Cruising
I would like to go on a cruise with myself and forget all the zombies struggling to suck up all my juice and eat all the grapes surrounding my voice yes why not. Here’s a thing, here’s how you can get at your blood, you can cite poetry and shout in the dark like a dead spirit without leaves without cranes and bones. Whatever you do is like a blow in a spontaneous ring of fire. Everything raises to the absolute colour of your skin, everything becomes mixed with yellow and green and oranges. No reason to lie, no reason to read your wrists.
One, Two, Three
The moon is a baby-sitter who overhears any Earth-imaginary-being coaching me. Who’s cooking right now? I’ve seen the lizards roasting the zebras and converting them to Christendom. The newborn watching a show, courageously injecting the eyes of his mother, tempting and scornful. There’s nothing here like us, we’re laying embraced in a pool filled with dead fishes decrying our depleted liberty. Liberty’s a statue, nothing more. Statues are dead, nothing more. Statues and statuettes surrender humanity, petrify dreams and change windows into walls. I’ll never be a statue, I’ll burn down like a rooster eager to conquer Apocalypse and its increasing temperamental agility, a by-product of Lost Beings in search for a magnifying Truth which would split the dark into seconds and pies.
What is Imagination? It’s me, a movie with Harry Potter and selfless genes of in-existent creatures breathing the oxygen of defenceless plants moving into the dimension of animals, clicking on watches and inverting the hours like the sand clicks on the storm and moves it to the Tropic of Cancer. Sovereignty, thy name is Imagination!
Play by the Rules
I’m playing chess with one hand the same I’m dreaming with and about like Duchampsssss Oui Le Roi c’est moi qui veux le Roi Ubuntu and what is this dream about when all things are stuck into my mind that I can’t say a word about lamps? The skin is colourful, the dragon is wet. Are you nuts? Peanuts and soil wandering around, peanuts grow in the soil they are ejected in trees like ants I loved ants as a baby-ant how they called me I survived Holocaust and prayed for my elder imaginary sister who thinks I’m a thoughtful original crocodile wearing my shoes in a column of LibreOffice why do you employ computer terms in surreal constructions you know it intoxicates your ecriture bien merci beaucoup, mais je ne sais pas parler avec l’ordinateur qui pense et pense. L’avenir est ici, l’avenir cherche mes mots, l’avenir trouve mes mots dans ma maison. Il y a trois mots dans ma maison: moi, Cristine, ma-ison. Oui, nous avons une ma-ison. I forgot I had a pen in my left nail I forgot I had a biscuit in my mouth (ma bouche), a book with Breton in my head, a hand of jaws in my right foot. That’s my body – composed of stories and other bodies, growing like a peach in a multiverse, where atoms are playing hide-and-seek, people don’t try anything, they’re just pieces of flesh crying about eternity. This is my thought. Je pense, je suis. Est-ce que tu es? I won’t kill anyone with my ecriture. Maybe save a few voices, perhaps lose myself in a crumb, moist crumb offered to me by my grandma. Bon matin!
Intestines
What’s with these thin fingers lying inside my stomach as if they had never been borrowed from an animal? I like summers when I say “hot” and my fingers point to these scrambles. They live downstairs, near the liver. Different worlds, I live in a different cosmos. They are inside me, I feed them with all kinds of crap, they keep moaning – instead of an alphabet, I hear sounds like “squuuueak” or “weeeah”…it’s a bloody refined sound, isn’t it?
I befriended them while a child. I was eating worms once upon a week, a cradle of worms eaten with honey. I expect my honeymoon to arrive and watch it pass away, taking my intestines as far as possible. Grocery stores…places where men in costumes cut the meat down, slice it into ring-pieces, throw it on markets.
I’ve really smelled my intestines. They sure give me the creeps, especially when I think about so many illnesses (cancer included). I’m no hypochondriac, at least I’m not pretending to be a very realistic one (just like in Woody Allen’s comedies)… I don’t hate sick people, any more than dead people make me sick. Intestines: an ode to power – the power to subtract vitamins from junks. We couldn’t do that, unless you existed! Oh, Lord! God Bless the Intestines! And Robert Burns too!
Wicked ID
He thinks he’s the best he’s one of them terrorists doesn’t care much about animals.
He befriended Russia, India. Who is he?
The defender of human rights, the most relevant person in the whole world. Who is he?
Guess…
Black or White
Taa-na…taaa-na….
Yesterday Michael Jackson told me about his dream he wanted to check on his wife he is dead of course it was just a dream.
Yesterday Michael was sad he said “I’m so sad” he read Said and so sadistic comments he tried on my blog.
Yesterday Michael Jackson reminded me I had a meeting downstairs with Phil Collins I said “I can’t go out there. I’m too sad.”
Yesterday in my dream Michael used his brush to molest a child the child said “NO! I’m too SAD!”. Michael picked up his brush and steered it away from this blessed child of his.
Yesterday I dreamed of Michael being redeemed by the Matrix. Oh, no…the robots will be here in any second! I’ll log out later, anyway…
This is not my hand, Michael. They dream of you, you’re dead.
Michael, you’re the only one…that’s a Franz Ferdinand song, moron! And who’s this Franz Ferdinand? It’s a band, moron! Oh…this dream of you begging of my purse to send it streams of affection, to kill convalescents and redeem Michael. Who are you? Michael, angel? Michelangelo? Oh, boy!
Programming…
yes I sit next to a computer entering a, b, c <iostream> and dozens of statements nobody understands me as I breath through libraries and lines what’s the next sequence should it be a for looping or an undressed while do begin was in pascal in c there’s no beginning it’s an including main function using a header declaring variables so nice I spent some time thinking about Fibonacci and couldn’t find a way to even numbers (why are odd numbers odd?) but I was mistaken is this life yes it is a life of discovery of interrupting electronic circuits of bombing them with data and where’s poetry mister it is in the computer in each sequence in each line and thought you pour down via keyboard.
Communist Nostalgia
Romanian working class – nostalgia and laziness. Did they really appreciate Ceausescu’s regime as much as they say? Self-loathing is the wound of communism! How dare they even mention missing Ceausescu! 2010 and they miss communism! Puke! I would like to spread my vomit on Ceausescu and those fucking nostalgic proletarians!
It’s not only a question of intelligence…it’s a question of humanity – they don’t seem to know anything about Monica Lovinescu and other victims of communists’ violence. They keep on blaming the economic crisis. Philosophical proletarians…I’m all tears!
Narcissus
One summer night seagulls attacked me in their shadow I was made up then the wings blew me out however there’s something embodied in this cracked thorn they were left without any food spiders eat every piece of earth savage exploiters of ideas webs are built on structures on principles yes he was a witty spiderman with clothes on disturbing moments fearful objects unmasked gratitude each sign permeates their flights vengeful thoughts in mirrors grace medicines for birds catalogs and thrashed feet singles blooming in vain published in towels corresponding to his death oh the campaigns oh the songs oh the literacy der Mund und die Kreide phones are fitted into landscapes give me a couple of mobiles to infringe upon surrealisms and take your leaves say good bye general and his beloved wife who cheated on him with a seagull they are so short and their breaks create breaks like water cleaning knobs rushing pictures oh no those smiles which captured beauty which laid on shirts plunged into computers discouraged memories oh no this ant has no fright this man is a killer who tries the bag on tongues slipping in oceans cradles of nuts juices crates hospitalizing money and justifying slavery with lust clocks doping each fridge stove glasses please liver live for your own sake my name is narcissus I’m an author of sluggish words dumping me in silence sounds like blushing.
