Marius Surleac

winter night – in the backwoods the eyes are sparkling over the snow

my fingernails dig trenches on your white milky bosom so fast that even the light can’t take a closer look over the night’s icy heart scrapers I gather all my shadows, put them in old smelly

no more drops falling from above the sphere we stand in seizes us protecting the flesh not to be twisted by the paths of the snow flakes our warm gasp is the spring for the fog that we’ll drink

I watch from the window how your bloody tears glide above the sky I taste from your wine like a hungry one to let myself carried by remembrances that I tailor like a mantle to protect me in the

I walk very quickly rushing my footprints towards their reincarnation cycle it seems that on a sunny afternoon the mirrors left behind my boozy cold breath under the dome of the leafless trees I

from under the ground trampled by the bulls and the amphetaminic toreadors, by the drops of acid rain, the birds were furrowing the burnt sky with six extra feet of illusions *** between

the glassy shaky rimed trees, foggy meadow in the morn - far away nobody sees that the first snowflake was born

sweet basil at the ikon stands and once again the skies have split the garlic’s smell just faith demands and candles by the beasts were hit

In a world full of wonders boredom was invented I don’t know what I will do with the fondnesses that will come every time you’re at the other end of the knife I feel inside of me a sort of secular

Through your thighs the Tour Eiffel, l\'Arc de Triomphe can be seen and the vicious crowd that trample each other as to the sky – thus, living on big foot, alongside you I can visit the

Sparrows and pigeons throwing pieces of bread - like a nuclear reaction with atoms spinning ahead A step is the signal like flowers to bloom - with high speed the action is caught in a

on the sit near the window pane every night in the bus the glass full of beads sweated of impotence and the smell of metal bars on hands the smell of hundreds or thousands of people that leave or

The single spot surrounding and filling us all is the omniscient presence that takes us far away to the fairylands, through blue skies, where there are no borders, no wars – but peace floating

„Fly on my sweet angel, Tomorrow I\'m gonna be by your side” – „Angel” – Jimi Hendrix Strings cut the flesh right through the electrified hair Lots of curls spinning straight to the soil sprinkled

under celestial shower – graceful, a madman and the untouched soap

drunkards on their knees – after the rain, imitating the Milky Way

first step: tasting the Brownian motion second stair: resonance of the warm hearts third thought: seed roving far in the ocean fourth cut: lost shadow a new circle starts

red leaves stabbing my sight fell under the lost prints that closed the wound of night the way back home – just glints