nothing new in old journeys

And this moment feels so great. It’s a part of the universal conscious, as most people say these days without really being conscious. I left my hometown penniless, searching for the undercover truth which most of the time stretches just in front of us.  Jazz is what I like because it brings the dream and breaks it in a high tone while one lingers among uncommon situations. Hate is the answer to your love brother. Stop your quest and stay where your god seated you. In this morning I went out walking. There I realized what I stand for now. I am the unholy piece from the eternal mechanism that runs around for many years now. That broken piece.

I leave my wallet on the counter as I stand next to the bar stool. My finger points at the waitress that passes by like a tornado, fiercely approaching the tip left on table number one. She grabs the money without hesitation and with a dexterous move she dips it into her bra. I explore this image, contemplating over the impossibility of mankind to disrupt the course. This time she turns back at me with a demonized smile and asks if she can be of any service. 

Two beers, one whiskey with two cubes, and a glass of water! I shout as the band starts playing. The boys start in a fast tempo, picking up bits of Gillespie’s harmonic structure as they continue improvising, I grab my first beer. My foot starts tapping on the rhythm as I encompass the atmosphere of the surroundings in a quick glance. After gulping away the first bottle I take the second and enter my humming mode. After all, don’t need approvals as the band is a bebop feature of the bar and my face is well known here. My moods are also known in the same measure. But the new lady doesn’t know much about anything. I guess observing how she gapes at my shouts of “Re-Bop!” after every number finishes. I take my coat after soaking the glass of whisky and step outside without hesitation. The suffocating atmosphere grabs my lungs and my breath enters into an impasse.

The narrow streets soured me and I can’t smile anymore. “Mircea!” A drunken demon shouts. I look at him and there he stands, on the sea front waving at my presence. “Is he real?” I wonder approaching the imagery. I collapse underneath society like a snail caught by the patrician’s shoe.

I wonder whether or not, to continue without my shell. I feel discovered as they call my name. The sacred thing you get as a new-born. That’s another reason for not telling them my real name. But somehow they found out. “Mircea!” they shout from their backyard. “Mircea!” they shout from the narrow streets. With one step I follow with the other I go back. Need to change things.

I am traveling from Bucharest with a low speed train. The night is smiling through the window glass. My arms are covered by different scars as my body is weakened from yesterday’s parties. In the same compartment the girl sitting next to me is devouring a dead rabbit. The locomotive mechanic is very drunk from consuming large quantities of alcohol because Christmas is close. Thousands of blooded rabbits are struggling under the wheels of steel. But no one is interested in this maybe just the wolf or the fox waiting in the bushes for the train to disappear into the darkness.The rabbit-eating lady offers me a piece of dead meat. I decline. On the next station an old couple enters. The man is drunk. The woman is a grey mare full of proverbs and advices. The drunken man goggles towards the fox-head lady while she smiled unveiling her blooded teeth. They start feasting together on the dead animal. The wind blows towards the locomotive’s headlights.

 From the right side snowballs hit the window with power. I am thinking of my shadow as I leave it behind. Farewell!

After a seven hour journey I arrive in my hometown. It’s snowing. On the platform some dogs welcome me with enchanting barks. I salute the happy family and enter the city through the side stage. As a child I left behind an unfinished snowman. I forgot to offer him the char eyes to manage in life. It’s a pity for now he’s probably wandering around, searching for his creator. As I insert the key into the door lock a strange sentiment covers my existence. I’m back, I tell myself as I push the old creaking wooden door. A dead air breaks my nose. The lights are brought on by the electrical commutator. As I wonder through the rooms I stumble upon a tent in the dorm. I enter. There, paper sheets are thrown together with books, socks, a sleeping bag and other objects placed in a disorderly order. The image brings concerns over the lone inhabitant. A fight against yourself is the hardest battle; to defeat yourself is the most glorious victory. The words are laid down on a piece of paper. I also lie down in the tent. I embrace the papers, the books and the socks. It all becomes a part of my current state as my spirit molds onto the energy beamed by the tent.  I remain two hours in a contemplating state until my stomach howls after his pleasures. I have to enter the food laboratory and prepare a magical potion for it. But then I see the unplugged fridge. Food is scarce in this house as no one is here to provide. In the North parts you have to become one of the predators. Therefore I exit the apartment in search for a midnight snack. The street of my childhood welcomes me with snow-drifts. My feet plunge into the fluffy snow and leave marks for the other passers. In this time my mind is drifting as a car on icy roads. I abolish all sinister thoughts and keep walking towards the 24hour booze/food-serving entity that I knew well enough as an adolescent. Though I still wonder where Leibniz might be. Since the one letter found in the tent indicated the peaks of the Carpathians. I assume he went there, pushed by angst and other devilish existentialist undetermined factors. A man should not be left alone with his fears; depression always follows and grips his soul. I find the place and enter without knocking on heaven’s door. The same woman stands behind the counter. She smiles as she reminds my visage. I order my usual sauerkraut with sausage. It tastes the same after all this time. Nothing changed at least for the recipe and the woman behind the magic. She also throws in a full pint of beer on the house as she is really fond of arriving well and healthy back to her little establishment. “Love, people are mean these days. I am really glad to see ya. The big city can be very dangerous. I’ve heard many stories you know.” She keeps me company as I am the only one in the late hour. I finish my doings and leave her happy, sticking the money deep in her own personal piggy-bank. She is happy, another client, some more currency.

