Cekov LOVE STORY

 

 

We see through the window the wonder of wonders.

With our inner eyes,

You, green,

You, mother,

Wrap me between your lips – mummy style,

Answer me

I am alone,

Come on, you sweet,

Crucify me by your words,

My life,

My soul.

 

                                              PROFILE

 

I want you sublime,

mon cher,

consistent and violet,

just like a cell of lucidity.

Watching you, my intestines are skating nakedly.

Tell me a line, maestro, hit hard!

Are you aware of your antagonistic breathing?

Your mask has a flaw: it doesn’t disintegrate at my command,

My love is a smirk, disgustingly psychological, up to the end.

  

 

 

 AMOR FATI (to A and A)

You were my friend and you told me the truth. F.M.

 

I wear my friendship as if it were a gun,

along the walls,

automatic gesture,

religiously overrated.

I use my lighthouse to penetrate the mist.

Them and I are best friends.

We smile, a bit nostalgically, a bit greedy,

long time security.

 

It is clean because we are cured now.

We do not have the same name

Bur we share our immortality.

 

 

 

 

                                        BACOVIANA 3

 

Reflected back and pale,

the lights from resuscitation,

were glowing funereally.

 

No one heard the scream,

no one heard the butterfly.

 

Coughing from its vocal chords.

 

 

 BACOVIANA 2

 

As if I am no longer here,

I squeeze the moist quince between my teeth

and I make a fool of myself by making origami

from the grin of the wind, cracked into strips.

Wet,

As if I am no longer here,

I drink fountains of tea out of moldy pot

and,

 in the name of the spleen,

 I take autumn grapes as hostages.

 

 

                     

                                                      BACOVIANA 1

 

The man from the opposite pavement

continuously eats cherries.

He devoures them staying in the weirdest positions.

Down on his knees,

he crunches the stones so savagely that,

parts of his gum clench into the urban concrete

for eternity.

Or, bent on his knees,

transparent from striving,

almost dead,

he pushes with his nose,

 the roundness of the fruit, to the sewage holes.

The man from the opposite pavement

bohemianly licks away

the juice of the smashed cherries

by megawheeles of iron.

And swollen with pleasure,

 he pukes out audibly sketches:

p-s instead of worm actors,

a-s as rotten theatre smelling diarheea,

besides other broken sounds,

leftovers of the anachronistic taste.

I have diagnosed the man from the opposite pavement to suffer from

acute nostalgia.

 

 

                                        IRRESISTIBLE

 

I saw the sky folded by regularity,

without compact wings,

a vague time of the ages,

exploding hugely,

motionless and with no shape

trying futuristic scaly points

 

I saw the massive print of the eye

raising its mane,

without dense echoes

a flame of the eternal ages

 

burning quietly its silvery shadows

Devilishly I saw the rain eat stones,

and like an algae I fumbled in its depth for its arid, permanent depth…

 

                                      

ELEGY

 

To know your life as well as the pen in your hand

is a profound issue,

worthy of humans…

To know your life

is enough for you

and you live it non-stop,

leaning against your pen

as on a spare arm…

I cleaned my body in water and alcohol

so I could yell out my begging for sky wings.

My mortal condition cries its probability

with hasty tears.

I feed of them as from a brothel

buried at the end of time.

 

 

 

 

 

TEXT 9

 

 

Mnezicus, mnezica, mnezicum.

Three violins, three rooms.

I gave birth at 30 years old standing on my feet. The father is a Train Station worker.

I did him in the train toilet.

29 degrees Celsius. 14:27. 2 min 36s.

 I moaned.

Have you come?

xxx

I always find better solutions when I look inside your hole. Changing diapers gives me hypoxemia. Your presence only is booing me.

xxx

This is where I will move in when I am finished with you. After I have sung to you and fought against your disgusting limberness. Now I am the thieves’ attraction.

