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Amândoi suntem nebuni
facing the dark corner
the old lady didn’t mind being
called crazy
or being laughed at for
spending her days
alone
in her small cottage
facing the dark corner
of the room and
talking to
her dead daughter
encouraging her to eat up
and grow up
and complimenting her on the good
looks she’d gained
“Oh, I bet the boys are all dropping
dead in your wake, hehe. Look
at those legs. So slim and long and
deadly. You’re a beauty
among beauties, my dear. Here, have another
one. Eat up to grow up. You’re gonna
have hundreds of strong, beautiful
children, hehe.”
The neighbors and the world
could keep calling her crazy, she
knew she was just very happy
She grabbed another grasshopper from
a jar and ripped its hind legs
and placed it
on the spider’s web
“Here’s another one, dear. Eat up
and grow up, hehe.”
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a blunt weapon
There was a time when he’d
fear nothing more
than the bluntness of the
empty bottle
his torment
his nightmare, his hell
The bottle would be
all right as long as it stayed full
It was like Lucifer before the fall
Oh, but once it emptied
then it would change completely
Then he’d see father’s grip
reverse on its neck
and turn it into a blunt weapon
that delivered its fair share
of bruises and scabs on the scalp
It never broke
like in the movies
but it surely hit harder than wood
But in the end
after all those years of standing
in its greenish shadow
he found himself thanking the bottle
It’s simple
What you don’t pick up
you don’t end up holding
He never touched a beer in his life
and certainly didn’t use
the bottle as a blunt weapon
against anybody
not even against his own father
as revenge
The cleaver was far
more effective
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love letter
Usually it was after the second pack
of smokes
that inspiration came into his soul
but today
it came after the second cigarette
And when inspiration
hit
he'd grab the paper and pen and
write letters
old style
He was a romantic
My love, he wrote, this is the 272nd letter
I write you, and its subject will be
the idea of impossibility. I think
impossibility is highly subjective, my love.
I for one can climb Mount Everest in my shorts
if I want to, but one thing I'll never ever do is
get over you. I dream you
every night. Every. Damn. Night. And I wake
up and grab the dress you left behind and I
wrap its strap around my penis like one of those
rubber rings meant to make you last super long.
I've been doing it for… a long time, love. Believe
me. A long time. So long and so tight did I
wrap the strap that I managed to damage the
veins in my penis. It's bad… I can no longer
get it hard now. At 29…
The other day I came home with another girl.
I was trying to replace you. D' you think I succeeded?
It just won't get up. And even when it did, it didn't
stay up. The girl thought it's because I
smoke two packs a day, but that's bullshit.
Everybody knows smoking doesn't actually affect
that thing. That thing is only affected by
the love men can't get past. And in my case it's
you. You. You. YOU. And I'm not even mad.
If I can't do it with you, then what's the point
of doing it at all? There is no point!
My love, you still haven't replied to any of
my letters.
That doesn't mean I'll stop writing and sending them.
I just want you to know that the red dress you
left behind… Well, it's faded now. I painted it
with unimaginable loads of white. And how could I
wash it when it still smells like you?
Well, I guess now there'll be no more of that…
But I still sleep with it on my pillow
and hold a part of it in my mouth.
I still love you, my love. And nothing will ever
change that.
P.S. The way I'll die will be with
your dress wrapped around my head
and the straps squeezing my neck. Now all the
means of self pleasure stand in that.
I love you.
He sealed the letter into an
envelope
and lit another cigarette
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Vina-i o nicovală grea
English translation HERE!
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vomiting snake
in nights like this he would just drink
in the dark
and smoke
and lie on his side and
hallucinate
about a snake vomiting vibrating colors
on a white wall
Maybe the snake had eaten paint
But it was a small snake
no bigger than a worm
and the amount of dancing colors it vomited
all over was astounding
Enough to paint the whole house
But the colors would never
stay on the things they fell upon
The colors would
bounce around and dance and vibrate
mingle with each other and
part and mix again
and the small snake would vomit some more
and it would make a sound
like babies crying
All he wanted in times like these
was to crawl over to the poor snake
and comfort it in some way
pat its head, place it in his armpit
to get warm, feed it something, rub its
belly up and down and around
But the little snake
wouldn't come his way
Not even after he split the inside of
his forearm from
wrist to elbow to invite it
into his flesh
"Fine then," he said. "Stand there
and vomit until you
die. We'll still be together one day
whether you like it or not…"
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mother forbade feeding the poor thing
there was a dog outside and it kept
barking for some reason
Ah yes, it was chained
and the chain was terribly short
and the poor animal was hungry
Mother wouldn’t bother feeding it
No, mother wanted it
to die
because it had been father’s dog,
inherited along with the
house after father died
Mother forbade feeding the
poor thing
Her child stood next to the window
and listened to the poor
thing barking outside
It was better than listening to
mother drinking and
talking ugly words with her
boyfriends
He opened the
window
and the dog saw him immediately and
barked at him
He wanted to cry
Tried talking to the creature
but it wouldn’t listen. It kept barking
“Mother would cut my hand off
if she caught me
stealing food for you.”
But he was
a smart kid
He leaned over the window
and thrust two fingers
down his throat and
vomited before the dog
It was just close enough for
the tortured soul
to reach with its tongue
and that’s what it did
and the barking stopped
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songless bird
a songless bird
that would be the nicest
name she’d been
called
the others,
far more common,
being
that little wench
your bastard kid
the little rat
useless piece of shit that came outta you
and others
She liked the term
songless bird
It was a title worthy of her in
all the good and the
bad ways
The songless bird stands
locked in her room
and knocks and waves in
the window
for she has no voice to sing
She gives silent cries to the
neighbors and
the passersby when the noises
from the other side of
her door
get too violent
or when it smells
of smoke
Which happens
every now
and then
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peace was never an option
there have been
too many fights lately
she was a
musician
and she put it as,
“Darling, we need to change
the tune.”
He was a
writer
and he shot her
and then himself
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broken toy
it was dark and
hot
and every breath entered
with salty sweat
inside the nose
the mouth was
gagged and the whole head
covered by a
black trash bag
with two very small holes,
unaligned with her
nostrils
Her skin was itchy all
over
but there was no scratching
with hands and feet
bound to the chair
She didn’t realize that she
was in hyperventilation
and it was making things
worse
After the four hours
it took him to come back to
the basement
he found the greatest
disappointment of his life
He found her dead
There’s no feeling like
paying good money
for a toy
only to bring it home
and find that it’s broken
before you get to
play with it
He broke down and cried
for a whole hour
as he sat on her dead lap
and caressed her hair
and kissed her gagged
mouth and sucked the
snot from her nose
She was beautiful
too
Weeks later he was unable to
forget her
He carried her eyeball inside
his mouth wherever he
went
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Daydreaming as a profession 