talking about nothing

And she drives her car and we both listen to that dark cabaret music she loves so much. Smooth rain, winter moon, and a voice drilling inside the darkest corners of the mind.
It’s Tiger Lillies. Yeah, I know…your musical obsessions.
They sing in their clean and tough British accent and neologisms dance in their mouths in their grotesque clown-like outfits. Harmonica and subtle harmonies. And my ears randomly pick up words: severed limbs. lacerated. A little deranged…

I’m running like a refugee to find a place to hide beyond my limbic system. Good, good night.
Morning and coffee. Same place. Same time. Same. Same.

And then I clicked and read. Images are motion blurred: I’m just behind you and I captured those images you didn’t, heard the music and smelled the fragrance you missed writing about. Un bărbat tânăr, creol, îmbrăcat într-un tricou negru si pantaloni lărguţi, trece pe lângă mine în paşi graţioşi de dans. Se priveşte în vitrine, are căşti în urechi şi repetă nişte mişcări ample şi studiate. Pluteşte cu graţie printre oamenii de pe trotuar. Mi se pare că doar eu mă opresc şi întorc capul să-l mai zăresc o dată pe dansatorul neaşteptat. O clipă, atât a durat spectacolul său solitar, până când l-a înghiţit nebunia oraşului. Paşii săi elastici n-au lăsat nici o urmă pe asfalt, iar gestul meu de turist care vrea să scoată aparatul de fotografiat a rămas suspendat în aer.

So many movies and acts. A fine blend of colors, taste, scents and textures. Ideas. They come and go keeping in their translucent syntagmatic hands small fragments of phrases randomly taken out subject to an algorithm I have no idea about. And they clearly look like kites. Loooong long tails and thiiiin, almost invisible thread keeping them down to …never mind. How many languages can you speak? Seven…. Wow seven languages…mystique number. True. I can say I love you dearly in 7 ways and each time those I love yous bear a different meaning.

Ssshhhh, don’t say anything. Focus on the music and dream. Or dance. Or think. Either way you have to choose. You can imagine being a child. Or just be the child that draws a pencil with its finger, and then takes the pencil and draws a door. Open it. And follow the line. It’s the simplest and smartest way to escape. Or…. remain silent in your cage doing stupid, incredibly stupid useless things.
When reading your lines I feel like a voyeur. I smile and close the door gently. While I was thinking that’s really funny. Somehow painful and funny.

The world I draw is…….. [fill in the blanks the first idea that comes to your mind].

Photo:
http://desktop-wallpaper.org/wp-content/uploads/RainbowKiteWallpaper_14DE4/RainbowKiteWallpaper.jpg

trip aside

And smoke comes out through her lips… then words rolled down gently. They saw the world as resting on the turtle's back. Shell, symbol of the heavens. And she smiled.

Then she turned to the desk as images popped out almost instantaneously… that dark inside cracked letting the light get in. Her fingers start running at full throttle.
That curved geometrically imprinted armor started gradually transforming: curved spine, head bowed forward and arms wide spread. The hexagonal totemic tale of shell re-written in the delicate and knotty calligraphy of touches and overlapped renders. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes. So many lines for such a short word…
Vectors and shadows, and a sensation of warmth increasingly intensifying. 3D velocity, and matter does not matter anymore. As her eyes caught all the frames his materialization; the mechanics
of bones and muscles that cause him arising and standing up. She saw her fingers shyly enfolding his cage of ribs and going up on the chest. Heart-touching cinemagic… The fabric of his tattooed shoulder blade rendered into billions of frames…that smell and taste remained ingrained within her lips, the slow move while turning his head toward her, line of nose and upper lip, shadows and details of his waved hair. And those white transparent wings opening out and smoothly covering her shoulders; that strange silk-like sensation spreading along the nerves of her arms and that overwhelming panic when she felt echoes of heart bumps into her palm …

Damn, she smoked again… and slept here. All the mess on her desk; the monitor throwing a blue cold light on her sleeping face. He bent and looked at her, puzzled. Have you somehow tattooed your lips?

