Sugar Sandwiches.

I remember the times when I used to cut large crooked slices of white, wooden bread and cover them in a richness of sugar, my mouth already watering. I would proceed to eat them one by one like precious candy stored in a dry cupboard throughout the whole winter. There was nothing sweet in the house, back then, and I always ached for sweetness. I shuffled up and down the cold kitchen floors, opening cupboards, looking into glass bowls, foraging for cookies, candy or anything of the sort. Imagine my deep pleasure and sweet taste of victory when I came across an old box of chocolates, stored for gift-giving purposes in the dark far corners of the dusty buffet. I also remember that the kitchen was forever covered in a thin layer of grime, the furniture was soiled and old, letting off rotten smells of ancient foods and cooking accidents. But I couldn't tell back then. I had no notion of it and no term for comparison. It was home and I accepted it as such, bathing in the daily slime. When I grew older and moved away, leaving my sugar sandwiches behind and my toy kitchen with dirt cakes and the cats and the garden full of chickens and vegetables and my favorite spot on the windowsill, when I moved into a cosier place with different food and cleaner beds, I used to hate going back. I despised the dirt and dust of the old house and couldn't stand sitting around more than three days in a row. I felt the filth crawling on my skin like ants or like memories and I wanted out, back to comfort and my private life. But breaking away from my childhood house was always a painful experience and I could feel my heart sinking every time I got on the bus and hit the highway to my new home.

The Oceans Inside

We carry little oceans inside

That rustle like leaves and grow thick,

Thicker even when you are loved.

To follow their waves and let yourself be carried away,

Mounting with their intensity and collapsing in foam,

Is maybe essential wisdom from the past.

This is where the stuff of tears comes from

And where we drown ourselves

when we grow bored with the world.

Dreaming in Collages.

The best things about cities

are lights and shop windows.

To make dolls dance,

One must possess magic.

And it's only now that I realize...

I stopped looking people in the eyes.

Brooding over the law of gravity:

Why is it that I always have to fly back to you

like a moth into light?

S.

Your world weighs heavily around me,

an uninvited augury from the past,

warning me, as sour as morning light,

that I shall be through,

just like you.

As brilliant as your chanting voice

and full

I follow the trails carved by your feet,

bare and against the world,

squeezing stares from strangers,

my German Goddess.

Your small unsparing eyes,

tiny chaos of self-doubt,

and I believe I fear losing love just like you.

Spot the Famous Thinker

My closest friend and I were taken to this game by the fourth-grade teacher, whose name was Miss Clark and who we were madly in love with. The structure thus was a receptive one, waiting, like a girl in love, ready for its future meaning to marry and fecundate it. That there is a love of weakness is no doubt the essence of love. But love has nothing to do with sex drives, if not in the libidinal look of our contemporary culture. Nothing is more human than the love of abstract forms. This success must alert us to a mythology of Love which probably still exists.

Ahimsa means infinite love, which again means infinite capacity for suffering. Loss of love and failure leave behind them a permanent injury to self-regard in the form of a narcissistic scar. Love disappointed in its excess, and especially love deceived by the fatality of death, has no other recourse but madness. And the man who has the spirit of harmony will be most in love with the loveliest; but he will not love him who is of an inharmonious soul?

What is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil.

* amongst the right choices: Bakhtin, Barthes, Baudrillard, Chomsky, Derrida, Foucault, Freud, Gandhi, Lacan, Nietzsche & Plato.

About the Lights Inside and Outside.

Our breath falls lightly around, careful not the disturb the corpse between us. We tread softly and listen to the buzzing sounds. We sometimes jolt and clash like quiet bursts of wind, or we explode in lights, ricocheting from one another's skin like pearls of clear water on glass.

There is not much left for us here, but the huge breathing monster of vapor and fetid smell that swallowed our stories ravenously. And when they are retched back in empty halls and buildings, our teeth screech and our hearts sink.

I feel like I should point my flashlight straight between your eyes and enter you in waves, by way of blood, dying to find a little trace of hope, rotten with the long wait, but vibrating and warm.

I'm discharging my lights on the pavement, tired of their weight and vacuum. And I lock myself outside my body, confident that you are waiting in the shadows so that you can collect what is left of me and carry it home.

Loving Each Other Across the Distance.

They loved each other so much that,

when they jutted into one another,

they could hear the sound of broken ribs like glass.

They loved each other so much that

they used to lie in bed, motionless, for days in a row,

not touching, tired and bored with all the lovemaking,

staring and staring at each other, piercing through their skins,

getting inside by staying still.

They loved each other so much that

they used to leave the city unexpectedly, on hot summer nights,

throwing away old habits, jobs and friends,

riding the highway endlessly, smoking pot in the darkness,

by the fir trees or the cactuses.

