Archive for the 'Poetry' Category

06
Nov
15

A lesson in oblivion

I never liked the highways and the main roads
The crowded places
I’ve never walked the straight line
When others had goals and objectives, I mucked about in twilight zones
I’ve always been like a clock which either gains time or lags behind
I’ve wanted to play the violin
and I’ve wanted to forget you,
to pass through you as through a time tunnel,
and find myself on the other side
somewhere, in a state of clemency, in which I couldn’t care less if I’m alive, if I’m only subsisting, if I’m drawing my last breath in a cage

When I was 30, I used the money I’d saved for the fridge and bought a violin
it wasn’t very clear to me then that I would never learn to play it
Don’t be sorry for me
it’s alright
every desire I’ve had was so that I wouldn’t think of you
I’ve danced through trenches,
I’ve walked around naked among circus arenas,
I’ve dug deep holes in the Promised Land
I’ve crept through keyholes
I’ve lived inside the skin of a stranger
I’ve played the village fool
I’ve been a guinea pig and survived
I’ve fought both sin and virtue
just so that I wouldn’t think of you

I’ve set absurd laws on reality and reality followed them
I’ve quarreled with almost anyone for who knows what

I’ve dug my claws into the flesh of idols
I’ve washed my bloody hands in the stale waters of the city
I’ve banged my head against every wall I could
I’ve howled like a starving beast while everyone was sitting quietly where they belonged
I’ve run through basements and darkness
I’ve opposed both nature and spirit
I’ve pleaded for the rights of crows
I’ve even been a prize winner

I’ve answered with fits of laughter to miserable people
I’ve made the masters of silence sneeze
I’ve disturbed the demonstrations of illustrious men
I’ve militated against the passage of time
I’ve found things to do
I’ve worked
I’ve ripped apart all of my skins, my faces, my names,
trying to forget you

But I keep hurting myself in your beauty
with the same fervor as in the first day
actually, with even more certainty
now, that I’ve got tired of lust and serenity as well,
and of the thousand lying mirrors
through which I’ve walked my loneliness
as if it were a dog

06
Nov
15

Orgasm

 

I wrote that you were willing to get beaten up for the hounded
that you were never a coward
you cannot figure out
the pleasure I felt
by lying

you’ve always been on the side of the forlorn
you’ve never jumped at the throat of a meek
you’ve never been promiscuous
you’ve never bitten your tongue while sniffing out opportunities
you fought like a gladiator against all the vanities and cruelties that skulked around you
that’s what I wrote
you cannot imagine the intensity of the orgasms that I had by reinventing you

I wrote that you were only ever courted by goddesses
that you were never a cabotin,
that only flames burst out of you

I told everyone that you were raving beautiful, that you incited cravings in hermits
this time it was actually the truth

The more I persevered in lie
the more I bled at the contact surface with reality
see? everyone has a dose of masochism

What was I supposed to do or say, what was I expected to write about?
the way you were defeated from the very first steps, or the way you lamented hysterically?
the way you learned how to spit?
or about the moment of grace when you began to cheat?
was I supposed to mention the indulgences you gave yourself lavishly?
the talents that greedily ate up your talent?
or the way one can build a career on a mountain of shit?

A long time ago, your smile could even cure the flu
Should I have written about the way you learned how to grin?

I had an orgasm when lying about you.
That’s about all I wanted to say.

And I also want you to know that at the end of the world lies my young heart waiting for you to return from the dead.

12
Jul
15

You always say “good afternoon” to the same shabby faces
you answer “well” to the question “how are you”, when in fact you are doing nothing and you’ve long since ceased to be in any way
the neighbors mistake you with a vision that they encounter on the stairwell
they talk to you as if they know you and it drives you mad
they imagine you are bored to death and can’t wait to exclaim: “wow, what a small world”
with that bovine enthusiasm that goes straight to the hearts of the soap-opera lovers
they imagine that you must have watched a soap opera at some point in your life
and therefore you know how life is

whereas you envy, like the scoundrel that you are, everyone for whom the world still seems
an evening scenery that blends together the sky and the earth
everyone that can mistake reality with God knows what naïve fantasy
everyone that is still duped by desires

the world tightens around you like a noose
or stuffs you inside of it like in a box

