you can pee on my soul it’s like deconstructing rainbows (I don’t mind. some good old- fashioned humor, once in a while) check the cover, objects, surfaces, pin top plaster down, middle chance loan alphabet be smarter be brilliant the battle of the cells for one conscious moment you are mad you are guilty stay amazing twilight something essential and forgotten now that the sun blesses once again our (camera moves out of style) paused hearts time to change into new skin pretty baby time to lose some weight you too heavy. There was another silence. Play the man. Play please the mute. Pay the dead the mute. Play the dead. Thought s he turned against himself. Stick around. he’s mechanical he finds the needed words finds the idea and then prays but it’s more like waiting for the state of grace his (final )coupe de grace; he is sensitive& all but we’re talking wood sensitivity he is bigger than she is and less poetic he’d never quote a line everything’s his by automatic appropriation. unbelievable frivolity, his latest jest, a slender suggestion must’ve flown off - main role in the conspiracy of silence, dis- tinguished and crispy, raining let ters – back to laughs anyway – less poetic machofreaks, inside your loveless- mother that’s just a slip you’re mad you’re guilty you’re She a guy wound up with confidence knows how to handle her eyes desire - - mind stops you (wear the proper movie before you go out!) hats and white gloves on the floor a man studying the window girl love poet boy hate poet white corpse sentimentality with binoculars she makes a play for you, group-photography taken from the level of a boy’s shoe don’t smoke that everybody poet let me eat some words, no haste, I’ll puke madness and stars upon you- you’ve seen the worst right in the beginning of it. he’d go down over to The:Egocentrics oh man the drummer really kicks it and (from outside it sounded like a dinner party honey- but honey went to Norway) you Timisoara tonight so beautiful simple dressed in in fog and rain, so beautiful like rock’n’roll so me times under this constant moon shiny cold and full of herself you’re mad you’re guilty he never asks a lady personal questions he met so many & none. Clash by night: he offers her a lit cigarette, she takes it watches it for a blink- through her fingers- and throws it up her shoulder, lights her one of’r own. Fuck landscape like you’re on it mean it no tension no suspense just indifference. Bubda and Mimna his best friends took a trip to Belgrade. you’re mad you’re guilty the car the talk the kiss the underlying confrontation a prisoner in a cell dreaming of a lonely high way way undetectable moves, ornaments for the unknown you’re the kind of person who fully sKips the criteria of my subjective beliefs in a stran- gulated attempt at common sense you’re mad &guilty; he is a mixture of good lyrics, bad lyrics and chaos. he says I write post pop or hard (?)po(/)o(r/p) can’t seem to remember exactly poetry for flies; but that’s not the case, anywayz I’m mad at him tried to buy some- gave him the money never saw the thing. he’s into labels he believes if one sounds peculiar enough it works for him the more oxymoronically the better (can a bourgeois punk still appreciate L. Bunuel?) it’s all about him be careful with life’s etiquettes The girl behind the counter presses Place&0 and saves pushing Total. Outside a police car does a patrol thing. Help me build the biggest building! saving your souls, closer to the sky. When the guys from Sideria Magazine came to him he had to answer some questions. Are you a communist? Do you feel persecuted by capitalism? Have you genui ne sympathies for the nazi conceptions? It’s impossibl e not to see or feel that there’s no blood in these words . It’s embarrassing but do you -really love-?I think I am the new hybrid. What d’ya mean? Well, a working cla ss hero heart big spender instincts and an open Intolera nce towards inferiority and I also love black and asian. What’s that ? Mhmm to put it simpler I’m a lazy fucked -up and funny morose motherfucker slow dancing thro ugh the walls. k man gtg now I hate the fact that he’s so paranoid can barely talk to him, he’s like a gunfire dying out in the distance. he has a thing with bullets they’re never too many : he’s cool, he’s fire, he’s wild, he’s he’s the psychologist and the psychopath all at once for her he’s a liar but he can’t talk backwards; people respect themselves- no moustache no artist (oh you love each other you can feel it you can tell it) tell it yet you’re so wrong/ besides beating him I prefer to cry: artist no more without the distinctive features you’re mad you’re crazy overly emphatic he’ll lose his soul in a sec The End. ‘In the end’ soul sounds so 19th century hearts are only for strangers or searchers you’re mad you’re guilty you’re alive & my feelings got mindified I still keep you, hold you, keep you in my arms he’s the forgotten child of the child he was * he’s careless but somehow things turn ok
Bogdan Puslenghea is from Timisoara. His work has appeared in Otoliths, Degu A Journal of Signs, Truck, International Times, and Caliban online
Illustration Nick Victor.