They loved each other so much that

they would hate each other more,

fighting desperately, pulling at each other with teeth and fingertips,

practicing for a degree in violence.

They loved each other so much that,

when they fell apart,

they could hear the sound of the other's voice across the distance,

even though they were miles and miles away,

on highways, in public restrooms, having coffee,

or working in dimestores.

They loved each other so much that

she had to say stop

when things became too real to bear.

They love each other so much that

He now lives in Seattle with a broken car and dreams,

And she's working nightshifts in a supermarket,

thousands of miles away,

tired and mechanical, hopelessly dreaming about sleep.

Poem

The woman hanging from the 13^th floor window thinks it’s a good day to die.

 

She says

 

Those bastards fooled me again. I thought it was candy.

 

I won’t give in today. They always put on their basketball shoes and beat me to the ground.

 

This is a movie. This is just a movie.

 

I’m lost. I’ll have to think good thoughts…think good…think thoughts…think.

 

Think cherry trees in bloom. And a brand new view over the world.

 

No, the train was way too close. I couldn’t have helped her even if I tried.

 

I’m such a commie. I have no sense of private property.

 

I’m wondering whether the cars will get here soon enough.

 

The city will evaporate once the air gets into my eyes.

 

I want to be back in my parents’ house. It was nice and cozy. And we had cable tv.

 

I should’ve quit smoking earlier and use the money for something better.

 

She looks so pretty in the morning when her eyes are still glued together with sleep.

 

Remember me when you’re gone. I’m gonna provide you with bucketsful of panic in your dreams.

 

I thought this road would never be over. 

migrating on the inside.

I am the parasite who lives 

on someone else's dreams.

Berlin

I would like a poem to be like a photograph
Showing a distant contour in the sky,
Non-descript and out of focus.
The dusty spots will be the messy words,
The coffee-stains will be what I fear most,
The light leaks will be the memories
that keep my nostalgia intact,
The dark edges will be the dust
that collects behind my eyelids on rainy days,
The colors will be the thing
that brings me home to an empty house,
And the silhouette in the distance
will be love,
Because my poem will be a love poem.

Unlocked

We are carried towards the engine
And that’s when logic breaks
To make room for brilliant new periods of pain.
We are carried towards the engine,
We are folded by the circular air movement,
The force is sucking us inside in slow-motion,
Although we fight and pull back every time.
We are carried towards the engine,
Which projects strange shadows on the walls
Of our e-mails and archives,
Broader than the real, tragic and sometimes grotesque.
We are carried towards the engine,
Which got overheated a long while ago.
The air is heavy and torn into glorious rags
That remain stuck in the back of our throats
When we try to inhale.
We are carried towards the engine,
The engine that will either stop working
Or kill us both.

Getting back to you

So, if my theory's true...neah, doesn't matter if it's true or not or whether someone thought about it before or not...that people feel the need to have children because they want to recapture this part of them that was lost somewhere amongst the dust and speckles of childhood, then we're on a crazy ongoing race that distances us from ourselves; we don't want what is given to us first hand, but we wanna run back back back to something that can never be recovered, because IT NEVER EXISTED in fact...it's imagining for the sake of imagination...it's wonderful, I love it to death, it's my only way out sometimes, it's this intimacy that we manage to establish with some random moment from the past that becomes so dear to us afterwards. It's reaching deep into ourselves, getting to the core of ourselves, indulging in ourselves and making love to ourselves. Same with writing, which is perhaps an option for those who can't cope with humans...I, for one, admit that I am terrified out of my mind by the present, which is just a sign of the future that will come. Terrified I am, but not in a cowardly way; it's a sort of dignified fright...the kind that invites people over for dinner.

Message in a Bottle

I love you.

...

Lately, I wake up and go back to sleep again because I keep having dreams about you and we're happy in them. The way I see it, if this goes on, I will reach a point when waking up will become really useless. So if you ever happen to hear that I am in a comma, know that I let go.

In the Open

How weak they’ve made us, how hypersensitive.
They burst our heads open and stuffed cottonballs of fear inside,
Then stitched the wounds with insecurities.
How frail they’ve woven us, how unprepared.
They left us to ourselves, locked in a hard shell,
So that our stitches wouldn’t break.
They estranged us from the world so as not to get hurt,
And kept us quiet so as not to exhaust ourselves and fall ill.
They loved us to death, until something actually died inside us.
They sucked out our courage to experience the new,
They built fences, played games, enforced the fences,
They wanted us to be theirs forever.
And here we are, my dear, we broke away from them,
Yet they’re still a fundamental part of us, our grounds,
Onto which we build this blur that barely resembles life.
We’re like abandoned babies by the side of the highway,
Hopeless, waiting to be fed or die,
In dire need of some assistance.
Naked, without the proper back-up,
Our bodies are loaded with fear and
Our wounds are stitched with insecurities.
And the cars, they’re cruel machines, my dear.
They’ll pause to admire our beauty and then
They’ll take advantage of our weaknesses
Because the highway belongs to them.
It is exactly what we fear, honey, and this is what we’ll get.