 

TEXT 8

He is totally crazy, look, he is calling me again, hi, yes, I am in a shop, at the end of a street, he wants to come by a car, yes, it rains like shit, speak louder, I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you, come as you want, just come at once, ok, bye, byeee! He’s got some problems with his car… he’ s ringing again, I’ve told you he is crazy, yes, yes, I’m not coming out in this weather, I’ll ruin my sandals, my hair, I’ll catch a cold, damn it, you know I always catch a cold in summer…He is calling again…he is nuts, totally nuts… he is coming, he’s parked two blocks down. I hope he is bringing an umbrella; I’ll go wait outside, bye, byeee!

 

xxx

I hope he is not serious, cause if he is, everything was for nothing and we’ll have to wait for another one.

xxx

We never talk nonsense. Our lips are destined to announce the essence of things. We don’t waste our time with ordinary thoughts. Ordinary is unacceptable. We are hooked up on essential things.

xxx

Shut up, God I am sick, my head is dizzy, I’m having vertigo.  My god, I think I’m going to puke.

When we puke, we do it silently. We hide in darkness and shove our fists down our throats. We puke our insides out perfectly. That’s why we never socialize with those who have a stinking breath. We are the perfect spitters.

 

 

 

TEXT 7

 

Why do you say that? Because this is what I think and what I feel. It has my name written all over it. Who do you think you are, really?

xxx

It’s too late for this kind of discussions. It’s like you are talking through a dysfunctional mouth. Generous words for a complex larynx.

xxx

Hello, I received a call from this number. Come over here! I am a good person, good day!

xxx

Sometimes I believe I owe something to a younger me and I feel an impulsive desire to make it right for her. I fulfill the fantasies of my unforgotten past. Honey! This one is for you: a frozen road, a happy-end, and a perfect dot.  Next!

xxx

Two moths are making love on a white wall. Someone is singing American hymns. The moth has transgressed into a sewage cockroach. As long and thin as a neurotic symptom.

xxx

I think I will write something really good – according to your criteria – when I will not feel the need to show my brain secretions to every stranger. The nonexpression is an essential condition of great anonymity.

Come on, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep…

 

 

TEXT 6

 

Can you boil some eggs too? This is when it all started (I could also be telling you about a cosmogony staring one egg only, just say the magic word); I was getting up to make myself some coffee. It was six in the morning; at seven I had to go out.  I have my coffee large. She drinks coffee too. I don’t know what for…every single time after she shoves 2 cups down her throat, she falls back to sleep. So, bang! I heard her. Can you boil some eggs too? The voice from hell. I thought I’d explode.

xxx

For the last three nights I’ve been aware of the moment of falling asleep. I am on the edge of having a panic attack. Run, go away. Can’t you see it’s stuck? My anxiety lacks the luxury of time. It has already taken me 4 minutes to set myself on stand-by. Why are you so excited? Pass me the mirror, please. I have got one hour and 54 minutes left of inconsequence.

                                                                xxx

Writing has become my favorite way to relax, actually, not writing but the act of rereading the outcome of my inspiration outbursts. What I put down on paper is the only proof of my existence. Re-reading it is like signing my Identity Card.

 

 

 

TEXT 5

 

What is it? Tell me. Come on throw me the ball. And stop being such a pervert!.

I am suffering from a personality disorder. I must be institutionalized. And don’t give me that sad face, please! What is it? Are you sick? Do share. If you keep it to yourself, how can we tell for sure that you are damaged? Do you want us to dream about it?

xxx

Can you or can you not dream?

xxx

How are you, mate?

 

 I am not so well, thanks for asking. But I only have myself to blame for. I guess I’ll just listen to some cool music (for the healing of the soul) so I could transcend and write something about one grande amica, if this is Italian, it’s not me writing it. Listen, I’ve just read what it was written ante me and I think that…it woud be better if I started with something about me…or something in between, you, great one!

 

Some years ago I wanted to buy myself a tractor and build my little cozy cottage in the country so everybody would leave me in peace. Then, in high school, while I was reading all those extraordinary books, I was thinking that I would be really stupid to deny all that knowledge, but now I realize – again – that I am not cut out for the big city.

 

 My image of celestial happiness represents the first sounds of a Gregorian song. I can see it clearly: a curved, imperfect road made of stone and I, seen from the back, from a flat angle, completely hidden under large clothes, looking as if I’ve already listened to all the music in the world.

