throat

the throat is the center of my body. but the center works as a barrier too. let me describe you my throat. imagine a thick piece of rope. now imagine someone who has just realized how fucked up her life is. she then takes this rope, twists it slowly around her neck so that an elegant and slippery knot should come to life. a knot with its own life. bigger life than hers anyway. she wants to pull it. the work of art would be complete. her fingers are incessant. her fingers were loveable. her fingers could build colorful cords from one side of the earth to the other. her fingers told many stories. now her fingers feel obsolete. now her fingers don’t push buttons anymore. now her fingers feel old, pathetic, dependant and dumb. as any abandoned fingers. as any anonymous fingers. she doesn’t need those fingers much anymore. she doesn’t like her fingers much anymore. her hands, as to emphasize this uselessness, have gone dry. drier than any time before. so has her throat. so has the rope. so she soaps her rope. she pulls one end to make a perfect knot. that’s my throat.

and i have no other way but to soap my rope.

compas

formele mele nu sunt suficient de mature.
o sa ma coc la un moment dat,
intr-un anotimp apos
sters de pe calendare si harti.
si am nevoie de un marinar care sa-mi calculeze
longitudinea semintelor
si sa-mi decojeasca pielea
rand pe rand
strat dupa strat
si sa-mi invarta codita ca la un mar,
sa numere literele posibile,
sa-mi gaseasca o initiala,
sa mi-o taie in felii radiale
si sa ma hraneasca indurerat cu propriul nume.
o sa ma autoconsum
cu frenezia cliseelor poetice,
o sa-mi vina inapoi gustul acru al prenumelui meu androgin,
o sa vomit litere si culori –
pasta fara sens si consistenta.

o sa am nevoie de o scobitoare
sau de ata de dinti
sa-mi scot resturile nemestecate
si sa-ncerc sa fac din ele o noua limba
mai putin gretoasa.

hello

my forms are not mature enough. i’ll ripen sometimes in some late watery season erased from calendars and maps and i need a sailor to compass my seeds and peel my thick skin. then the sailor should hurry to spin the wheel of my frantic heart before it says hello, anyone there? hellos are dangerous, trains and railway stations are dangerous, red bags and return tickets in any language are dangerous. my danger is inevitable. i take it wholeheartedly and i say hello again.