She hits me with a flower

"I washed my hair with diamond powder.
I'm gonna sparkle like a girl's best friend",
she said,
and passed away just before sunrise.
The house was growing increasingly silent
in her absence,
So I got in the car and drove to nowhere.

One more, one more

Love is when the heart collapses onto itself.

Old one, no-longer-reliable one, yet, good-enough one.

In our modern age of sickness and aloofness,
the world may seem far too wide and out of control,
with polite machines and automatic feelings,
bolting out the sun from our inner charcoal sky.
And as the times of dreaming and rhyme
are languidly suffused by this ridiculous fast-forward movement,
just like some minuscule fragments of sand and dirt,
we watch the world go up and down in dumb surprise.
Yet, there is this remnant of the days of hope, called l.o.v.e.,
And, before we die of old age and disease and stupid accidents,
I say, perhaps it’s worthwhile
taking it out of the box of imaginary beings,
brushing its patterns and streams a bit,
adding some hope and madness to its countenance,
and applying it as a warm, soft shell
to our disguise.

Statement of Purpose

I am of the unsettling sort,
The uncanny curled up in your spine.

AnorexiaNervosa.

Break up with your boyfriend. Smoke a cigarette. Break up with your girlfriend. Inflict pain on your lower limbs. Break up with your boyfriend. Hate all people for one day. Break up with your girlfriend. Play some forgotten tunes. Break up with your boyfriend. Contemplate confusedly the free time you’ve got on your hands. Break up with your girlfriend. Lock yourself indoors and read anything you can get your hands on. Break up with your boyfriend. Build a shrine to your favorite author. Break up with your girlfriend. Finally enjoying life. Break up with your boyfriend. Dedicate the rest of your life to your favorite author. Break up with your girlfriend. Decide to take up piano lessons. Break up with your boyfriend. Getting to know the friendliness involved in loneliness. Break up with your girlfriend. Go out with people that you don’t even like. Break up with your boyfriend. Starting to consider your other options. Break up with your girlfriend. Realizing that the other options bore you to death. Break up with your boyfriend. Order some pizza and wolf it down your throat. Break up with your girlfriend. Take dumb photos of your feet. Break up with your boyfriend. Comb your hair in all directions until you fall asleep. Break up with your girlfriend. Watch some porn. Break up with your boyfriend. Stare intently at black-haired people in the bus. Break up with your girlfriend. Have sex with many differently colored people. Break up with your boyfriend. Take long strolls through the city in hope you’ll bump into prince charming. Break up with your girlfriend. Get bored of having sex with many differently colored people. Break up with your boyfriend. Give up the strolls and roam the pubs. Break up with your girlfriend. Start to believe in God. Break up with your boyfriend. Go to a cat cult meeting. Break up with your girlfriend. Give up God and take up alcohol. Break up with your boyfriend. Seriously considering moving to a different country. Break up with your girlfriend. Wallow in the sour smell of your own body. Break up with your boyfriend. Go out with your ex-boyfriends. Break up with your girlfriend. Start to envision yourself as Napoleon. Break up with your boyfriend. Decide to go gay. Break up with your girlfriend. Taking into consideration the possibility of becoming gay but quickly forgetting about it. Break up with your boyfriend. Get another boyfriend. Break up with your girlfriend. Get another girlfriend. Repeat and fast-forward.

Idealistic definition of love for the day

Love
is when
the sight of your lover's
hair curled on the soap
bar in a morning bathroom
doesn't disgust you at all,
but, on the
contrary,
delights you as a remnant
of something that belonged
to your bed
just a while ago.

Phoenix, Arizona

The sadness that you see reflected in my eyes
...that you identify with, because you have it too,
that you hate because it disrupts your careless bliss,
that stirrs your empathy and compels you
to call me all kinds of silly names to make it better,
or that scares the shit out of you because you can't control it...
That is a remnant from childhood and it's actually loneliness.
The kind I've learnt to live with since very young,
Upon discovering how painful it is to be aware all the time.
I am in love with it,
More than I'll ever be with any of you,
Because it is mine and it belongs to me
in a more acute sense than anything else will.
I am possessed by it.
I can feel it vibrating each time I enter an empty room;
It rubs on me and sticks with me all day.
It sharpens my intuition and enables me to experience your feelings.
It is like a huge redolent animal that covers the sun with its warmth.
It helps me measure the distance between people.
But it is fiercely jealous and it diverts me from you,
It wraps me in its manifold wax strips and keeps me still,
It closes my eyes on streets, sore with faces and the wind.
It will bewilder and enchant you, of course,
and it will make you fall in love with me
On false pretense.
Far away, somewhere, everywhere,
Maybe in the desert,
But it will stay faithful to me.

