T53

some time ago
down-blocks rose on virgin mary’s vagina
and it smelled like compressed concrete religion
or the workers’ sweat pouring tar on the roofs

now time has peeled the sidewalks
but then we were picking up balloons filled with milk and thrown from the balcony
we were filling them with excitement
twisted they resembled tiny chairs
and we would run around them, crazy and sinful children
we would sit down as fast as we could
and depending on each one’s weight
they would explode shaking the walls that sheltered us all

(the end with the who from thrash can lids)






















is there anybody out there?








and then virgin mary would smile at me with all her lips
among her grey, rough corners – a filthy Pit
because of the microbes’ orgies
or the setting of Dacia cars’ skeletons on fire


with a prickling smell of carbide
mixed in the water underneath the side-walk


I would die there a thousand of times, among syringes and used perfusions
in the black smoke caused by the tractors’ tyres

hereafter I would sit in the Pit between abortions, on used sofas
watching shows in the wooden box of a Diamant tv-set


inside people used to throw spray bottles over the flames
the Freon would arouse in coloured combinations
lighting the closed-window balconies and tram’s rubber corners


T53 is an end-line where tram drivers would stop
to drink coffee underneath their fingers, earth-like
and to smoke a viceroy stub in the Diamant tv-set
I would applaude the cloudy sky above the Pit,
virgin mary laughing with all her rough lips
bits of bread in her teeth
and CEMENT flour