imposibilitatea de a plăti, pentru frumoasele culmi ale sentimentului, altfel decât prin prizonieratul în viaţa de zi cu zi. (H. Hesse)

that is the curse.

i'm a room with too much furniture
and i'm a room with not enough furniture
and i'm a room with no furniture

and when you leave
don't  you open the blinds
don't you turn on the light
either way, it'll be dark
and
the bombs in my chest-
i hope they stay defused forever

and i'm afraid of myself
(this void in your chest is the foul fruit of your vacuous mind)
i hope my sweetness won't turn into alcohol all over again
(this heaviness in your stomach is the foul fruit of your imagination)
look in the mirror and hit yourself
(this anemic depression is the foul fruit of your putrid personality)
wear sadness like a mask to hide the nothingness
(this monster under your bed is the foul fruit of your blasphemous angels)

i dream of a parallel universe
where there is no need to dream of parallel universes

i am the hand that fears the burn
but strives for the kiss

şi moșneagu o zis când ei se uitau printr-un geam străin într-o viață străină c-aiși nu-i nică de văzut

un fal(u)s într-un
corp de (s)lut
[(u)(s)]

and perhaps
the most meaningful thing i've done today was
clearing the shit spot that my roommate left in the toilet
with my piss

la vie en rose

but
damn
pink doesn't represent me

could we somehow avoid
turning
the feelings that serve as an umbilical cord between two
into
a wrinkled belly button?

yes, i'm a fraud
and
yes, i'm a crime.

but
what is the motive
and
who is the felon?