 

And you, cara mia, amore mio, just like these worlds, you fill me with the same feeling of flooding out, of jumping in, of feeding the soul. And to get back to my long period of revelatory dreams, I remember I once have dreamt about you, sitting on an old chair, looking blonde and kind, waiting to give to me my healing potion, while I was an embryo, watching the world from the heart of your hearts…

 

 Am I rambling, or what?

 

I guess, I just wanna say it’s been real, at least for me. Unfortunately, this book is an open ground and  stupid people are already bored.

 

Besides, I am not the epic type, so I’ll end it for you here.(AH)

 

 

 

 

 

TEXT 4

 

You always waste your time on trivial things and forget to go to the doctor. Just go and have an early check up! The moment you feel something is wrong or you believe you are experiencing the first symptom, call the surgery and make an appointment. Then you have a wash and go!

xxx

I have no idea what you make of my story. The truth is I don’t understand much about it either. Should someone ask me to explain something, I’d be stuck with relative muteness. I write so I can forget. Go and see who is barking outside. Amnesiac!

xxx

I’ve been planning to write a few lines everyday so that I would not lose my touch. It’s wise to be disciplined and to train yourself in writing, mostly, when on the ring finger of your left hand, there is an amber sphere attached to a silver, round bar, straightly connected to my yellowish eye. Close the door! It smells bad! You have such yellow eyes; I used to tell me, just like the ones of a serial killer. So, you really do watch the Science Channel! Actually, I loved my hepatitis cat-like eyes. My eyes and my hands were my only anatomic parts that let out my great sensibility… but not a superficial sensibility, like J’s…not at all… one a bit more pathological.

 

 

 

 

TEXT 3

 

Let’s live to the fullest! Let’s all be kings!

We breath accordingly to old principles. We’ll better sacrifice ourselves, drown in wells by our own hands, walk around hungrily and nakedly, beg for thick ropes to hang us from the city walls, than get contaminated with mediocrity.

xxx

My relationship with you is purely physical, from amino acidic chain to olfaction, from genetic urge to cortex. Our skin has turned into a specific smell, oh, nostalgia! I can hardly remember you, your brown eyes and your right buttock. (your real part) your black skin and pseudorock bowels. My 4 seconds orgasm.

xxx

Everything is transparency; everything is deflourishment, from the first lung diving in nicotine mist to the last spasm. Prologue and perfect determinism. Two Siamese elephants stuck in a petal flower.

 

 

 

TEXT 2

 

 

I could be writing a novel about a hat! Every age with its own hat. Three lines on the back of my palm: this is our charisma. When we give up, we refuse to console someone. We keep ourselves effective and yellow.

xxx

I see myself married for centuries, walking hand in hand around the churchyards. Everywhere just death signs.

xxx

I want to tell you about madness. Someone is reading a book. Someone can’t find her stockings. She is getting more and more nervous. Haven’t you seen them? Is it possible you might still be wearing them? Underneath your skin?

xxx

I write so I won’t ever forget. I also enjoy taking mental snapshots of my friends while philosophizing and drinking in clubs. I lean against my chair and I’m out of the system. My cortex is a photo album.

 

 

 

TEXT 1

 

I listen selectively. I laugh in the same way.

Actually, the issue about laughing is more complicated. What do you find so amusing, you idiot? When you don’t have any answers just start creating problems. Ask questions. Why is a gay person similar to an ant?

xxx

I spread around a smell of blood and jazz.

xxx

Gross.

xxx

The most sterile days are those when emotion linearity unintentionally contaminates me. I become mood less. I sleep for days. I want nothing, I believe in nothing. I assume the coachman position: sitting down, my forehead on my flexed knee, smelling the musk between my legs. The climax of this stillness is always an accelerated anxiety.

 The first writing action is the direct result of being mad.