Richter

I close my eyes
and the billowing city takes over
smudging the inside of my eyelids with grayness
the kind that refuses to come out of the fabric.
The swelling leaves marked traces on my skin
that make me sneeze each time I go round corners.
Everything seems to have changed.
The trees that were no longer here when I was born
have grown taller than before.
All but the color stays quiet.
And they talk in whispers,
as if they know the truth but are afraid to let it out.
The lights no longer blare with anger
They soften their tones in a desperate attempt to survive.
And I am floating,
Walls collapsing inside with the sound of broken glass.
My breath falls short and I forget to let the air in
While I apply myself whole into the song.
I think you can write a symphony by collecting
Air in the palm of your hand.

My moment of blithe wonder

I think my feet are getting smaller by the day.
Oddly enough, my socks don't fit anymore.
I guess I will soon be forced to throw away all of my shoes,
the purple ones that I wear on Wednesdays,
the white-heeled ones that make me sad,
the blue-tinted that give me a sense of safety,
and, with great distress - the blacks that always feel like heaven.
I'll borrow my mother's next and enjoy them fully.
And when those will turn tight and unpleasant as well,
I will simply have to visit the kids' store
so that I can stick my feet into pink-laced toys.
And then, when kids' shoes won't fit my feet,
I'll have to wrap them up in tiny pieces of cotton,
The kind stuck on the sticks with which you clean your ears.
And one unexpected day - poof!, they'll dissapear.
So I'll just resign to the thought that
I will have to carry my body, on my hands,
And crawl through the streets,
Hoping that one day,
my feet will grow back.

No more dying on my TV

Why oh why oh why do people always have to mention death in conversation as if it's a completely newfangled concept, just coined by a scientist a few days before?

Sweetie, be careful when you cross the street. This girl, a girl your age, was just killed in the middle of the intersection yesterday. So what she was my age? So what she was a girl? Does that link her destiny to mine in any inexplicable way? Does her life have anything in common with my life, apart from the fact that we're both girls and in our 20's and perhaps brunettes? Where's the wonder in it?

Plus, people seem to believe that my special personal hobby is to wander in the middle of the streets with my eyes closed, hoping to be struck down by a car. NO. I am careful, I've seen cars moving back and forth at surreal speed on the city streets. Yes, I am aware of Death. I've seen it and I know what it does to you; at least in this world, I do.

It is indeed an unsettling phenomenon, you'll have to grant It that. Yet, why oh why oh why tell these stories again and again, relishing every bit, with fear and sadness brushing your face? This girl was struck by a car. This boy was found electrocuted in his house. This old lady forgot the gas turned on, fell asleep and died. This man was struck by lightning as he stood in the rain under a tall tree. This woman was beaten and raped and killed as she returned home, late at night. This child fell over the window while he leaned forth and stretched his hand to catch a butterfly. I know! These things happen EVERY DAY and EVERYWHERE, on every street, at every window. Stop making such a big deal out of it, it's sickening, vulgar and mundane. Just get over your fear of dying and let us be.

Anyway, if I ever happen to die in a stupid accident, please read this at my funeral!

Stuff of Dreams

She drenched the air with her polystyrene presence,
As she wandered towards me,
Head in hands, hair between her legs.
The air bounced back and forth between us,
Blanking glances, muting fragrances.
Hers was of rotten plum, mine airy.
She had my eyes and skin whiter than death,
And she was quiet,
Her hair dragging down like horses,
Merging with a shade darker below.
She put her ear to the ground, stood up
and crossed the street.
As if in a daze,
toes brushed the cobblestones with marks of the day.
I knew she needed me,
so I let her come near.
And while I waited,
solid, emptied of screams,
She drew closer.
Her breath lingered on my forehead,
warmer and somehow lighter than mine,
so unreal that I stretched my hand forth to grasp it.
But she drew back and everything went purple.
I had to turn my head away
so I won't see her exploding body
under the wheels of a passing Cadillac.

...

I had my best dream in ages.
She drenched the air...
I should have taken a picture.
Damn.