Under the moonlight

And she is laughing and telling me a story about obsessions. And I listen to her with my eyes, while my ears are listening to the moon. Bewitching dance, a beautiful temptation. Immersed into harmonic sequences I grasp that strange feeling that sounds and thoughts are travelling along expanding the edges of space with the pace of the heart beats. Hold me close even when reborn. Just follow the soft touch of those round vowels, hence held tight by the gentleness of whispers …. sssshhhhh…
under the moonlight




Photo: http://mo-rich.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/moonlight-becomes-you.jpg

pas de deux

Bare foot in the middle of water, two foggy silhouettes dancing with autumn. Balance. Rhythm flows with the gentleness of falling leaves. Intertwined. Perfect sync. Breath. Heartbeats. Turn. Hands like delicate wings touching each other’s back. Another spin. Perfectly arched contours… Flow like a river. Touch like rain. Hold like moonlight.

Photo: http://eastasianfilm.blogspot.com/2010/09/isle.html

Fragments

This hall is silent and covered up in darkness. Seated on some stairs holding my knees, I close my eyes, rise up my head and listen to the sharp and whispered, almost transparent sound of violin.

I feel like floating in green clear water, and smooth fragments of music are bubbling up out of my mouth… one spin, two spins…

Low and intense hum.

Five cellos, five layers of reality.

Sitting on the fence in a small paved square near the sea; the cold and round touch of metal. It’s so much sun. My eyes engulfing all the bright light around. And you close in, so close… and your scent recalls the frost and spice. So close that my head rest on your chest; your breath makes this thin film of colors and scents vibrates. Paaaaaaaang! Deep and heavy, the echo of drum shattered the light and pushed me back into the dark. These stairs I’m sitting on are gently rippling. I’m trapped back.

Original photo: http://cristimurgu.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/104_09732.jpg

Love in the ice

Perhaps somehow, someday I’ll find that unrevealed wavelength for an extremely short broadcast of your slapshots in a 38 milliseconds’ ice clear dream.

Hope

Once I was asked: why are you hiding behind another language? Not to forget it … I said, and it was maybe just a part of the truth.
Not to forget a part of myself perhaps...
Now I get into the words of another quadrant,
as if I try to rediscover the meaning of my whole life.
And it was so incredibly startling to find out that even if I know how to say love, I was never curious about hope.



Photo: http://lorelaymiss.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/speranta1.jpg

blue

Tales are like oceans.
Half transparent,
half opaque,
immensely blue,
waving or furious
covered in a delicate film of tenderness.
There is no rule of salvage.
It’s just float.
And arms wide open.

Photo: http://fc07.deviantart.net/fs35/i/2008/297/c/5/Round_Transparent_Blue_Reshade_by_Callu.jpg

green

Cold spring like morning. It’s late and I don’t care. My head is heavier than Jupiter and my thoughts two times further than Pluto. It is just another day and the radio is on and I’m listening to an old and strange tune suffocating delicately the noise of the engine. Riders on the storm… Riders on the storm... Up on a ladder he’s cleaning a window… that’s fun. A wide glass transparent window; and his green t-shirt went up… and my thoughts went down, got out of the car and behaved like a curious alien.

Photo: http://www.designboom.com/cms/images/anita05/window07.jpg

Un bon petit saut du soir

Un bon petit saut du soir from cassebriquesProd on Vimeo.

Cold sun

Not in this world….

This puzzle is mingled and incomplete.

Each element is captive in a different fractal.

And she’s lost, and a traveler.

Her eyes were caressing your fingers

I, somehow, retrieved a mental blurred image of her lips doing it so many times before... your hands were smelling of leather and dust.

Your neck and smile linked to her deleted memories of sharp metal and torrid sun, dust and white flowers of spring…

All that remained in that seashelled fractal, far white, blanked, cold, still sharp.

