It was you who drew the moth to the flame.
In a small-town Sunday, you walk the parade.
They see your dress ripple
in the gasp of the wind,
they forget old desires
and then become better men.

Are you laying beside him, his jaw foreign and thick?
Is his bland conversation a momentary bliss?

It was you that wore the dressing gown.
In a false-flag freedom, the high-street crowd.
They heard you crying
as I boarded the train.
All misery is gossip
and can be spread once again.

Are you thinking of me when you start to undress?
The way I counted your freckles,
the way we faltered to ***.

There is an old adage - I'm sure you've heard it - that life without movement is death.

today I feel the truth of it
somewhere between my sternum and my spine
as I sit here
the parade of life rushing by
in a distinct effort
to leave me
behind
and all I can think
all I can hear
all I can know
is


*"I am most certainly dying."

As I sigh, I pat my pockets
And search for an old friend.
Seeking comfort and consolation
In someone I know all too well.

A pure white cigarette with a cotton filter.
I place it in my mouth and light the end.
A familiar greeting. A firm handshake.
Then we begin our conversation.

I take a long drag from my dear old friend.
He pats me on the back.
He tells me that I will be okay.
He gives me the strength that I lack.

Another long puff with a cough at the end.
Five minutes of my life that I'll never get back.
Five minutes of life taken from me,
In exchange for a glimmer of solace.

Holding my friend, I take a deep breath.
Inhaling the oxygen I need.
Then I fill my lungs with smoke.
As I feel the comfort slipping away.

My friend is gone; my friend is done.
I flick his remains away.
Although he is gone, he will soon return.
Helping my body decay.

My solace has disappeared.
I'm back to the way that I felt before.
My former feelings, now magnified.
Leaving me unsatisfied.

We are passing through a blue
period after
a grey period: 'Surely
a green age will follow.' You
stifle your remorse. We are on
our way to
yet
another chance
for tears
in our mother's eyes. Don't you agree? Mothers
enfolded
in the depths -the depths
of land dear
to our souls - where the gods
live
steeped in their
energy. That energy
is proof enough that never, not for
one single
moment, have their hearts
departed
from that magnetic place.
               Magnetic? Of course...
Alone in those lands,
they hang on to their sadness, their wisdom,
while their children
              reach out to catch
                         the golden ring of freedom,
and the risk:

the risk of wandering on an endless,
senseless pilgrimage. Flying
like model planes? Oh,
the thrill
until -
three thousand, twelve thousand
years - they're found, fossilised in sedimentary rocks,
mothers
separated from their children, layers
and layers apart, preserved,
with a bit of luck, in mint condition
(maybe) buried
with all the things that might
be needed in the afterlife...
A movement
from East to West, following
the progress
of the sun. What

was I saying? Oh yes, we are passing through
a blue period, after
a grey period...

Liviu Ioan Stoiciu, from Born in Romania, Contemporary Literature Press, Bucharest 2014

I hope it wasn’t weird that time I was driving you home and I told you how much I value you as a friend so I bought you a gift certificate for Fridays and I started crying because you told me you never ate there before.

I'll write you a poem
when you break my heart into pieces.

I'll write you a poem
when you leave and ruin me.

I'll write you a poem
I want my heart good and broken.

Use me like a rag doll

and I'll write beautiful
and bittersweet
words.