poiezie de siezon

Ninge foarte tare-afara

Ninge peste capitala

si nametii se facura

de sa ne intre in gura.

Dom primar e suparat

plugurile n-a intrat

nici un antiderapant

nu cazu peste asfalt

Presedintele e-n vrie

Domnu Boc zice ca stie

Din Galati la Timisoara

Iarna nu-i, frate, ca vara!

dedicata partidului si statului roman si cetatenilor inimosi care nu si-au demolat turturii de pe stresini, tovarasilor de la autostrazile inchise, colegilor de trafic cu cauciucuri de vara, oamenilor de bine care azi si-au luat liberi si privesc revolutia de la televizor.

vesti bune

Dupa Pasti, cu burta plina,

Ma-ndreptam spre jobul meu

Mai prin parc, mai pe stradute,

Vai de sunculita-mi, zau…

Si cum veneam eu asa agale, cu vintul in fata, ma asteptam sa inceapa, firesc, cum ne-am obisnuit, sa puta a urina de la “resedinta permanenta” a chinezilor din fata Ambasadei aceluiasi popor. Si n-am simtit. Si de pe podul Baneasa peste Herastrau am vazut chiar virful unui brad de vreo 2 metri si ceva inaltime, poate mai bine, ca eu nu estimez corect inaltimile. Apropiindu-ma am vazut ca si gardul de care atirnau pina mai deunazi plasticele care au fost casele chinezesti este vopsit proaspat. Si deja copiii cu rolele se dadeau pe aleea curatata. Si nici locurile de gratare si focuri de tabere nu mai erau asa vizibile. Daca rasare si iarba deja ma declar multumita. Nu stiu cine a decis ca acei cetateni sa fie mutati (la ei in tara, sper), dar a decis f bine. Si cine a pus mina, grebla si lopata sa faca curat dupa ei bine a facut. Va dati seama ce-ar fi insemnat sa dea caldurile alea de 30 de grade si sa topeasca si plasticele si latrinele improvizate prin boscheti…

Asfintit cu geamurile sparte

07.04.2009

Mi-am sarutat de dimineata pentru ultima oara

Dalele din asfalt care mi-au purtat pasii catre aici,
Stateam brat la brat cu un viitor fost necunoscut, am avut

De gand sa il intreb cum il cheama, parea de o seama

Cu mine. Ochii verzi, ca ai mei, zambetul naiv, increzator

Arogant ca al meu, de-o statura si-o fire cu mine. Dar vorbea alta limba

O limba stalcita, batrana, uitata, furata, fugita, ascunsa in cuie si intre patru scanduri

In grai vaduvita, purtata in vine, in genunchi si pe brate, vorbita in ganduri. Imi zambea.

Deasupra

Se spargeau geamurile de aur ale stapanirii sub un soare rosu de rusine

Spulberate de dalele din asfalt care mi-au purtat pasii aici, eram la brat

Eu, eu nebunul, brat la brat cu mine iar din mainile-mi rabufneau in suvoaie vorbe vechi

Si blestemele pietrei ce-a fugit din morminte, de urnitu-s-au muntii

Dumnezeu

Si cu Sfintii caci strain eu mi-am fost, unde n-au fost cuvinte,

Vreau Cuvant inapoi. Vreau Cuvant. Inainte!

G.

Darnicie

Mana intinsa a cersetorului e ca o frunza cazatoare,

Miscatoare si tremuranda, sansa ii tot aluneca de-a laturi catre

Pamant, hrana viermilor, plapanda.

Intorc privirea, nu vreau sa ma miste cumva falanga descarnata

Cuticula lemnului de fag pe care-l voi arde poate intr-o

Iarna

Indepartata. Vai tie, dar vai mie ca nu sunt, si n-am fost, nu am cum,

Posesorul caciulii in care sa se piarda darnicia lumii. Doi banuti, globi de drac,

Ce-mi lucesc indelung cu cautarea melancolica a lunii, haide, mai inchide un ochi,

Mai lasa in urma un suflet imputit, nascut in plin proces de putrefactie sau doar

Dorinta de devenire a infectiei care a cuprins lumea, un puroi in cautare

de Mantuire.

Mana cersetorului e ca o frunza cazatoare, miscatoare si tremuranda,

Privirea carbune, turba petrolifera, degetul intins a osanda.

Corners painted black

Imagination brushes up against reality, its corners painted black

A crispness of asperity just rounded-up in a ball of cotton

And then there are sins.

The sloth, the envy

The gluttonous man

A decoration of frugal temporary edge to an unedgy universe

To a most likely round infinity with its corners painted black

I have no wish to confess any sins, Father, and so

I’m back. I very much respect them, these sins of mine

An alphabet of sorrow that’s written piece by piece the song of the

Divine with no shaped regulations, just light, and dark, and shades

And memory slowly fades

It is the hill atop of which the vision gets the clearest and then the night

Will come, its corners clawed in black. The dark, deep, low embrace

That fills the heart with grace

Will sing of my return

I am not dead

I’m back.