 

 

                   

 

 

 

 

alternative(m)emory

 

 

Dear O, I gathered yellow water in my fists. I placed my hand inside the middle of the earth, onto the other shore…

Dear O, I wore my green dress and my red hair and  obsessively played the piano…

Dear O, I read Cartarescu and did Theatre studies. I filled the amnesiac holes with letters and mud…

Dear O, I had a panic attack and yelled at me. Let’s go. I never moved an inch…

Dear O, I saw whispers, sounds. I splashed the white wall of the camera obscura with dirty words…

Dear O, I staged the images of our id on amber windows, on sausage wrappings, on lover’s skin…

Dear O, I always did it my way,

Ambivalent as an achetype-androgine, I’ve simulated dream and reality,

Polyvalent as Warhol’s art, I clicked zoom-out of the yellowish square.

I am pulverizing into space now.

 

Improvisation 7

 

 

I was better than you. Meaner and meaner. Colder and colder. More than any water.

Once I believed you would give up. Honestly, I advised you not to swim.

You did. You drowned. You died.

You created the Drama of the Heavy Swimmer.

And I surrounded you with unbelievable affection.

 

On PM-ism

 

 

I must listen to my heart and not to reason when I decide the truth between me and you,

between you and I one can not walk, but only run, in the opposite direction,

out of the street, out of town, out of eastromania.

I cannot convince you to stay, or to forgive me because I will forget you.

You are warm and good, as soft as water, alone, you don’t come between anything.

I lie on top of you, in a horizontal position,

at horizon it snows on our bodies just like on our first day together.

I’ve begun writing our novel. Next year. It’s a promise.

(A life not written about was not worth living. GS)

As a SciFi starship I will talk about your favourite subjects,

in one word, one third real, three quarters unreal, I’ll prove to you my linguistic blabbering.

I shall be fresh and vixen; I’ll put my foot in my mouth and reconstruct you out of nocturnal residues. Like a shiver. Like a lint.

As if I were touching myself, my world would be talking about you. Dying.

 

Sister Decadence

 

 

I know the reason why you left, you are the most beautiful.

 

And I burned you on my retina, exquisite as you are,

 

just like you were when your cool mom had you.

 

You left behind green hair in the bathtub.

 

I harvested it, I grew it, I hanged my craddle on soft ponytails.

 

I did not call for you. I did not write to you.

 

My voice and my words have fallen into the sewage hole,

 

pushed down by your hand, by my frontal lobe, by our tooth.

 

We did not hate each other.

 

Undifferently, you took away my better part and  left me in the draft,

 

to catch cold,

 

to breathe.

 

It will be impossible for you to come back.

 

    

 

 

 

Composition

 

 

You are a saint. My mom whispered shoving the medicine down my throat.

 

I nodded and my head ran down the stairs, over the old croak, into the virtual doggy,

 

through Georgy’s sexy pants, it tumbled and fumbled orghasmatically on grass and glass,

 

there’s nothing you can do about it, that’s my head, it abandones its ear- fucking- Nokia and goes far away, to New York, to art, to artists,

 

it’s true, I’m not lying to you, cross my head and hope to die,

 

and my head fugit irreparabile along the dazzling leather of my ecological shoe,

 

stuck to the hellish sole, it rolled out there, right into the room of my childish memory.

 

At 23.21 pm  Saint Head pissed stupidly on my walls.

 

 

PLAYGROUND

 

 

My black and bitter anxiety threatens to make a mess of me,

I think I’ll call your turtle for help. At least half of it is sane. And it grows fatter. Pregnant-like.

Dot. time out. Dot. Monster. Dot. time out. Dot.

Do your shoes fit you all right? Look out to the North. And check. Back in time.

Rather to be safe than sorry.

Why are they crying so distant from each other?

A bad dream, a fairytale. Whatever it is, I don’t want to look. The harvest time is over.

The balloon has fled me.

 

ELEGY

 

To know your life as well as the pen in your hand is a profound issue, worthy of humans…

To know your life is enough for you and you live it non-stop,

leaning against your pen as on a spare arm…

I cleaned my body in water and alcohol so I could yell out my begging for sky wings.

My mortal condition cries its probability with hasty tears.

I feed of them as from a brothel buried at the end of time.