When I exit the prestigious food providing entity I think of where to go. My steps guide me to the river side. On the banks of the river I was always feeling speculative over society’s demands, a place where dreams collapsed on the wall of reality and provided answers for my doubtful questions. I fly away like a butterfly in a dreamy atmosphere neglecting winter’s cold.  There, I could grind the grains of truth away from life’s broken mill. I am looking to strain a purely quantity of good and evil. Only then I will discover enough to understand. Dawn comes out naked in the distance, as nymph appearances dance on chirping noises coming from the field birds.  Not far from where I stand, a hut rises majestically between willows and a dogberry. The entrance is guarded by a great white dog that looks after the girls’ dance. I must go inside the hut. I invoke my willpower and step closer to the animal. I cover my body with flowers and approach the beast. Only to realize after awhile my frozen flesh under a snow bank, and above my childhood snowman waving at me and laughing without a mouth. He says he changed it for a twosome of eyes and blames me for his past handicap. I hope on a case of sever hallucinations provoked by my tent discoveries combined with a series of vodka doubles on my way to the river. Just to get the chill out of my bones. But this? This went too far. I try to whisk the heavy weight, to recover slightly from snowman visions and penetrate reality with protruding eyes.

I get together with the sun and follow my previous snow marks. I enter my room where I keep the treasure. There, other papers fly under my eyes. Words fuse on a paper. “I can not forgive you ... I hate that you have no power to say no, analyze your moods and feelings, you get lost in so many words and decisions.You are lost in your  foggy thoughts.”

As the old river flows, my eyes are filled with watery memories of those who were and now they’re not. As the old bridge articulates under the weight of the passers, my legs start to shake as I watch me old clique chanting on the other bank. And this moment will be washed away like everything that flows and strays. 

exist for

 the one who seeks happiness will

only find illusions of well

usually painted to feel

a common sense for

being alone.

standing in lines for what is real

in others' perceptions as if

your own exists as an exception

to the common riff.

and if you argue time

laws will oblige

your body to climb

and call off the search

the emphatic industries provide

fresh surrogates because

there is a clause

 behind the laughs and fortune kit

as money pays worldwide

 for one’s life permit.

blackened perceptions

hard to cope with all of you, hard to spit your face

although you failed to embrace a peaceful way of being.

my battered soul hides somewhere in a shattered time, overseas and edgeless peaks

reckless actions, assumed all sins as my own.

I take the blame and hide you from the critics’ eyes.

homegrown depressions packed for long journeys

tangled emotions, I can’t forget.

a need to destroy this Berlin wall, urges my spirit

to start a 90’s revolution and expose all truth for those

compromises I have accepted in virtue of peace, love and empathy

no more anonymous calls from a blue  phone booth

I’ll take actions against your wrongdoings

soon, very soon I will cut the spider’s web

and pee delicately on your distorted faces

while some will stare thwarted at what could have been ,

some will look through watery eyelids

and leave without hatred

for they will understand this troubled man.

it must be autumn

It must be autumn

when leaves say yes to joint burials,

acceptance transforms aerials

and all goes down to the ground.

bare branches pointed at passers

clever whispers lure ears

through narrow paths

and words get a second chance

when thrown another glance.