Scrisoarea UnU

Cand cu mina morcovita sara scuip in lumanare,
Doar Antena 3 urmeaza lung-a timpului carare,
Caci perdelele-ntr-o parte cand le dai, de la salon,
Gidea-asterne peste toate serioasa sezatoare,
Stan, Ciutacu si Ciuvicul si Ilie Serbanescu:
Din noianul de iutuburi un audio file se-xtrage
Marinarul e de vina! din multimea de torace se aude!
Sa ne lase! Sa se duca! Ne-a distrus! Cu el nu-i pace!
Si refuz sa-mi iau pastila, si refuz sa ma dau dus
Marinarul e de vina! Stai, ca asta am mai spus.
……………………………………………………………………
Dar deodat-un ins se misca… cel intai si singur. Iata-l
Cum din Badea face-o bila, iar din muc ii face-o toarta!…
…………………………………………………………………..
Iar din lumea asta mare, noi, turbati de licurici,
Ne scapam vorbind pe sticla despre soareci si furnici;
Microscopice covoare, negi, nebuni si magistrati
Ne-nmultim de generatii tot la fel de cracanati;
Musti de-o zi pe-o lume mica de se masura cu drotul,
In aceast-emisiune ne-nvartim uitand cu totul
Cum ca tara asta-ntreaga e o pata cit galeata,
Si-ndaratu-i si-nainte-i numai rating se arata.
Precum pulberea se joaca in imperiul unui spot,
Mii de creieri aschilambici ce cu raza inceteaza,
Astfel, intr-a veciniciei noapte pururea adanca,
Avem trupa, avem raza, care tot mai tine inca…
Cum s-o stinge, totul piere, ca o umbra-n intuneric,
Caci e vis al nefiintei intelesul cel himeric…

Acest text este un pamflet si este inspirat de Eminescu de la Ipotesti si de Mihai Gidea de la Antena 3.

Outer rim

Insemnaturi dintr-un jurnal pe care nu l-as fi putut tine niciodata:

Signs of a fallen stone, a crack in the smile of the

Statue of Liberty

Thoughts are biting like steel shards reddening the hands of the working

Class

A bronze golem lets everybody know there is no time left

In the hour-glass. This is my consciousness, dear audience, absurd as the darwinian theater

Duelists and puppeteers, napoleons and characters from other french novelists

Like D’Artagnan and his loved musketeers, a word that rhymes with the great water

Muskadoon. That’s in India. And going to India is no sin, at least once in a lifetime. A great trip.

Maybe I’m going there soon. Maybe India is ironically the heaven for all infidels bound to reincarnate in

Cows.

And sheep.

And cats. Big cats. Enormous, gigantic, eyes bulging and claws scratching and all. Working class cats that end up in a menu at the restaurant, or yawning at the back-door of a restaurant. Alley cats. Aristocats. Sheepish sleepless cats.

Sleep. Why isn’t there sleep for sale at the outer rim of one’s life? Of one’s night? Only the sigh of the comet of Haley. Now here’s some free association for you, want some more Bailey’s?

Sippin’ it softly, do you mind me enjoying my drink? C’mon, mighty Creature, I am just exploiting a flaw in design over and over and over again. Here, for you, and then God sayeth “let there be a structure we call the benzodiazepinic receptor”. And voila! there was a benzodiazepinic receptor. Who could’ve guessed it’s just where booze likes to cuddle once it gets into my darwinian theater? Yep. Booze and Haley’s comet. Hangin’ out in my brain. My brain made in India, limited series with leather and alloy wheels. And free mileage. And free oil change for life.

I am the butter. I am the bread.

I am the knife.

G.

A dying kin

Tomb upon tombs, no trees at the stone of the effigy,

No wind to blow the candle; fire stood still; life

Eviscerated

Motionless; the creaking sound of the handle and the freezing

Cold.

So old was man. So bitter. His days unnumbered

Matched by the sands of the desert

And like the desert his numbers were, the ant of God

No builder of anthills, only carcasses for eternity

Cathedrals of a dying kin, vast symphonies of stone

For man’s awareness made man so alone

No echo of his wits in all the Universe. God left.

Rebuild God from the Sands! And make God’s hands lay dormant

On man’s forehead. Make man in sin, so God can stay for longer

The eater of the ants, the layer of the hands

Please make God stronger!

When only stone remains of madness’ testimony

When only carvings bare are words for mark of man

Look back at all the glory and think of it as

Sand, the dying breath of life in life’s own agony

And purposelessness covers the edge of the unknown

Our dying kin of starlight

Our kin is coming home

G.

No country

There is no country I can call my own, I claim it not

I’ve given up hope that memory will show

The dreams that I forgot; and what I’ve known is fog, like mist upon the tears

I’ve shed through all the miles I’ve sailed away while crossing through the years

Not lingering for a moment, not stopping at the signs I’ve climbed the walls and

Mountains like ivy on the vines and reached for highest meadows, and grasped

God by the hands. I’ve walked through distant lands and spoke strange incantations and

Savored each sensation, and loved the tingly sound of loneliness arunning, of happiness in void

I’ve jumped in all the darkness and braced the black embroiled

For me…I’ve left no country, no place to call a home, I claimed naught but my stardust

That’s sown into my own. I wished no call for moorings, I asked no weave of hands

And crossed into unknown anew as Sun still stands and cried

There is no country to stop me in my way

Yet…I’ll be back some day.

G.

Blueberry White

Blueberry white night and the stars shine like a necklace of pearls

The eye of the black shines, silvery scars entangled as the roots of

The world.

There is a willow outside my window

Its whispering leaves twisting in the fog

Shivering droplets of mist caress the breath of the titans

No sun, no light, just the memory of a time.

Just a memory of the time. Just one memory.

Just one star and its blueberry white light

Just tonight.

G.