***

There must have been something more
A God to share with each other
But we had just a dying angel
Tattooed on the chest with the names of all fears…

Tomorrow

Sometime, one day, that we may very well call tomorrow,
Everything will be fine
I will find your house in a forest of houses
I will decipher your voice in a labyrinth of voices
I will find your scent like a wild animal that recognizes its mate from afar

Tomorrow
We won’t have to share everything like we did so far
– One slice of sky for you one slice of sky for me –
We’ll the same sky together
We’ll spend our nights in the same silences
We’ll give up the questions at the same time

One day, maybe tomorrow
I will knock at your door dragging this huge love behind me
Like a shot animal that is bleeding profusely
The only one of its kind in the world
So that we can witness its very last breath

I was joking
tomorrow we’ll be happy
tomorrow we’ll make love like true romantic heroes
until the end of time
do you promise?

01
Jul
15

Late in the midday

 

At the beginning, the world seems overwhelmingly big
It has so many layers, arms, clothes, pitches, faces
It seems that a lifetime is not long enough for you
to explore at least the tip of its nails

At the beginning the world includes everything, indefinitely
The open horizon mingles the shapes of the sky with the ones of the ground
What is dreamlike seems real
What is real seems like a dream
And you cringe into the body of desires, bathing in the amniotic liquid of the mother-destiny

Until the day when the waters split apart
When the horizon turns into the separation line between ground and sky
Between reality and dreaming

Then you are truly born,
The world takes you in her languorous, hypnotic arms
The ground is still huge
The space seems endless

After a while,
When your brogues start ripping
You think of how they beat out the same dead end roads
How they circled again and again a small shred of earth slightly bigger than the prison’s yard
And the world suddenly turns small
It starts snuggling you, stifling you
You’d like to run away, to change something,
To go astray

But the horizon line is hardly visible now
It is obscured by the ghosts of the ghettos growing higher and higher
Covering the sky

What if the world is not bigger elsewhere?
What if it cannot be deeper than this either?
You wonder

You feel caught in a suffocation space, in a dimensionless cavity, like in a fishnet
You hurt yourself on its too many surfaces and corners
You’re crammed, pushed down a corridor that becomes smaller and smaller
The claxons pierce your thoughts

There is no place to go
The world is the same everywhere
You live in the blinding light of absurdness
Fighting with your own mind like a gladiator
Captive in the same decor like in the claw of a predator
Walking the same roads again and again

Everything is the same, day by day

The only thing changing once in a while are the brogues.

19
Feb
15

absences

I don’t exist

According to all evidences
I don’t exist.
It’s a fact.
I even have scientific proofs to testify it.

I don’t exist in many ways
Nor for the waters or for the birds
Nor for the children of the neighborhood
Nor for the twin pine trees I have planted
Nor for the cats from the roofs
If they don’t miss me it’s because I don’t exist

I’m but a drawing on the pavement
A shadow taming other shadows

Humankind wouldn’t be at all unhappier
If I disappeared
Springtime would continue to rave the world
The sea would keep on drowning ships
The mountains would still have the dinner with the stars
The children would keep on growing and disappearing into adults
The rain would continue to fall over straight or skewed shoulders
The moon would continue to chase the solitude of the damned
If I disappeared all these would be the same and would blindly go on

I don’t exist
And this fact makes me invulnerable
When you don’t exist you cannot fall
You cannot melt into undesired things and beings
You cannot even die
When you don’t exist you are free, like a God

The world lies at your feet like a huge animal
That you can caress or hit with anger
And nobody would ever know

Free like a God

Free like nothingness

Free
Free

Shadow curtain

The world is always hiding behind a curtain
Sometimes the tissue is like vapours other times it’s as hard as rock
Or fine and sleek, as slippery as an eel
Sometimes it seems to be made of the inflammable substance of desire
Or only of shadows

The purpose of every curtain is to transform things into decors
To thrill
To announce a show
You never know what’s behind a curtain, but you imagine things
And sometimes, when it is pulled, only the image of an empty stage appears
You think someone will enter, will say some words, will at least make a gesture
But nothing happens