Annoying comedy sketch for when I'm famous and an actress

Cordelia: Hi Humbert!
Humbert: Cordeliaaa, what an amazing encounter!!! I never thought I would see you again! Oh, you look wonderful! Just wonderful! Have you been exercising? Uh, uh, uh, perhaps a little bit of yoga? Uh, or that kama sutra thing? huh? Or, perhaps you joined the AA? But, truly, dear Cordelia, you look a b s o l u t e l y rejuvenated! Let me see! Oh, what firmly-looking buttocks! Can I, perhaps, test their elasticity? Their elasticty, did you listen to that, ha, oh, ha ha ha!
C: Humbert, I've come to return the newspaper that I borrowed this morning.
H: Oh. And uh...did you enjoy the 5 o'clock soap, HeftyWomen and Maudlin Men?
C: Oh, yes...I thought it was absolutely fabulous!
H: Oh...wait...you mean incredibly astounding?
C: No, I simply mean marvellous!
H: I think you want to say awe-inspiring, in fact!
C: Ok, awe-inspiring, I'll accept your suggestion, but I will also call it awesome.
H: No, no, no...I don't think that's quite right...You may have meant, perhaps, extraordinary?
C: No, Humbert, I just wanted to say that it was wonderful!
H: Aha, wonderful...interesting...But what exactly makes you call Hefty Women and Maudlin Men wonderful? I would rather call it excellent!
C: I prefer brilliant.
H: NO, sensational!
C: Dear Humbert, remarkable!!!
H: Sweet-love, phenomenal!
C: Brilliant!!!
H: Astonishing!!!
C: TREMENDOUS!!!
H: SUPERB!!!!!!!!!!!!!
C: Would you like to have sex now?
H: Oh, ok.

What mental illnesses will you confess to?

Before you go to bed,
Always remember to take the world off of you.
Pull out your coat made of childhood traumas,
Take off your low self-esteem shoes,
The false dissociation eyelashes
And wipe off that ridiculous OCD make-up.
Do away with your paranoid resentful blouse
And that t-shirt that smells of depression.
Remove the insecurity symptom socks
And your inferiority complex skirt.
Take off the sexual frustration panties
And that agoraphobic brassiere,
Scrap off your favorite anxiety nail polish,
And throw away your bipolar silver rings.
Then take a step forth and look at yourself
And you will appear as you are,
A tiny pocket of skin and blood,
Filled with air.

Energy Drainer

I've got a friend who's seen too much
And lived, well, just as much.
Those stupid movies and sick books.
Forgot how to sleep or eat.
Air's enough for him to get high.
He lives more lively in dreams.
He's dizzy, incoherent, extreme,
A lunatic,
Enjoying his puppet status.
Always fooling the easily-fooled.
Never entirely comprehensive.
He's like a horror movie,
Like an obscene book,
Or like a bad cigarette.

Things for kids to remember when I'm gone

note: not my kids, someone's kids anyway.

Don't ever hold a disgusting gulp of Hippophae Oleum in your mouth more than two seconds, and above all, don't push it to the back of your throat, while you bring a better-tasting soda glass to your lips to wash it out. That moment will feel like eternity, and I mean that in a bad way.

If you arrive shamefully late (that is 30 minutes or more) to a meeting of whatever form, do not panic! Breath in, don't stumble over other's chairs and feet, don't drop your books (or bag or animal), don't overdo the apologies and don't hate yourself intensely for the next 2 hours because you can't do anything right (try a scheduled 5 minutes moment of self-loathing per day, before/after prayer).

Always brush your teeth before going to bed. And I'm not saying this just because your mommies bought me off. BUT, if you give up this fabulous habit of cleansing your dentals at night, you might wake up with a feeling close to a rat dead and rotting in your mouth.

Don't watch television!!! Oh wait, actually, don't watch movies, don't read books, don't listen to music...don't even open your eyes! It's dangerous!!! Don't take any form of artistic expression for granted! It will only ruin your life, it will turn you into an oversensitive, overromantic, overextremist, overidealist, overbigot, overcrazy, overillusional, oversexed, overhopeful, clueless you. Trust me, it's better to isolate yourself completely from any human influence, it's like plague.

Don't misinterpret! Whatever you do, know that people have different eyes, different ears, different mouths and different hearts, no matter what they tell you in school. But you will more likely think that you see through the same eyes, hear with the same ears, breath through the same mouth and feel with the same heart, and you will therefore allow yourself to judge people according to your own standards. Don't judge people! Oh nevermind, you will anyway.

If your mother catches you smoking, whatever you do, don't hide the cigarette in your pocket. You will be very likely to stick it in there before you put it out, and this unfortunate accident will result in a flaming you and a desperate mother carrying you to the hospital by taxi. Plus, your mommy knows about your smoking anyway. She knows everything!

Don't become unnaturaly obsessed with or even impressed by some god or another! It will only raise false expectations and give way to illusions and impossible dreams. To believers reply with a well-prepared and definite "Don't know, don't care!".