Photo: http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7LoqDcUTfog/TQrEorEMV8I/AAAAAAAAAFQ/59sxbfKas3g/s1600/Fractal%2BSnowflakes%2BWp%2Btangledwing.png

Winter apart

Somebody is trapped inside me and cries.

all its sadness and tears

slowly rise

and fill up all the small cavities inside

expand the limits of my skin

dissipate in circular waves all around

I’m afraid…

my silent soliloquy

might hurt

might cause a wave tougher than sadness

more painful than isolation

colder than frost

somebody might hear all my unspoken words

falling down like an unwanted winter

and there hunkered down, covered in a colorless blanket

an unnamed twin is starring at the ocean, recalling spoiled

dismembered memories

while tears are crystallizing short letters of farewell

Photo: https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD9UZ6h9f_795zTfOoto-6l4e4atnRV58ELjoYPcRiiTUzBEsQhcMPOArfZU7iXuFfFF4e4I6JtWBJltbZz3U8L0KJu6noSWEt0oC1-skmWp9csedgjJXyUt0irN8FzjaQxnkfWlgIkxA/s1600/26032+Full+moon+over+calm+ocean.jpg

echos

Close the door and listen

It’s such a blue sky

And so is the sea whose image I can hear on the phone whose texture I can scent

The ceiling in your room suddenly has a floral pattern, thousand of points generate a petal

White… fleur du lys - white as the body armour or maybe as snow powder

Fine as the neck line that is hiding under the helmet

I can hear the rhythm of waves

I can hear them strangely echoed as if I was plunged miles down into the water

Those echoes overlapping my heartbeats, alpha and theta waves

A.. at... ata ...atat

Photo:

http://wallpaper4god.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/easy_waves2c_coastline2c_atlantic_ocean.jpg

white

It snows in a foreign language,
with hexagonal crystalline words.
There is no spring;
just a delicate yet undecided winter.
And I wear the snow flakes on my eyebrows and lips

And when I breathe air vibrates like the strings of a cello

And I imagine a white plane landing in a slow motion causing a huge wave of snow and disappearing in a thick translucent fog somewhere in the delta quadrant

Photo: http://thundafunda.com/393/images/widescreen-wallpapers/nature-pictures-2/nautre-pictures-ice-cream-bright-white-snow.jpg

Trip aside. Erased.

It felt like a thunderbolt simultaneously struck

my neo-cortex and sternum

and I stopped there in the middle of the street looking at that stranger in a short black coat.

hurtfully my mind spun for a second

thousand of sprawled images

thousand of images fading out …

and I feel so heavy and intense like my memory was erased

and I’m losing all ties

and I cannot remember.

I cannot remember.

Photo: http://www.fluid-radio.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/Erasure.jpg

haze

I breathe the hazy hues of dawn
and curl up to sleep.

I was the winter,
I was the frost,
I was the snow,

I was the blizzard,

But now I am awake.

That’s how I come off to find you.

You were dreaming.

Photo: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lfg74g5xBf1qft8tno1_500.jpg

pictures from an exhibition

One two
I count without thinking

those seconds our REMs collide
Three four
I move without stepping

but tricking my mind into believing

Five six
I hold without touching

Graceful but haunting
Seven eight
I love without…

stereoscopically enhanced, dislocated reality.

Photo: http://wallpaperstock.net/3d-%c5%9eah-bord_wallpapers_9382_1024x768_1.html

Source: http://www.billycowie.com/

smashing sounds

It’s dark. And she dances. Her hips tear the darkness apart, her slender silhouette looks like a red delicate flamingo. And I dance inhaling a hypnotic dose of drum.

It’s dark and she dances. Her tears scratch the light, her slender silhouette hides behind the green shadows. And she dances stoned in an anesthetic dose of pain.

It’s dark and I dance letting my mind project complex choreographic routines on the cracked walls around. And I run away to dance in a different dimension trapped in a soothing dose of fog.

Photo: http://www.layoutsparks.com/1/184320/domestic-swirl-dance-abstract.html