It takes you a while to understand:
The world is not beyond the curtain
It is the curtain
The veil
The waiting
The skulk
The qualm
The restlessness
The bustle
The patience
The light that slowly goes out

You realize that the role of the curtain
Is not to unveil something
But to prepare you
For the encounter

With the absence of the show

 

05
Feb
15

Something good

You were but a child and nobody warned you
The ones who loved you told you NO but in a way that sounded like a “Must not”
Most pals told you instead: “don’t be silly, come here, it’s something good for you”
You were but a poor loony, fragile and sensitive like a jellyfish
The first time you were scared to death, you swore you wouldn’t do it again, no matter what they’d think
The second time was already better, the fear didn’t stab you from behind but caressed your forehead: “you won’t die so easily”

A muse with lyrical hips soothed you: “come, I have something good to give you”
the world was trundling into the night like a glass ball
The voice of the muse was a magic cloak that covered your thoughts and set them asleep one by one
The rain was bursting out of your chest flooding her sights

You were gone most of the time
On more and more lurid pathways
Prisoner of zenith
You deepened into blinding brightness
While the world was trundling into the night
You have no idea when three years passed by

The music sat on your lap and licked your wounds like a gentle beast
The moon used to rise from your temples like a huge, exalted plant
The hunger guided you through the labyrinth of solitude like a protector spirit
In search of something better and better
The world was a simple phantasm that you could rid of anytime
Ten years passed in this way

I’ve always cheated when it came to you
You can be guilty of nothing
You cannot be a yob
You cannot lie
You cannot die

In time, things didn’t turn out so well
Music became a common noun
The moon fell down into a swamp
The rain moved on in other fellows’ chests
And in your own remained but a hole
A trippy gap resembling fear
Like a twin

You cannot turn into this stranger
Whose memory has been swept away by wind,
To whom the night puts a knife in the hand
Ordering him to stab the one you used to be
In the name of The Holy Present

I run my fingers over the frozen surface of the mirror
Some gleams of your old smile sprouted on my lips
A whit of your lost sight seeped into my eyes
I don’t want to admit this is the only way I can still save you

I should be able to tell myself the truth and to take it on
But you are “something good” for me
You cannot be this tyrant that keeps on telling
Again and again

“I have something good for you” to the poor lunatic
Locked in the darkness of a dream without exit

05
Feb
15

Roundabout

Picture 045

There were many people, clatter, uproar, bustle,
There were high grasses and cathedrals,
There were citadels and big towers
And many corridors of stone
Bridges and medieval boroughs
Shady sounds and slithering touches
Cold and warm glances
Plenty of unknown faces
There were flat fields, hills and peaks
It was winter and in next moment it was summer
There were children turning into adults
There were adults turning into children

There were many foxes and rabbits
There was a big crowd of masks
There were coshes and dried flowers and a group of men dressed in white
There were old maids emptying their perfume bottles into swamps
There were guns and trumpets for hunting
There were bridges, there were houses, there were towers, and valleys,
There were high hills and mounds, there were all kind of grasses,
There were cages here and there

There were gates that disappeared as soon as I passed through them
There were melting faces, flowing on the pavement
There were gazes sinking in my chest like daggers
There were arms hanging on to me and fists punching me
There were noblemen and servants and spies
There were men sentenced to death and executioners and women dressed for hunt

There were corridors of stone that I was running through
I didn’t know where I was running
I had to turn back over and over again
I had no idea why

There were wise men and fakirs, saints and acrobats,
There were women with very long legs
There were warlocks and diplomats and policemen
Important political figures
And they were all talking at the same time

Somewhere, far away, inside me
There was you…

 




copyright Ilinca Bernea

Motto:

"For moral reasons ... the world appears to me to be put together in such a painful way that I prefer to believe that it was not created ... intentionally."
- Stanisław Lem

"The most henious and the must cruel crimes of which history has record have been committed under the cover of religion or equally noble motives".
- Mohandas K Gandhi, Young India, July 7, 1950

“Organized Christianity has probably done
more to retard the ideals that were it’s founders
than any other agency in the World.”
– Richard Le Gallienne

"I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do because I notice it always coincides with their own desires." - Susan B. Anthony

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