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

he’s mechanical he finds 
the needed words finds the idea
and then prays but it’s more like
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 


- main role in
the conspiracy of silence, dis-  

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


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

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 & 

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 

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


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 
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
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
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.

By Bogdan Puslenghea

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