It must be autumn

when you’re left broken hearted at the end of the land.

a mixed experience where love and hate meet to date

where you have your downs and ups, puffs and rocks,

candle lights and rain, fingers touch soft parts, bodies, all together

in search for a bedroom fame.

wind blows her hair, you take a look, blinded love, broken glasses

your love fades, grows and then  fades again into a crystal clear winter.

It’s the time of highs and lows, of fun and flows.

It must be autumn

when one loves and hates with the same passion

when strangers serve hot tea

when one feels free under a raincoat

a walk in the park, boots shuffle leaves

dry grass in the sky

books, music and wine, a time penetrating journey.

autumn satisfies, running naked

her dress left on the floor

I take look around for

it must be autumn.

I roam around reality

…and after all, why should we dream in this dreamless world?

White walls wait in vain a paintbrush, a hand with sand,

shattered glass canned in bodies, familiar faces hold deep scars past recognition

in faded paintings of the past, kept for unknown reasons in lugubrious feelings

and it all comes down to this. I light my spirit with a handmade satisfaction,

I rub my brain off on sleepless nights with friends like Johnny and Jack,

I lack the sense of now and here when sharp shards of the past sting my flesh,

and blood  gushes to my brain with floods of ruined houses.

Days pass like whores I never paid,

towers I never knew how to climb,

 lips I never knew how to approach and it seems time skips over credits

and my present needs certain edits. Naked stories dash in from spread shaved legs, sweet sweat and honey drop nipples, Anaïs Mountains explored in hot summer nights, a rush of adrenaline

and then it all stops. I wake up in solitude.

No drama here, no love, no desire, no pain and everything

melts in a green pot.

Old and dusty memories mixed with dreams and hopes until the mirage transgresses pushing my reality towards a floating state. I try to stand against the wall; I fall on the ceiling from where I see me on the coach. I am a miller of emotions and experiences, a jack on the road,

a philosophical monkey in a human body. I kill my hopes with useless dreams for that I call it off,

I run away from these false prophecies,

 I hide myself in realities embrace

…and after all, why should we dream in this dreamless world?

Losing all

                The town sleeps deep under the sunrise. At five O’clock only the seagulls wake up and start to argue about life’s meanings. The quarrel is very intense and it attracts morning drunks. They stare at the birds, amazed by the philosophical approach of the debate. Dull faces warmed by the sunny beams. Barefooted young girls drink cold beers on the fjord having problems in maintaining their balance. They laugh hard, they laugh falling apart into unknown arms. Heavy clouds appear in distance. Hands shake from overdosed substances. “There is no such thing as God” someone states behind a cold can of beer. The others are lost somewhere as far as possible from that place. They travel a bit just to come around when someone shouts. Tom is rolling a cigarette behind a corpulent young girl. She is helping out by sitting in the wind blow. Her name is Elisabeth. They just meet. She likes to drink while living. Someone takes and shares photos using Instagram. Michael likes this. He is sitting next to a girl named Rebecca. A lot of friends will like the photo where these two smile in the morning sun. Some of them will comment using smiley faces. Some of them are seagulls. Two times and then they pass it around. They don’t know each other yet. Blinded by the morning light they got together for an early meeting. With their fears hidden in sealed envelopes, waiting for the right one to whom they will send it too. They search. They explore unknown feelings, strange shaped bodies somewhere under unfolded sheets. Rather lonely individuals fired up by the strong alcoholic beverages consumed in the night. The universal catalyst was used in large amounts. Mouths full of saliva and ash, opened by particles of substance assimilated by the floating bodies, blended tongues and wet vaginas salute the sun. They are there on the fjord. Giggling at each other while hours pass by, they throw ideas worth nothing in discussions about the illusion of getting drunk.

                Dirty fancy clothes cover the body of Matilda. She is in her early 20’s. Deceptions dragged her in the bar for more than one night out with the girls. She kept mixing, experimenting, dreaming about another life. It is hard to keep her head up with all that money. All that drinking melts her thoughts into a pot of shattered dreams. Her shrunken lips touch the cold beer can for another dose of substance. Her red hair interfuses with the reddish sunrise. It all got twisted for her after she moved up north. The wind blew her hopes into the North Sea. The castle she built was made of sand and scraps which remained after a demolished relationship. It was her that sucked the life out of the poor guy. The poor guy that now is enjoying a lap dance in some strip club down in south. She was the girl with a mushroom tattoo and big earrings and blackened eyes that stared too much into the past. Confused she grabbed bottles from supermarket shelves into a continuous delirium fueled by alcohol and other damaging substances. This stupid search for happiness dragged her far from her initial desires. With pale brown eyes she watches Michael while he is showing Rebecca his appendicitis scar. A seagull passes by flapping its wings and shouting his prophecy at the ignorant souls. Matilda gathers herself from the stairs where she was sitting. The clouds disperse.

