on monday my veins turned mercury-heavy,
silver-white face, pain’s still there and steady,
past whores screaming from each of my stitches,
my low life bleeding out through fantasy bitches.
into the white drawer made of medicinal steel
lies my plastic syringe filled with suicidal will,
i stand still and silent i am facing my bloody poems:
paper darkened with mediocre and flat foregoings.
my ivory ribs tremble in joy as verses are burning,
ashes blanket the past to the point of never-returning,
syringe in my hand feels like plastic freedom: ignition.
piston goes down, eyelashes lock in the upper position.
asa-i? na, am incercat si-o sa mai incerc dar parca lipseste niste… intimitate
Linie de cur/ concluzie- parca nu suna poemele in engleza asa personal, ca alea in romaneste, unde te poti juca mai mult cu limbaju. Da faina oricum.