Marius Surleac

Urbanism Streets defended by armies of coarse fiends – their eyes will hypnotize my retina; their mouths stretched by the fuel called loss. People like ants will try to find their way

Wax snapshots “…I suffer of love!” – I said to my other ego. Nearby, standing defiant, the judge ego of my personal challenge told me that I’m mad. There were just a few moments till the

that sparkling star falling down – not wishes come true but death of a star

painting the horizon – a rainbow took birth instant into my eyes

Sensing authenticity… She: What are you doing? Why are you sitting there and smoke tobacco? He: It doesn’t concern you. So run off, don’t bother me – I do not have time for talking with

Poetry is the punch in the keys and must be felt by the hearth and slashed by the brain Is the leaf that falls from the tree but never reaches the ground Poetry means war in a smear drawn by

sweet kiss on the cheek – not Judas, but swift warning from a gracious mate

atomic mushrooms – thousands of one-second memories of fast death

ape leaped from the tree – swiftly it became human. It’s Evolution!

sand wasting time – ancient clepsydra for cultures which flow into life

him in the mirror – searching for lost ideas and dawn of the past

eyes watching two pipes – one shotgun and a bullet that waits to be born

that hole in the sky – path through the lens that will kill and Earth that will die

my cold feet got fixed – I, hanging close to the edge, have seen Medusa

Boxed in... The roof upon my head, which covers my whole being, is not made by wood or glass or concrete… It’s made by seven broken wings from seven buried angels. From up, their blood

Personal thoughts V It is for the first time when my thought to unknowing guides me to open the arms for the whole space symphony. Temporal drops, for the only judgment moment, hangs on the lost

savage fish-tigers – hunters for the nude virgin and fly having lunch

watch melt on the tree – memories funneled through time of mind gap pastures

root pinched from an egg – one finger that handles the skull from the mirror

static spicy grapes – eyes emerged for the abstract dilution of space…

Red rose lay on the stone - petals embraced the grave for carcass shelter…

knocking down some books – words like a pogo will splinter new ideas

a plunge into the water – my tear squashed by the core of my soul

Every time I walk beside dark streets, a strong feeling flows through my veins. It’s like a night in inferno, but sensation of nowhere is kept hanged under the odd moon. The trees start moving;