drunkards on their knees –
after the rain, imitating
the Milky Way
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 9:55 AM UTC
a twist of legs, a sort of side jump shadow
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
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 9:59 AM UTC
The words I wrote on the sky
with stars instead of blue ink
- signs of my heart's vibrations
on top of this soul
© Marius Surleac
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 8:59 PM UTC
The face of the precipice is black with lovers;
The sun above them is a bag of nails; the spring's
First rivers hide among their hair.
Goliath plunges his hand into the poisoned well
And bows his head and feels my feet walk through his brain.
The children chasing butterflies turn around and see him there
With his hand in the well and my body growing from his head,
And are afraid. They drop their nets and walk into the wall like smoke.
The smooth plain with its mirrors listens to the cliff
Like a basilisk eating flowers.
And the children, lost in the shadows of the catacombs,
Call to the mirrors for help:
'Strong-bow of salt, cutlass of memory,
Write on my map the name of every river.'
A flock of banners fight their way through the telescoped forest
And fly away like birds towards the sound of roasting meat.
Sand falls into the boiling rivers through the telescopes' mouths
And forms clear drops of acid with petals of whirling flame.
Heraldic animals wade through the asphyxia of planets,
Butterflies burst from their skins and grow long tongues like plants,
The plants play games with a suit of mail like a cloud.
Mirrors write Goliath's name upon my forehead,
While the children are killed in the smoke of the catacombs
And lovers float down from the cliffs like rain.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 12:34 PM UTC
Dolphins stir the mud -
within a restless circle,
feast between fishes
To the shore shadows are still,
tied to the surviving rite
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 9:24 PM UTC
* dedicated to Rene Magritte *
An image of my grandmother
her head appearing upside-down upon a cloud
the cloud transfixed on the steeple
of a deserted railway-station
far away
An image of an aqueduct
with a dead crow hanging from the first arch
a modern-style chair from the second
a fir-tree lodged in the third
and the whole scene sprinkled with snow
An image of a piano-tuner
with a basket of prawns on his shoulder
and a firescreen under his arm
his moustache made of clay-clotted twigs
and his cheeks daubed with wine
An image of an aeroplane
the propellor is rashers of bacon
the wings are of reinforced lard
the tail is made of paper-clips
the pilot is a wasp
An image of the painter
with his left hand in a bucket
and his right hand stroking a cat
as he lies in bed
with a stone beneath his head
And all these images
and many others
are arranged like waxworks
in model bird-cages
about six inches high.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 9:19 PM UTC