If you're a boy, don't imagine that girls are this great inexplicable mystery that you will never unveil. They're as plain as you are, they just vibrate in different ways at different times.

If you're a girl, don't think that guys were born to make you feel miserable. I know it's a strange thought to throw in, but guys mostly feel and act the same way as you do.

If you're a boy who likes other boys or a girl who likes other girls, admit it and rub it in their filthy appaled faces.

Also, remember that we love in different ways, so don't feel surprised when your notion about love was a nice cosy movie night with food and drink, while your partner suggested a threesome.

(to be continued...)

Paper Tigers

Beauty is not contained
in the thing in itself
nor does it lie
with the viewer.
Beauty persists
suspended in clear air
somewhere between
the heart
and the vulva.

No longer frantic

How dreary it is
To have your paranoid theories
Proven right, again
and again,
And still maintain that toothpaste smile
Glued to your face,
Still hope for change ,
Still gather a calm composure,
Still feed on the stuff of dreams,
Still read and eat and fuck,
Trying to postpone,
or at least delay,
That dreadful moment of non-existence.

About a Friend

Last night I took my friend, Paranoia, out for dinner. It was a lovely night. The stars were shining so bright, but P. kept seeing meteors about to crash on our very table, where the lobster was waiting patiently to be devoured. I offered her flowers, but she reckoned I had picked the carnations in order to insult her and to suggest possible sexual favors in return. But I brushed through those accusations. And then the dessert came and I started telling jokes about all kinds of things and P. found misogynistic and racist and homophobic stereotypes in everything I said. So I went silent, discouraged, but it was then that P. thought I was bored with her and started complaining about this and that, about the fact that we shouldn't have gone out together, about the fact that we were not made for one another, that we perceived things in different ways and other nonsense of the sort. I managed to shut her up with a kiss and she opened up and let me unfold her. I felt her soft point and decided to strike and deconstruct her theories. On our walk back home, while P. was mostly silent, afraid not to ruin everything, I told her how pretty she was with her blue scarf on and how much I wanted her in my life. When we finally reached her apartments, I asked her whether we could watch a movie or something, but P. freaked out, thinking I was looking for a one night stand, and started blabbering all sorts of apologies, like having to go to work the next day or her ill mother. So I let her go, thinking that it would have been lovely to hold her in my arms, despite her craziness. I'm now waiting for her call. I'm positive she's gonna call. She always does.

NN

Your perfume stuck in the back of my throat
(brings back the awkwardness between us,
your doll-like face and lovely insecurity,
your shyness and fragmented speech,
your quiet voice and fading eye-liner)
And I inhale.

The Blessed Miracles of Humankind

Drama no. 1
Human life is like a bottle of Coca-Cola.
You yearn for it for so long,
And when you finally have it in front of you,
And start drinking from it,
You can't remember why you yearned so much for it.

Drama no. 2
Humans are used to thinking in opposites.
They construct their lives using a point of reference,
Which they call the Otherness.
The other is the one which suffers most, when in small numbers.
The other is overcome, exploited, defeated in order to allow
Its antagonist to progress.

Drama no. 3
Those who speak before they think,
The poets,
Are scarce.

Drama no. 4
Our culture has a fucked up perception of time.
We strive so much to encapsulate the pleasurable moment,
Yet, it slips through our fingers, with no return.
Go with the Indians.
They always come back.

Drama no. 5
Love is so scary
That, once you have it,
You go through the most ardent subconscious efforts
To destroy it,
So you can start anew, and fight for it again.

Good literature will break your heart.

Fuck highly intellectualized prose!
Fuck lengthy confusing poems!
Fuck those who pretend they chew on them daily with pleasure!
Fuck realism! Reality is not that real, nor that concrete.
Fuck analysis and higher purposes!
Fuck mannerism!
Fuck the canon!
Fuck traditionalists!
Fuck those who stick to their aesthetic rules!
Give me the magic I lack
And the sweet understated poetry,
Give me thrills of laughter
And break my heart!

S.A.

When I will interview you,
Seating in our cushioned seats
In a forgotten studio,
You will be older and doubly wiser.
Ten times smarter than me.
And I will do my best
To avoid looking into your eyes
Or to follow the curves of your dark hair
Or to stare at those starkly arched eyebrows
Or to lose myself in the by then wrinkled brown skin on your cheeks.
I will feel the impetuous desire to jump right at you
And hug you and thank you
For how beautiful you are
I will feel like telling you that I get your words
And that they have reached secluded spaces in my heart
And blossomed there like fragile, but firmly rooted lilies.
I will want to take your hand and carry you away
With me.
But I will do none of these.
I will resolve to politely asking you about formalities,
About how that story turned into letters
Or how that prize influenced your people.
I will be happy, though,
For, although you wouldn’t notice it,
I will look at you and listen to your words
And live all these things in my head,
Again and again, until the end.

