaza. Incet-incet se topeste in caldura asfaltului. Nu-si poate lua ochii de la zambetul ei. Are un zambet inocent si il fascineaza diabolicul ce se ascunde in spatele sau. Dar el nu se gandeste la nimic altceva decat la sunetul tocurilor lovind drumul ei de plecare. Nu tipa si nu se intreaba de ce. Sta intins imbratisand cimentul cu durerea intr-o armonie stranie. Degetele ii lovesc clapele unui pian imaginar si asteapta...

Dureros pentru un altcineva.

Anul trecut pe vremea asta ma iubeai. Si-mi scriai scrisori, si-mparteai luna cu mine. Telefoane siropoase imi suna in amintire. Anul trecut pe vremea asta imi scriai poezii. Under the sea, under the sky. Si-mi placea, inca imi place. Dar adevarul e ca, tu nu ma inspiri cum ma inspira el. Ai doar cararea din padure cu care sa ma-nseli.

Porcarie pseudo-motivationala

Imi port stigmatele pe strazi cunoscute si simt priviri ce-mi sfarteca ceafa. Nu m-am tarat niciodata mai demn prin praful, mizeria si scuipatul de pe asfalt. Am tot ce-mi trebuie chiar aici, in mine. Daca te uiti mai atent, sclipeste. Iar tot ce poti tu sa-mi dai, printre injuraturi si lovituri cu pumnii, nu este de ajuns sa ma alungi. Imi place aici in pielea mea, ma simt confortabil printre valurile de pacate ce-mi curg prin vene. Nebunie ce se loveste violent de artere.

Little love note.

I have my weapons not pointed at you, I left my armour in the closet. I'd burn this world down to see you smile. And put up with all your crap, if by the time you go to sleep you're still sure you love me.

I'm naked and I'm ready.

Vara femeilor demente.

Vara asta.  Fiicele lui Venus alearga haotic si tipa versuri pe strada. Este momentul femeilor care se intind pe nisip fara sutiene si se ung cu ulei parca sa-ti faca in ciuda. Soarele este eclipsat de spiritul lor. Energie inconsumabila captiva in sani mici si picioare subtiri. Noptile si berile transpirate le dau imortalitate. Formele lor danseaza lasciv mangaiate bland de luminile lunii, sub privirile perverse ale lui Poseidon. Sunt rele si nu le pasa. Sunt iele deghizate. Nu-ti fie frica sa privesti. De ce sa nu te uiti la corpurile lor goale cand sunt acolo? De ce sa nu admiri cum le curge viata prin vene atat de puternic incat stralucesc. Aurora boreala cu un strop de vodka. Nimic altceva. E vara femeilor demente. Este vara mea la fel de mult.

Pe chipul tau sangereaza inca

urmele unui sarut.

si in pumni ti-ai strans durerea

pana cand n-ai mai putut.

Ai spart sentimentele in

mii de bucatele

si-ai aruncat cuvinte

in gunoi cu ele.

Ai pielea calda, sufletul frumos;

as vrea sa te salvez

dar mi-e teama ca

nu o sa pot.

Ne-aruncam orbi intr-o

lume de muti,

si ma intreb oare,

te gandesti la ea cand ma saruti?

Cand nu ne mai ajungea tineretea, Ioana.

Vreau sa merg pe faleza. Sa stau pe o banca, sau poate o bordura, cu o tigara aproape terminata in mana.

Vreau sa ma arda Soarele pe brate si picioare. Sa transpir tot ce nu-mi convine.

O gura de Cola clocotita sa imi alunece pe gat si eu sa ma gandesc la toboganele vechi cu apa.

Oameni sa zambeasca in jurul meu, copii sa alerge dupa o minge rosie cu buline albe.

Sau mai bine, o minge alba cu buline rosii.

Si mai vreau sa fie si o prietena cu mine, ea sa imi vorbeasca, eu sa am chef sa cant. Sa se enerveze ca nu o ascult si sa sfarseasca prin a canta o data cu mine: " nu pot, nu pot, nu pot, nu pot sa cred ca tu gandesti asa urat, total intr-un alt sens, eu stiu c-as vrea sa vad mereu doar oameni fericiti, as vrea sa merg pe strazi si sa admir copacii infloriti... "

Sa ne zambim una alteia si sa ne mai facem o poza.

In dreptul nostru, la 2 metri in fata sa se opreasca un prieten imaginar sa ne faca cu mana. Sa-i facem semn sa se apropie. Vreau sa ni se alature. Sa stam pe o banca, sau poate o bordura, cu o tigara aproape terminata in mana.

Liniste (Apel pierdut 2)

Încapere pustie si rece.

Carti uitate de vreme, praful le roade coperta.

Telefonul bâzâie insistent.

Ceai cald. Azi nu-s!

Intr-un alt an, intr-un alt context

Cortina se inchide inca o data
si masca jos si-o da o stea,
Luna zambeste pentru ea
si astazi, ca si altadata.

