The lady sings to the dessert sands Her left breast is on my right lips Erotic sounds from below, deep voice The left/right echo comes from above A wedding in the dig out hole at the cemetery
The butterflies are in white tuxedoes The gravediggers are nude except boots
It is all backwards diving into the sky Art imitates life, life blurs into death Dream first, live later, birds of vapor Castles from clouds, soluble air balloons Motorcycles Angels, sidecar preachers Where is the exit? Where is the blues? Seulb Seulb! Where is the bluuues!
Without you, Leo! For Alex-Leo Şerban
Where the movies come alive, than die suddenly
Itaca
Where Marilyn Monroe sings her sultry poetry
Where film-mafia meets the star- makers A shy brainiak poet has passed away quietly A four dimensional life folded, in a very hurry
Lost forever in the shadows in the immortality alley,
How can I watch a new flick without flinching?
Empty responses, empty feelings of loss
Bizarre dancers hanging with soldiers and sailors We all had a laugh, but it suddenly stopped
Imploding humanity in a Kafkaesque banal existence, Bleeding unforgettable existential narrative
Something is not right, “mon amie fatigue” Mon Amie Fatigue, is it worth living without you We are still lost in Purgatory
Balazs F. Attila (Slovacia)
Still Something Is Missing
va fi o zi, în care blestemat de apariţie
from that book, which can be the translation of that one for which we have a word that never wears out –
my life is missing something – to give an example a love story (I should have capitalized this) near which I should have lived my life, as only a young man in his dreams could do
or as only in the memories of an old man could be possible – like a drunkard being sent away, the imagination retires to itself –
there will be a day when I will come back
face enlightened with the most ancestral instincts
there will be a day when accursed by the apparition near the world’s space
I pick a flower up for you from a perfect plain and count beside you the wind’s petals there will be a night when we watch the moon from a fixed point of the chasm smelling of hay
there will be a moment when meaning loses any word and we will understand each other though we have no harmony anymore: the adopted children of death and like dust into dust we will slide the one toward the other and toward the earth
catching us in its huge texture.
pe lîngă-a lumii-ntindere îţi rup o floare pe o imaculată cîmpie şi împreună cu tine număr ale vîntului petale lăsate va fi o noapte, în care în îmbătă- toare
miresme de fîn de pe-al hăului punct fix privim luna
va fi o clipă, cînd înţelesu-şi pierde
orice cuvînt şi totuşi ne vom înţelege unul pe altul
atunci cînd arunca-vom orice-ar- monie:
ai morţii copii adoptaţi
şi ca ţărînă-n ţărînă aluneca-vom unul spre celălalt şi-nspre pămîntul ce-n
a capilarelor ţesătură-i ne prinde
searching for the exit
Is there a way to the Nirvana for the geniuses?
37
The world tilted, under the weight of assumption Tempus fugit, litera scripta manet! A life of an exceptional spirit traded for coupons, Mon Amie Fatigue, no more dangerous critique
Only unfulfilled possibilities of short dreams To travel with Fundoianu to Buenos Aires Bohemian destiny? Aristocratic smile! Mon amie fatique! Just pleasant remembrances
Surrealist glasses with tears on them Alone, but not lonely, unbroken Romanian soul.
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