Constantin Delca

writing is like this: you go to the local library and borrow a book you go back home and read it after a couple of days you return it later you remember there was a passage that you would

write every word as if your life doesn’t matter there are more terrible things happening in the world and you know you will not be spared write every word as if your life depends on

they came early in the morning faceless black shadows they broke the entrance door and searched meticulously every inch of the house they turned everything upside down cut the back of the

i would have wanted something like the river of my childhood the faint noise of slow water bird songs and muddy shores full of wonders or something like the sweet red wine of my father\'s

when it becomes deafening like a cliché you could insert various things into your ear a yellowish flat key turn and turn again until depending on what side of the silence you live in a door

the only friend you betray is sleep hidden in a dark corner at the edge of perception your masks/faces are melting into one other tears will withdraw and eyes will go dry don\'t wait for

consider this page the distorting mirror of a sea: taste its salty air hear the cries of the gulls feel the tongues of the waves kissing your feet consider this poem the outstretched hand of

at the narrow end at every hour the endless minutes cram together like orphans i’m breathing a black porridge sticky and hot my blood is fiercely dashing to the shore a rock is hanging from my

in my world i have unearthly powers i am immortal unaffected by space-time i can travel wherever i want whenever i want i am a god i can fight i can kill i can save nothing is

... when i came to see you it was a sunny summer day i walked along the riverbank passing through gardens and bogs i even cut my leg in a barbed-wire fence ruining my new jeans i crossed

a solid silence welcomes you right from the entrance shaded gravestones victorian angels with dirty bodies transfer to your backbone an alien coldness artificial flowers are scattered

Deeper and deeper I’m going in the labyrinth, chasing the more and more fading away phantom of an old Ariadne. When I learned that there was no Minotaur and I’d been lured inside so that I’d let

i’m walking the streets with half-closed eyes so i can see the emaciated masks of my friends of misery but the people are all strangers and i no longer dare look anyone in the face vampire –

i don’t like writing poems i hate this superhuman struggle to give a shape to my dreams & thoughts in the end i come to understand the futility of everything soap bubbles bursting in the

when the moon is rising like in the gothic novels i sneak up over the wall of the lost paradise barefoot i step on the green grass of the truth my blood merges with the dew of the

surrounded by an eerie silence and by frames with no pictures darkness is setting over the windows a faint odor of burning flesh creeps under the door like a warning there’s no place to

there’s an absence everywhere i look invisible horses are cropping the lawn no birds on the sky but i can hear the wings beating and the wind rustling the branches my blood is a

tears shed for no particular reason salty drops of wax are still hanging into thin air echoes of mad laughter are running back and forth through empty hallways of memory i chop off a

still i stand on the shore of an unknown sea no sound meets the ear only the rhythmic breathing of the water like the one of a dormant giant in front of me there are two bottles each one

on the white of this paper i’m a bird wandering in the mist but all the deaths have been born all the lives have been lived all the births have been died it knows my toys my limping my

crushed under the weight of the decayed air my brain suppurates the reality with blood crouched in my own helplessness a foetus in the death’s uterus i’m rediscovering in the dark the

the self-portrait is made by furiously hitting the face to a wall until the encephalon breaks to pieces the lime becomes a mask of the extroversion the death’s breath is liquefying and the

there certainly is in this world resembling a drawer full up with dirty laundry a spot for which i’m longing like a sexual slave for erotochine a place that viscerally guides me as if i’m a