                I go after her along the fjord. The sun comforts my skin and I feel right. I’m also part of this morning’s behavior. I approach her with an erect thought of empathy. My body is full of love and a morning desire fueled by some alcohol and some smokes I had in the night. Nevertheless my image stands in the eyes of others as a quiet, good-hearted man. My flesh burns inside as if I cached a bad cold. A light wind blows her skirt, revealing a pair of well trained legs. She runs and cycles a lot as I found out later. Then she stops and turns around to look at her follower. She twitters something incomprehensible with a crystal voice that stopped my unfinished speech. I barely have the courage to smile at her sad face. Big eyes goggle through me for a couple of dilated seconds. My heart shakes while my penis kicks caged behind the zipper. A weird atmosphere induced by a damaging silence and a lack of communication. I start blabbering about life and its meaning only to realize I’m a 25 years old seagull. Which means that I past my life expectancy. She listens quietly, smoking her cigarette with thirst. My idea was to grab her weaknesses and pull until she pops out from there. But I see me, torturing my mind just to get somewhere with the conversation. I stop.

                Time passes almost hitting my skull like a bullet shot from a barrel of a gun. I leave in silence after we exchanged some meaningless words and numbers. Semicolon.

                I open one eye and see a room with black curtains. I’m not home. The sound of gurgling whiskey is still fresh in my ears. How many years have passed? I rise from where my rotten body dropped last night. Maybe a week went along with the others and I’m still thinking about my unsuccessful conversation. Some rats are trapped in my belly. I explore the apartment in search of a place where I can successfully throw my feces and some misconceptions I have about the world. I roam around the place for a little while until I bump into a 40 year old mother. She asks me if I’m Morgan’s new boyfriend. I hold down my surprise and tell her that I’m just a friend. I can’t remember her face. I try to do that but my mind sends me in different places. I ask for a bathroom and slowly move to the safe place. As I pass her she invites me in the kitchen after I finish my business.  I nod my head and disappear into the darkened lobby. A big hangover seems to take control of things. I piss in the sink while washing my teeth with the index finger. They have very bad tasting toothpaste. Who are these people I wonder. I spend 15 minutes on the toilet recovering strips of a hazy night. Foggy scenes pop from the darkness of a wet street. A promiscuous existence embraced by me and some morning individuals that I once meet. I wash my hands and my face and rub my nose with a clean towel. Better than home. The black liquid was poured in dotted mugs. Exactly what I need after...after I discovered that I’m home.

                I close my eyes but the black visions persevere. No escape from this dungeon in which I’m chained to the roof, enable to move my body into the desired directions. Suddenly madness kicks in and I start to rape my mind with images from a better life. I struggle to calm down by smoking half a pack of cigarettes and drinking chamomile tea. I guess that this could be an end. I strive to resist the temptations of abandoning this life. A necessary act which must be carried out by using a tool or maybe pills or I could just go out there. For sure I will find a place where I can rest my tired bones and mind. All those individuals I wonder if they ever existed. That morning mirage shattered by a seagull reality. Afternoons are trailers of a near end.

I know nothing. Full stop.

fuzzy pixels

People miss you more when you’re away

when you leave the pack to stray and exit-stage right through the curtains.

They really do! Useful machines help people today, to see

familiar distorted faces, a bunch of friendly pixels that they know.

You people are nuts! You talk to machines! I shout at them from my garden of dreams.

A filed sprinkled with haystacks, far from the scams of nowadays.

But a strong wind blew my hay and ruined my garden so I had to pay the man;

to buy a machine, to buy my friendly familiar pixels.

People miss you more when the wind blows you away

When you’re faded image is cleared with double clicks

Ghostly appearances, blue faces glow in the dark

Fade out, fade in, fade out, fade in until

You get the skill to handle the machine.

But what’s the point of all of this when you can’t hug the screen

And thus you start to miss them more and more when

You shut the window down and goggle in the dark;

At dancing flash spots forming familiar leprechaun mobs

Calling you back in case you missed the call!

People miss you more, digitally wrapped.