Far Away

She was slipping away. And he didn’t even ask why, for he too was deepened in thoughts. His face didn’t have the slightest ounce of passion in it, light skinned, light-eyed, light-hearted. Hers had grown darker with the day. It was as if they had said it all and were left with the empty wrappers of words. Yet, he touched her absently, just to feel the familiar heat. She stood up as if on an impulse and, while still shaking with madness, proceeded in taking off her jacket. He looked at her bewildered, not knowing exactly what she was up to this time. She could do anything, the air was cold and he was tired. After the jacket, there came off the blouse. He just watched her, not being able to move or talk. The t-shirt, the bra, and there she was, standing naked in a park full of people, with the cold wind flowing on and off her skin. And then, as she looked at him, the sounds were benumbed, the park was erased, birds paused their flight and the sun fell behind her. It was just the movement of the wind that passed between them, drawing tiny circles on her chest. And then they started sinking through manifold depths, lower and lower, eyes fixed into one another’s. Hers were blurred and she began to sob. It was then that he stood up and covered her shoulders with his jacket. And when his hand clasped her arm, he felt it as warm as he remembered it, yet weaker, dissolving in his grasp like a piece of jelly. He felt he had to take her home immediately or else she would dematerialize and vanish in the streets and he would never be able to hold her again.

Forgetful People

The ones who forget are the unhappy ones. They're the ones usually overcome in conversation. They sometimes forget how to talk, all the same, and resolve to counting cats on the streets. They forget how to live and why their mother had told them to get a job. They can't figure out exactly what the point of eating is or whether they have to place their right foot before the left in order to walk. They read a lot, yet can't even remember the characters' names. They find themselves in their beds in the mids of the night not being able to recognize the silhouette stretched beside them. And when they're left alone they feel like there's nothing to hold on to, detached from time and space. Silence is echoed by the silence in their mind. Words slip through. It's colors and lights that flash before their eyes the day they die, not memories. They are the silent, the confused, the introverted, the neurotics, the depressed. Forgetful people end up committing suicide, for they can't exactly remember why they're supposed to go on.

Decompositionism

I might as well have passed away three months ago.
The sun has peeled off its color.
Time no longer imposes its relevance on me.
My body has started developing all sorts of blisters, pimples, sores, gangrenes.
I expect my limbs to fall off any minute now.
I might have developed dyslexia.
I don't remember people's faces anymore,
And when I do, they're grotesque.
Words refuse to come out,
And when they do, they're uttered as if in a dream.
Everything has turned to blue to gray to blur.
And there are times when sounds too are deleted.
Our movements have strangely desynchronized,
It's back to the basics now.

climaX

Somewhere, at the end of sleep,
A sweet rustling place will be waiting for us,
A place where we will stretch on our backs and talk to one another,
On the streets, by the sea, in the fields and in the forests.
A place where drugs are free and mandatory.
The buildings will decay and collapse,
The trees will rise all around us,
And we will grow into different creatures, merging with one another,
Like Yin and Yang,
The most silent creatures of all,
For we will be complete.

Sophie.

You're gonna survive me...
I'm personal, you're wide.
I'm afraid of words, you're outspoken.
I'm constant, you're expanding.
I'm close, you're far away.
I'm a down-sitter, you're a dancer.
I'm intense, you're complex.
I'm the night, you're tiny drops of sunshine.
I'm into closed doors, you're into opened windows.
I'm inner, you're without.
I have you, you have the whole fucking world.
Yet, you're the cell that holds my whole shit together.
Once I've realized this, it's all or nothing.

I love how...

I hated intensely everything you ever advised me to do
For I thought I hated your strict old ass as well.
But then I began to love all these things,
Passionately at first,
And then with a sudden burst of madness,
Perhaps because I actually love you after all these years,
After all the gradual harm you’ve unwittingly caused me,
After all those torture-like repetitive obsessions of yours.
Sometimes I dream that you are no more
And wake up with a feeling of black,
Rushing to the telephone to give you a call.
Sometimes I cry in advance,
So that I can exhaust all the love by then.

Anticipating a moment of loss

Though it's goddamn difficult to envision it now,
There will be a time when
The wind will stop thrashing my windowpane,
No more of the cold floor when I wake up,
No empty faces at the corner-stop,
No sonic waste.
I will no longer be forced into the crowd,
And hassled on the streets.

Yet, you will grow old and sad and out of reach...

I'm prepared, though.
For every high, there's a low, waiting patiently to unfurl.

