Raskolnikov without the murder excuse – schism
the genius imagines the ordinary cross/ that lies upon the/ people he tormented in actions –/ just theories for a good cause
he sleeps on a couch using old clothes/ Law isn’t blind but fake in depression
reminiscences of the body sank on the floor/ in blood with no pale – just face of a guy/ sadistically emerged in laughs that/ are the jury for a mind painted with guilt,/ hidden in pursue
schismatic throws his pain in the consciousness/ of a fainting character, discovered in apathy…
without the excuse for the slaughter/ that protects the second body, sent on the same floor
both reached the mind-prison …
© Marius Surleac
Bourbon Street
Only the noise of my steps,
falling in the mist of the night,
shy under the petals of the Universe
Moon is the female hunting
the lions in a desert of peace
Fingers stealing the notes from a song
found in the dark of Bourbon Street
The pale light above my see-through back
shines the heart beating, in the blood of the sound,
born from a rose and a guitar
I dance with the stars, I sing with the wind,
I step where the track follows
the instinct;
I jump to the moon in a vibration of
my own body, drawn in the smoke
from the sand of my feet –
for her smooth face poisoning my sight
will cry a tear of passion to swallow
…while there’s Moon over Bourbon Street!!!
© Marius Surleac
I awake – in the memory of Django Reinhardt
getting wild behaviour to its happy roots
no-body can resist to this merry-go-round
virus
“amour” is the only word remained in his dictionary
the only drink accepted in his clans like a shard
of life sparkling greater than the sun itself
ashy
moustache hides a strange confidence when
lifted from the always-filled glass
with potion called
manouche
in the eyes of Lewis he caresses
the immortal chords
© Marius Surleac
Photo’s source: http://www.pianoguitar.co.uk/django.htm
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
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