The Story of the Doubt

The Story of the Doubt

Threw down the phone

Threw up my bot ton

Threw nicest things out -

Remained with my doubt

Who did it? - I thought.

Who stole my Van Gogh?

Who knew that I'd put

The keys in my suit?

Who discover my vault?

Took it by assault?

It was safe by default

It must be my fault!

Even walls are suspicious.

This is not auspicious!

Maybe it was the cat

Hm – she did look at me like that...

Or maybe it was – oh! My bird!

Most cute in the world!

That filthy old parrot -

HE wanted my karat!

Or maybe my fish -

I'm sure that he wished

To beautify its shell.

You'll so go to jail!

I'm sure that I'm close,

I can smell with my nose!

The burglar is close,

His smell – it still flows.

I'm wondering in circles,

I am close..., I'm precocious...

I just need a break -

And then revenge I will take!

And then I hit the bottle,

And then I hit the bottom.

Of the glass that is.

Got lost in its fizz...

The Mellon - A Metaphor of the Future

The Mellon - A Metaphor of the Future

"Today we'll get efficient!"

[And so the story started]

We'll make the mellon square

We'll stop being retarded!

We'll make one sheep be 2,

We'll make genetics better,

We'll show it in a Zoo,

And then we'll schedule weather!

We'll feed bottox to seals,

We'll teach marmots to dance,

Oh, Future! - you reveal

So brilliant, enhanced!

We'll make kids go to school,

And drink lots of green tea.

All scientist, all cool

We'll all turn out to be.

We'll make things cause we can.

We'd twist things cause we could.

We'll restart Frankenstein

And turn fire to wood!

"Today we'll get efficient!"

[And so the story started]

We'll make the mellon square

We'll stop being retarded.

smth smth

fisty wristy

much cry and little wool
there' way too many lambs in-stable,
unresurcting fists of peace,
and thoughts knitted in cables.

too many sips of thirst
way outdated salt embraces
too many shades of sin
too many sliveless aces.

myself am gonna dance it soon
and slide and leave it senseless
can't live the only rule
this sanity is madness.

and there are cream pies that solve a lot of issues.

what's there left to laugh about?

hands stuck in clay,
or phoebe bouffay,
rice pudding on your tie,
muffins that can cry,
a serious man on a bench
who falls in a pond and gets drenched,
mysterious eyebrow moves
and a 90 year old's grooves,
a knee cap wearing a mask,
or a head shaped like a flask.
so there comes a time to ask:


what's there left to laugh about?
you. and maybe sauerkraut.

New Poem

---> waiting for the desert <---

dinner started slowly

i just got my phone bill,

i flinched, it was gigantic

i shivered, felt a chill

tried not to think of desert

i took a sip of soup

the small talk seemed to matter

but things went in a loop

t'was i who couldn't listen

I wasn't anymore

my finergnails were crimson

i laughed and mimed a snore

obsessive was this desert

you didn't really count

i quickly drank my beer

the smell was all around

i felt you didn't matter

you tried to prove me wrong,

for me it didn't matter,

the smell was in my lung.

i keep it undercover

it's only i who knows-

i'm dying for this desert

but still the dinner goes

it's on and on, it's deadly

eternity is here

for me, my dear, i worry

i wish you'd let me be.

I've eaten all the courses

I've even eaten stew

It's nonsense how i've waited

My desert, just for you!

I don't believe in standards

i know not any rule

To me it's just my desert

That makes me feel i'm full.

what's the use of doors (if i don't feel like music)?

the question came from windows (oh, technology), who got jealous, being somewhat less musical. or it came from the window (where you where standing), and you got jealous, being somewhat more territorial. but music can be technical and territories don't have windows. and windows are smaller doors, they're doors for the eyes. therefore, doors are windows for the blind. or afraid. relax.

inima - perspectiva aproape anatomica

scriu la cerere, cum un cobzar canta ce doreste domnul gras cu portmoneul plin. scriu in romana, andreea zice ca e limba mea si scrisul ar fi organic, ca inima. si doar despre asta scriu. dintr-o perspectiva aproape anatomica.


gasesc inima teribil de asemanatoare cu persoane reale, dar orice asemanare este, fireste, coincidentala, dar nu neadevarata. de exemplu, dar o las anonima, inima e ca un lacom. ii intinzi un deget si te ia cu totul, pe sus. sau ca un copil neascultator. ii zici sa stea locului, pare ca intelege. apoi face stanga-mprejur si te trezesti cu ea batand tare tare pentru cine nici nu gandeai, d-apai vroiai.


unii zic ca e bine sa iti asculti inima si au dreptate. e o procedura complicata, implica miscari complexe din partea gatului, dar el ti-e prieten si daca ii promiti ca fumezi mai putin sau nu mai canti sub dus te ajuta. si partea a doua din ascultat e interpretatul: daca bate normal, nu-ti pasa, nu e nimic de ingrijorat, dar daca bate prea tare e semn rau, inseamna ca esti in pericol. ea ti-ar spune ca e bine, dar tu nu trebuie sa o asculti asa. si daca o faci, esti pierdut.


inima e ca stomacul. e goala pe dinauntru, se macina aiurea, e lacoma si fie ca-i dai prea mult sau prea putin, o doare.


inima e o imbecila. o imbecila care te face sa arati prost in lume. as fi preferat sa am doua stomace.