The Blue Monk – in the memory of Thelonious Sphere Monk
the monk softly touches a dusty piano
no chords around but all in one
he’s a sort of big brother
with Charlie “the bird”
the rhythm shakes our heads dramatically fast
and he hits with the wooden-like foot
the frightened floor
the hip manner shows a heart pumping the jazz
instead of the viscous blood
up to the hat
bebop is home again
but now it wears a hard rusty coat
© Marius Surleac
Photo’s source: www.collectionscanada.gc.ca
Questions defeated by time – Fibonaccian poem
My
faith?
Do I
dream of
the grand words
ever told
by the scrolls?
Why do I dare to
hear the rumours found
in the hall of time –
where seconds have died
in vacuum’s rebirth?
Hope that someday we’ll find under
the seekings, the pieces from the
enormous puzzle we ever
dreamed to solve … to break it’s harsh chains
Hope that someday we’ll find the truth,
diluted through centuries of
history and people, that died
beneath their dreams and desires …
Even so, no answers will be found; nor dreams will break
the chest – where just words and tracks rest down, beyond the performers that reached closer to God
© Marius Surleac
Far too close – homage to Sivert Høyem
voice wearing a cash coat white footsteps built on spherical notes sky drove them towards blue magic sea into the winter like a summer within the beat of the drums leaf skydives away on the top of the electrified hair a smile gets closer and flies away like a dove to the clouds alone near the radio near the field beneath the hat of a huge mushroom sucking the venom of our delighted ears
© Marius Surleac
Picture: © Cathrine Wessel
Quatrain 9 – fado
your lips will steal my naked words
when skin to skin our bodies waste
a drop of blood carried by swords
like cross to death we had to taste
© Marius Surleac
Quatrain 8 – with eyes wide closed
no leaf today, no white limb broke
when smell of shelves like firewood
grew up a man within a stroke
from heart away to backbones’ hood
© Marius Surleac
Hume or mone
Jack, help me
bring me a spade, an anchor
and ropes
a pollen geyser will erupt
from this flower
kick my ass
until I won’t remain outwardly
fingers try to touch her
outlining words
rejected at first
contact
now accepted
gallantly through lips
effused
© Marius Surleac
Butter-fly fairies of August
Jack is the hobbit that doesn’t give a shit
that his dirty fangs are filtering the air
the levitation buried in ecstasy is important
when laughing, faced backwards,
sun dies for a fucking second though in that
moment of singularity
the opossum faces stop walking and concentrate
their no-shaped words on my skinny potbelly
on the constantly repaired pavements,
some red other blue,
slags offer him the already used flowers
kisses smelling like hormones
and jigsaws melt in his bitumen mind
for a freaking moment I felt
a déjà-vu
sun gave us a blowjob
© Marius Surleac
Jack the slaughterer
on a big red plain jack walks in a circle
searching his sight onto the ground
he carries an axe in his right hand,
with the shiny blade showing his sneer
in the left hand he wears a pair of golden wings
from the top of the feathers blood is pouring
in the glasses beneath his feet
suddenly, a curtain of laughs from the vanity box –
women and men, eating gently from the big trough,
built him a statue…
***
jack on the plain – pats with black leather gloves
the roots of a wing carefully planted in soil
***
wind took away those orange leaves
that hid jack’s bones
jack!…
the slaughterer is home
© Marius Surleac
Projection
the red half of jack’s eye
stares at me as to a murderer
for watching quietly like a voyeur
at the nothingness behind
***
jack … wake up you fucking old shit
your beard grew twice in a second
don’t ask me for apologies
look at you drunkard, I will bring you a mirror
to find yourself in the middle of this mess
that stinks like an expired fish tin
***
on the floor dust conquers “beyond good and evil”
a hardly distinguishable handwriting:
“and if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee”
© Marius Surleac
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