One brain, one mouth, one being - nothing more!
I’ve killed my selves so many times
My own womb has suffered crimes,
To be a poet have I tried
But my ink has gotten dry.
Rebirthed myself as man - for the poems, for the words, nothing more
Everything missed Dionysus like never before!

A different life among you have I led!
Deprived myself of all life gives
In dark, alone and cold I wept.
Destitute and desperate now,
My heart freezing on a lonely bough.
The bulb above my brow is hanging by a single thread and when
It falls and breaks to pieces they will know that I am dead.

Come sleep - or come death,
I can see no difference.
Blind me at least so I can mock the Sun!

With shut eyes they think I am illiterate,
Primordial is the essence and I am her son.

They want me to dance at the feet of chance!
Embrace chaos in my attic,
Die a young and worthy addict.
Forced to live in Hölderlin’s tower
As nothing more than a wilting flower.
My words trembled but were barren, devoid of romance,
So my poetry never made anyone dance.

I clipped my wings so I can drink with sailors,
Walk amongst them on my frail feet,
To be man is all I ever wanted,
Chugged the nectar of life which made me sick.
Oh, men! How fragile you are!
Slowly poisoned by the time you try to escape
‘Meaningless is existence’ you say as you create!

Come sleep - or come death, 
I can see no difference. 

Poverty through poetry, the most human way to go,
Come sleep - or come death,
Let me go.

He wanted to be human - the humanest of them all - a poet!
He wanted to put pain on paper - even make it rhyme
He wanted to be the one to hear the screams of time.
And as the light faded and the bulb broke,
Darkness came wearing mistress clothes.
‘Oh, men! How strange you really are!’ - he yelled.
‘Dionysus! What a man you have become!’ - she said.
Then he disappeared swearing to never return,
Thinking that poetry is for those who like to burn.

They say be scared of funerals
Because the wooden box traps beasts.
I say what is one funeral compared to the whole
Graveyard in my heart in which I so carefully lowered my memories,
Packed them like sardines, their skeletons grinding bones to dust,
Crunching sounds you can only hear
If you get close enough to smell the decay.

Sunt prostul lui Piaf,
Șad pe marmura neagră
Și nu-mi plac străinii
Care vin doar pentru Morrison.

What a blessing to
love no one,
feel nothing,
be no one,
yet
love life for the wicked mistress she is,
feel in a second the infinity of pleasure,
be like the Earth,
the soil,
and everything on it,
all part of your
broken
bleeding
beating
heart.

I applaud you,
Sarcastically.
I congratulate you,
Dearly.
I am proud of you,
Honestly.

But every dream is just a dream
Și viața aici e un chin.

To sailors mad and poets in pain,
In dreams of unimagined colors,
Appeared Cthulhu horror-bearer
Spreading phantoms to their brain
Praise Cthulhu Lord of Terror
Harbor of sleep to the insane.

Broken lovers float around
Like blind shadows looking for light
And sleepless walkers searching for night.

Like burned matches in winter forests
Disguised as trees,
Awaiting fire.

Bruised
And battered, my heart
Will still choose, to bother yours.

I clipped my wings so I can drink with sailors,
Walk amongst them on my frail feet,
To be man is all I ever wanted,
I chugged it all and yet it made me sick.

I can’t love when you exist
Because then it hurts the most,
And if I do, your death will be,
The death of me, for eternity.

So hide, love, as we don’t meet
In the unknown passion rests,
Rather my heart be cold alone
Than yearn for what I don't possess.

Când mă uit seara la stele - ea strălucește;
Dar când mă uit dimineața la stele - ea încă strălucește.

Cred că soția lui Heisenberg a fost cea mai futută femeie.

A fost *** a fost si n-a mai fost niciodată,
Un mare prost și ea o mare proastă.
Un tâmpit grozav și ea puțin tâmpită,
A fost de la început încrezător și ea nedumerită.

1-2-3-6 plozi,
Fiecare dintre ei puțin mai debili,
Când a murit el, a ieșit al 8-lea și ea a surâs,
La cât de prost era nu și-a dat seama,
Că el trăgea cu gloanțe oarbe, iar poștașul cu ghiuleaua.

Dar scrisorile au devenit emailuri, că era și vremea,
Alocația a crescut la fel ca și inflația,
Din 1-2-3-6-8 plozi,
Doi sunt antreprenori și doi sunt scriitori,
Doi sunt virgini,
Iar restul, muncitori pe șantier,
Îi întrețin.

arde pururi ca o faclie
amorul preschimbat de alchimie

And they got on the ship not knowing if they will come back alive. But by the time they were to come back, alive and well, they would have realized that they were never truly alive until the ship had sailed, until they had left everything they had in a big heap and lit it on fire.

And by the time they got back they would have realized they needed none of the things from before, that they had always been carrying them as anchors to their souls, and precisely those things they didn't have anymore is what grounded them in their adventures. It was never about the treasures they were going to dig up, nor about the ****** and the bartenders they so often visited in ports; it was never about some thing.

It was about them and only them, about the gold of their hearts, the sapphires of their eyes, and the stories they told to each other.

Not one reality has seen half the excitement and livelihood of one of their stories.

This way, they became immortal.

because there is nothing else worth more than that nothing else worth speaking of nothing else worth writing about.

and it's the only thing i can say,
i love you,

like a ruby thrown into fire like glass breaking like a siren,
like that one time you didn't know it was the last time like the first time,
like everything and everywhere,
like air,
like you and like me engulfing the whole sea.

în tine dacă te uiți urât la mine când deschid o sticlă de vin mișto cu degetele mele mișto
și arunc *****-cap-ul într-o halbă de bere proastă
de la distanță.

Incultule.

N'are aripi, e de-al nostru!
E de-al nostru!
E de la noi!
E al meu!

Da' păcat că nici nu zboară...
Acum tre' să am grijă de el.

Ce porumbel șobolan înaripat molipsitor,
Parcă îmi vine să-l sărut.

Pardon, să strănut.

Și mă uit la soare ca să strănut mai ușor,
Și îi văd și pe ceilalți șobolani înaripați,
Hap-

Da ce frumos e ceru'

-ciu.

Uită-te *** trăiesc, privește-mi ochii sticliți
Din care curge o lacrimă și nici măcar nici nu
Știu unde ajunge, poate-mi rămâne-n barbă
Sau răsare din iarbă o coajă de larvă,
Fosta lacrimă, acum licurici.

Dupa ce mi-am taiat pieptul
Mi-am scos inima si
Am pus-o linistit pe sina de tren care vibra in anticipare, dar
Stati linistiti!
Totul era ascuțit.

Un geam rece, o perdea netrasă,
Iubindu-se într-o angoasă,
Pururi tineri că focul din Martie,
Topindu-se într-o abstracție.

Parfumul ftizic umple casa și plămânii,
Iar de dragoste iubita nu s-a săturat,
Hainele plumbuite cad precum bătrânii,
Iar ea încă cere un lung sărutat.

The infinity of pleasure,
Much to Baudelaire's distaste,
Was not in the fleeting second nor the timelessness of time
The drunkenness of sensation or the breaking of our hearts.
The infinity of pleasure was,
Only, and will only be,
In her eyes.

And as long as she keeps her eyes open,
And you do too,
And as long as neither of you blink,
That split second will indeed last forever - but -
It is in the eyes,
Only the eyes.

Ieșind din fum,
Un singur gând,
Eu nu plutesc,
Eu port plumb.

They removed grief and at the same time eliminated ecstasy.
But with no grief, how could we loathe?
Ourselves, or someone else.
And if you can't hate with a burning passion, can you love with an ardent flame?