Odd one out

I was the lucky one out of four.
Though it's doubtful whether it was luck or not.
It's strange that it had to be me,
and it's even stranger that
these here moving hands, these here restless eyes,
and this here loaded with bullshit brain
got the chance to fully develop into what they are today...
Who knows,
perhaps, if something went wrong and they didn't,
the world would have been deprived of
yet one more ripple of chaos and dismay,
one of those that hold the whole shit in perfect equilibrium,
and having no other decent way to go about,
it would have collapsed into itself.

Insert name here

Woke up one day in the body of a child,
Raised a kite and watched it fly,
Blew balloons and let them burst,
Laid in grass and framed the clouds,
Figured nothing could ever touch me.

But then an old man came along,
Stood close and bent his head on me,
Sneered an evil sneer at me,
and said...

You're gonna suffer well, my pet,
You're gonna eat dirt and cry,
You're gonna sell your body to the crowd,
You're gonna feel trapped and vile,
You're gonna step back from yourself,
You're gonna make mistakes and lie,
You're gonna rot while still alive,
You're gonna forget and die.

And there I lay, as of today,
Still cold with fear.
The sky, the grass,
They haven't changed,
But I no longer see them.

Message for a loved one

Ok, so, the famous pessimistic fuck , who went by the famous name of Schopenhauer, once famously said that art is the only way out. And for a pessimistic fuck, he was quite hopeful about this subject. So basically, dear C., a detached contemplation of art has the power to ease the Weltschmerz, by taking your mind off the practical (which is anyway distorted by our faulty perception of reality) and enabling us to think more about the things in themselves, as represented by art. To put it in short, deary, we have to sink sink sink into anything creative and never look back and we will make it, C. We have ourselves to think about. The pessimistic fuck might have a point there, so may we seal this pledge with a kiss.

face à moi.

Don't you understand?
I wanted you to be entirely mine.
I wanted to suck in all the available light in you hair.

Shouldness

I should stop obsessing about stuff.
I should stop biting my lips.
I should go out only when people ask me to go out.
I should stop having contradictory feelings.
I should stop accessing the same stupid Internet sites 30 times per day.
I should stop having self-induced panic-attacks.
I should start studying German.
I should stop taking after people.
I should stop believing I’m a paranoid freak.
I should stop being a paranoid freak.
I should learn how to use my camera.
I should stop spending my time online, waiting for a word from you.
I should stop talking to people, all the same.
I should grow up.
I should stop wasting time, while staring blankly at my laptop.
I should stop talking to myself.
I should take a bath.
I should move to Vienna.
I should read more.
I should stop hurting the people I love.
I should stop writing these shitty pieces and, all the more,
I should stop publishing them.
I should cut my nails and paint them red.
I should be pretty.
I should be safe.
I should be satisfied with my work.
I should do some work.
I should stop caring so much about shit.
But then again, I don’t feel like doing all these today.
Maybe tomorrow…

*Note on the 20th of July: wow, someone thought of it before me! of course! I had no idea, but should've imagined: http://blogfiles.wfmu.org/KG/NYT/Kelly-Mark_I-Really-Should_clean.mp3

Perfectly Drugged

Back in the day,
When our touch was eager,
And our capacity to feel pain yet not fully tested,
You used to wake me up with a drowsy twitch,
And tell me about your dreams.

Obsession map (to be updated)

One not so very special day, I had to be born in order to realize that I couldn't deal with this bullshit reality. It was then that I decided to do things my way.
Michael Jackson, cats, Beauty and the Beast, Sailor Moon, Backstreet Boys, The Three Musketeers, Louis XIV, France, Boyzone, Ronan Keating, Brad Pitt, ballet, Paris, vain C, Kurt Cobain, Johnny Depp, worms, Jim Morrison, hippies, Moulin Rouge, Placebo, Brian Molko, Mircea Cartarescu, old houses - ancient streets, black, Oscar Wilde, homosexuals, Bob Farmer, Velvet Goldmine, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Gilmore Girls, David Bowie, books, Lolita, coffee, surrealism, nihilism and all the other -isms, Shannyn Sossamon, Waking Life, Richard Linklater, cigarettes, Amelie, Sofia Coppola, Lost in Translation, Scarlett Johansson, Tom Waits, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, photos, Sorrow, Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club, Radiohead, Sherman Alexie, Native Americans, discrimination, girls, Woody Allen, Noam Chomsky, Slaughter-House Five, Stephen Fry, Gia, my bed, smartest-smile Ilinca, nil girl, Vladimir Nabokov, foxy-eyed guy, Einstürzende Neubauten, blue-haired bitch, Sylvia Plath, noise, Louise Erdrich, the past, being hurt, white-headed D, Holga cameras, film, Robert Mapplethorpe, Polaroids, minimalism, the avant-garde, most charming gay guy, America.