childhood chalet
Milk thing
On my first travel abroad
I was alone against the strong
Divorced aunt´s row of vegetables
Lettuce, seeds, tomatoes, farm,
Liquids from soya or plants
No drugs there – no medication
No balance, eat what your body
Really needs,
Which is Holy Health –
I was a skeleton there
Measuring pure water with
Soya milk, my waist with a ribbon
Scrawny, uglier than Sissi
And no cats licking the milk
Pouring from my lips – no nothing
Indecent out of my throat
A crumb of natural bread
A farm a little too far away
My aunt´s bike to reach this
Reach Heaven, mystical milk
I should drink –
And she had been told by mother
Doctors to feed me fine, fats, proteins
Of milk, and yoghourt, very easy to swallow
No tubes, hoses to my stomac,
Just “normal food”
But she was so unnatural with children
Her son died – pointing fingers
“I´ll get the fucking milk for her”
And i was writing my paper about
Rimbaud, Edie Sedgwick, Plath
With empty stomac ,
Yet souled, passionate,
Inspired by the gods above,
Words they wrote so fluently on my
Diary of sorts.
And drawings explaining Rimbaud´s rib
Against his flesh
And walking, walking too much
Too long abroad –
I could hardly breath
And walk at the same time,
Just eat, sit and write the paper
And my own thin fingers
And ankles i walked so proud to the beach.
I kept writing in a trance, lying on the sand
Wrapped with towels, eccentric sun
Perfect geometries, the farm, the Glory,
The dance of Edie falling flat from the ceiling
Like her dead child, in memoriam –
I should fight against mother´s milk
Dancing in the summer fire, over the dunes
And warm waters.
Writing, possessed, starving yet denying it.
Running abroad, further and further
Until exhaustion, until Graduation
I excelled dancing, dancing silent performance –
Then the ambulance
The hospitals and hoses and noses
And stomacs everywhere
Command, signatures, your name, your body name,
Drink normal milk with a pill to sleep
And balance, weight, size, pair of shoes
Off and tickling to make me smile
And swallow that thick liquid
And sleep everything off,
Unsouled, paper done i excelled, i excelled
Doubting about my sanity
And my aunt´s son, dead too soon
And my pointing finger –
Deself
Jobless, you said you quit your job
As i quit mine. But for different reasons.
I´ve driven far away from that house
I have this white room, do you remember
Tracey Moffat? Do you remember blow-jobs?
I don´t. That´s my past.
I´m feeling so far away from all that jazz.
I paint murals. Drunk. Until i get
Intoxicated with the smell of paint.
Even if it´s harmless.
I hurt. I am damaged.
Cold May. Iris didn´t blossom yet.
I remember when i was someone else.
I don´t know what´s wrong now, weak,
Maybe it´s alright.
The white walls are impossible spaces.
I can´t bear the murals.
All canvases against the wall
Except yours, you and your daughter
Sister, pregnant.
Here all books start. For everything is finishing
This chalet, my wedding tent, the bride, the bride,
Old witch and i hate cats,
I hate having a car, i hate it all.
The blank, the white square of this wall
Is not depression, or schizophrenic architecture.
I´m just overwhelmed, and too sensitive,
Too silly. O i´ve been so naïve
But i needed it.
I spy my Romanian neighbours- they do speak
And play all the summer, over a mountain
Of sand, and a plastic swimming-pool.
They have brown hair, blue eyes. They are tanned .
I have freckles. Or something worse.
Last night
I couldn´t walk, i lied on the road
With my black coat.
The retarded staff went out for a coffee,
Numb eyes and faces=i belonged to them!
Pride of some kind.
My hair was long and i was self-erotized.
A tornado lifted my skull, installed more ideas,
Wedged between synapses, this man
I know for ages. He´s changed. And me too.
And the distance. And my silence.
I write words.
I say Hm. Him.
I need an end to everything.
This mural. Blue and Whitesnow –
A tornado, a tube, grey and smokey.
Me, naked. Parents with a hat
And a scarf.
I quit my job! Running naked except for
My flesh-color shorts.
Drunk, they said, Welcome home –
So i spy our neighbours to take photographs
Of Eastern Europe, because i know, i know –
My sister gave me the digital camera
To save my life, and my soul.
I don´t know where i´m heading to.
Philosophy, a know where so much is hidden.
A plot. A line on the floor to follow.
I just believe in my neck for vampires.
Thinking, thinking too much for too long.
Deself, white walls.
There´s been an end or will be.
I need whiteness, assedness, words even crud.
Black cushions performing
Books, red threads. Red hair.
She´s fine
She´s fine
She´s fine
Because i can paint murals,
With too much intensity.
But god, she´s blessed!