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 slaughter
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 slaughter 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
Peractio
rest your wounds in my shelter
tomorrow when I’ll have to die
you shall give me a kiss
Thy word’s powerfulness
stroke within my core
I’m trembling
my fingers – the proof
shall rest now
it’s the last night
***
Thee Father my soul
I offer
© Marius Surleac
Obituary – signs’ perpetuation
I watch from the window how your bloody tears glide
above the sky
I taste from your wine like a hungry one to let myself carried by remembrances
that I tailor like a mantle to protect me in the winter
you left the rooks nearby – old temper’s comrades
they take care of me during the nights when I fall in the claws
of the rabid wind
I keep a close watch on how you leave
on how you chip in thousands of nubilous pieces that won’t come back
but later after me
this year the white threads appear in time burnt envelopes –
omen for the news that you’ll bring
as grizzled as before
the streets cry and conceal from the dead colours
that spread over the world
the park where I catch sight of you in your entire splendour
has grew blind after day
the shadows haul my feet unto night
***
my eye screams the pain
the tears flow
blue
now there’s silence everywhere
© Marius Surleac
How to Explain Paintings to a Dead Hare
There is one dead guy
keeping in his arms a dead hare;
both are sitting quietly in front of the audition
Beyond them there’s a black and white
gloomy environment with canvases
The rabbit sleeps inside of a dull daze
dreaming about a chap with a dead fellow –
this is the art for the bio-ethics,
strangely emerged
The skin on his face hits the ground
as the rain plummet hits the desert…
His shirt is stained by a black blood
from the introvert hare –
those who make photos are throwing
their eyes beneath the photo cameras
The guy has escaped from the gulag of rabbits
and freezes his sensations
in front of the blitzkrieg light;
pushing an animal in service of art
looks reckless and mean…
This audition is watched by
reckless and mean silhouettes
passing by
Both, the chap and the hare,
are lifeless in a motionless photo…
____________
The poem is inspired from the photo with the same title: © Joseph Beuys photo, 26 November 1965
© Marius Surleac
Pestis vetus
hell is beyond the grey blocks –
the desert where no human skeletons
resisted to erosion, but became part of
the screams represent the only voice
of those suffering souls
that moan when the sun rises
this morning is different
no more whispers before the attacks
nor guns spitting fiery ashes
just the awaiting under the frightening
feeling of justice in each unconquered mind
rules the tormented hordes
***
I make my way through the minuscule magnets –
those tiny mechanisms fly away
tomorrow I won’t be the same
© Marius Surleac
leave a comment