Drama inceteaza pentru un moment
Si dragostea i se arata
fara vers, fara sa fie mata,
ca o floare rasarita in ciment.

Dar se trezeste Eros, saracul,
Si sparge, plange si racneste,
Si uita cum se mai zambeste
Pana cand se termina actul.

Tribut, imi amintesc.

Cine e cel care masoara clipa
cand infinitul este infinit,
Cine e cel care traieste viata
cand viata noastra a murit?

Cine e cel care porneste lupta
cand pacea s-a-mpamantenit,
Cine e cel care porneste ploaia
cand soarele a rasarit?

Acela nu sunt Eu, nici Voi, nici vreun zeu pagan,
Acela nu e nimeni, caci Nimeni mi-e stapan.


Dragomir Daniel - cred ca imi amintesc.

Pages of some diary (2)

I don't understand why most of the people complain about waking up in the morning. I like mornings. It's those 3 to 60 seconds when I feel like my dream is real. And I can change it however I want to. I get to choose the big finale. But the most important part is waking myself up. Deciding who i'm going to be the rest of the day. I'm a bitch today. I don't like people and I'm visualizing this scene where I am murdering them. My face is  what they're seeing in their last minute. My voice is taking away their last breath. I feel powerful. And then I stop for a second and I get scared by this feeling running thru my veins. I think, people like me are not supposed to walk freely in the park or be free at all actually. If there is truly a Hell, that is my mind. There, we don't use weapons, or fire, or ice, or hot wax, we use our bodies. Hands, feet, eyes, mouth. Because it's what makes us feel strong. It's what makes everyone else's pain - our pleasure. The power. Speaking of which, I don't have enough to get up from this bed today, or leave my reality. So i'll just stay here and spice it up a bit,  adding nakedness and sex to all these punches and bleeding noses and broken arms. And I don't even feel like masturbating today. I'd like some hot wax poured on my skin, though. Shape me into something strange. A female version of Frankenstein, maybe. Let it be according to my mood. Ugly and hateful.

Pages of some diary

I want to cry. I want to cry so hard my face swallows and I can't breathe. I want to sob hysterically. I want mascara all over my cheeks and faded lipstick on my palms. I want to cry my lungs out of my body and stain the pillow. I want to feel my hair messy and the soft satin pijamas on my cold skin. I always get cold when I cry. I don't want to get up from the bed. And I don't. I just lay there facing my left arm and all the scars I'm cursed with. I think I deserve it. I think I deserve my drama, and I deserve to die. It's not a punishment more than it's a relief. I would be so relieved. I just stay there and contemplate a cut, this time it's a clean, deep, long cut, starting from the wrist all the way to the back of the elbow. It hurts, of course it hurts, but it's a kind of comforting pain. I stare at the wound, all that blood flowing on my arm and finally on the wooded floor, feels tickleish. I don't laugh, I put my fingers into the wound and scratch the itch. My nails get dirty red. I noticed, of course I noticed, I'm just too tired to react, it stays on my mind, but I simply don't react to it. I still focus on the wound, why isn't anything happening? Why isn't it over yet?
But then I snap out of my so vivid dream and I tell myself I need to have sex. And I really need to have sex. I need some second-hand, poor quality sex. I need to ride someone's lungs out so I'd feel, oh well, not the way I'm feeling now. I stopped being ashamed about the suicidal ideas when I realized only I could hear them. But that doesn't make me feel better. Only makes me want to rip off the perfectly ironed shirt of a shy boy hidden behind a pair of nerdy glasses. Definetly younger than me. And fuck the Physics out of his brain.  So I just close my eyes and wet my fingers and let them sink into my panties, trying to amuse myself with the image of the poor virgin highschooler that's stuck in my head.

Feel this misery. This perfect misery. The rough sound of the city. Bathe in this shining dirt. It glows on your skin. Isn't it wonderful? It's like a newborn's crying and a madman's dream. Isn't it precious? It's like you have this aquarium full of rotten goldfish dancing with the fresh seaweed. You could touch it, you could smell it. You could open the box whenever you want to. It is yours. This misery -  it belongs to you. And it's beautiful.

I've heard that scream before. It's not pain, nor joy. It's not anger, nor desperation.  And I knew that for sure.I've heard it before. It makes your eyes open wider and your skin ignite. It gives you a funny feeling inside. That scream has a personality of its own. It's a different scream. It's a different person. I know, I had him living in my lungs. And he's manic. He's madness.

Resurrecting

I don't remember the cities, people's names are lost. I recall vaguely the smell. It was grass with a pinch of reality. It felt like freedom. But I wasn't infinite those days . I was far beyond it. It was knowing who I was and what I could do with myself. What mountains I can climb and what cliffs I could fly from. I had no thought of crashing. I knew what coat to wear and threw away the mask. I could even walk around naked. I didn't care anymore. And I'm getting that back.