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 okBogdan Puslenghea is from Timisoara. His work has appeared in Otoliths, Degu A Journal of Signs, Truck, International Times, and Caliban online
Illustration Nick Victor.