Strănut

Să nu mă schimb
Îţi dau acum nevroza
A mea şi numai
A mea
Să rup pagini la incinerat
Şi somnul să-mi fure odihna
Căci mă uit la ceaşca de ceai
Şi văd doar alcool.
Să mă înec în cimentul din oraş,
Mai bine stau şi aştept
Şi te aştept
Şi te aştept
Mă car, mă sting
Vin înapoi
Vin înapoi
Vii înapoi.

Destăinuie broască

În timp cu sori, sânge, spânzurători,
Mă car, mă sting
Şi nu vreau să vorbesc.
Am obosit să mor,
Iar somnul mă adoarme
Visam, visam
E-un infinit orgasm.

Şi-ţi închin satană
Paharul cu venin
Şi sufletele moarte
Să-mi cânte, să-mi cânte
Şi falsează prin perdele
Mă rup în cel mai prost refren
Şi găuri în pahar de venin
Îl sparg, îl sparg şi ţi-l închin
Mă car, mă car, mă sting.

Plouă în Polonia

Întâlnesc un polonez
Ce-n cafea-mi arunc-o dogmă
Înzestrată-n catifea
De-a ploua, de n-ar ploua
Şi bastonul mi-e rece
Se târâie, mă târâie
Se udă pe asfalt
Şi-mi cade batista-n apă
Metalul scârţaie ud
Mă ţine-n lesă, îmi cad şi ochii
Şi pălăria
Şi-mi plouă-n cap.

Paharul e gol

Lumina-și orbește surorile
Dar becul pâlpâie letargic
Și-mi cântă scaunele note
Proaste, atât de proaste.
Paharul mi-e plin pânla pântec
Porumbei la geam, porumbei
Să mă-nțeleagă, să nu mă-nțeleagă
Să vină ploaia, să piară
E hazard în mintea mea
Prin gaura din pahar mă-ncânt
De-al tău gând, la geam e vânt
E-ntuneric, e frig, plângând
Și ploaia plânge domol
Și-n lumina asta oarbă
Văd paharul gol.

Dur

De-ai fi aici vulcan erupt
Și frunza să mi-o tai acum
Din smoală ți-aș fixa un gând
Te sinucid, te sinucid.
E-un tâmpit și-un infinit
Ce pe sub cracă zboară
Cu elan cam amuțit
Și ochii mei coboară.
Și mușchii mei se pisicesc
Se întăresc, mă lasă greu
Și te aștept, și te aștept
Neschimbător, obosit, eu
Și umbrea mea, a mea ești tu
În știință, gravă neștiință.

Carnal world vs. Universe. How about you back off concrete reality?

Find me a spider web so I could show you the gates of tomorrow.
Behind ourselves a sea of nothingness awaits, but why don't we step further? ... Where does the wave wash over?... Over you? How about we wind our way to him! So many times have we seen the mirror image of the sky in the water and now we can't face the infinite?

If the Universe has no sense, do any of us have? We ignore the general, but protest when being an exception. Banality vs. passion? The Universe has no sense, each of us finds it one , says Emil Cioran.
Truth is we run away from banality like Icarus from the Sun - in the end we get burned.
Banality and infinity are pretty similar - none understood, both resented, though only one catches us as we breathe. We are imprisoned into a banal reality because we are not aware of any real power. Infinity is talked about in such an objective manor - not understood, though ever so fascinating! To think of something without beginning or end...it's just as thinking of, well, nothing.
We're drowning, yes. In reality, everything becomes redundant (well, you make it that way, don't look at me). The difference between banality and infinity is that banality manifests in a measured time, which flows like a violent waterfall, though seen by us like a calm stream. A lot of people don't know how to exteriorize themselves, even though they see pictures of fabulous art, sounds so profound in their simplicity, have no idea how electricity works, though they know that you could cook a man's dinner with it, and you can, well, also cook the fag. So what do we really know about the existential nucleus in which we gather? Bars embrace our mind, transfiguration is on the path of despair.
Creatures we are? We've been created to read others that claim to be creators, when we all are as such. Nietzche got that one right in Thus Spoke Zarathustra : "You creators, you powerful men!", and so introducing the perspective of us creating ourselves and our own universe as we go along. (Churchill kind of copied that...douchebag)
Anyway, the idea of "finding oneself" is so misleading and thus misleaded - it gives the false impression that one has some sort of self-waiting to be ferreted out, when in reality, the self has to be MADE.
There's no blackboard in the sky that says that I, Green Beans, age 99, born on Pluto will have discovered panacea and thus bring peace to mankind and also get lung cancer from smoking too much and die on my birthday.
No, I create myself, I determine my future, for future is a mere illusion, it's just an excuse to get away from "now". People rarely can create their own selves because society and environment takes that place instead, so well, great masses think alike and absorb even greater masses and so ... drowned the sheep in the sea. Well I'm the black sheep and I tell you - don't fucking do it!

That Time

This crave of gold raised a claw of silver

Upon its might, the Sun creeps in

Comes forth a gentle spring with fruited beards under the boughs

Now comes the time, when that time never comes

Now is not tomorrow morning anymore,

But a decaying part of what has been.

Evermore ugly is that brightly colored dress

Of smiles made of salt , from the earth beneath

Glowing in sparks, yet fake,

Wrapped around these leaves like the auras of saints.

Crashing down and out the door

A swallow stole the key to the garden of gold

In the shadow of the red rusty oak

She made quite an appearance

Evermore ugly is that dress of caterpillars

A fire inside washed over by wet arrows

Wind touch, petals kept falling in the well

As Autumn came and in love you fell.