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Wall and Neutrino
poetry [ ]
The Poet in New York

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
by [Constantin Severin ]

2008-07-09  |     | 

Motto:"Its hopeless: we and Nature shall never be one again".
Mihai Eminescu

In chemical wake the sun comes to life
on the salt skeleton of the sea
the houses display fake autonomy
cubic lumps of sugar in the black
boxes of the scream
the objects mark you out
in detail
yet finally you discover the intelligent
fog of land armies
the influence of bacovia effect
on cathode-ray tube
speed performance and dynamism
the ammonia-lipped snow of industry
shaving foam the thougts
on the highway the wheels
with their tragic nostrils
in the ozoned air of the power plant
one twilight of twilights
I was listening with my body to
an idea the laws
were turning plains cities into waves
like an eclipse the air
black black
in the dandelion's dome
darkness takes size of any occurrence
beside the white owl
play some more ol'man
play your golden
while the night exchanges
addresses with anxiety
come peel off
the light of my hearing
the shining teeth
of the black race
seeking the golden shadow
of irreal things
I'm crossing this vulgar unique city
- sex dimanche -
where the brain is a late trap
of the feelings
on the street motorbikers
steal blindmen's canes
to acquire a ludic existence
down the stairs into a bar I go/through the
light of the lighter
I can see the polirhythmical angel of music
- sex/zero/sex/tobacco -
this cybernetic sun is spotless
likewise lovers lack deep eyes
in just one hand thou shalt hold
both glass and rope
the plastic pub
can be submitted to all senses
without fear of mistaking the stained glass windows
mashed by the chopper's blade
yet take the town by the hand
circular blindman he
in a village in the Carpathians
oh the woman even death
has the memory of round curves
in the drunk lens
the sea delineates the green madness of
the skin-deep wind of terror
the maximum vegetation of solitude
life is surgery
on the eye of a hero
on the street blindmen see
the psychoanalytical side of things
all my life I've travelled
through the sands explosion
in a dream sandglass
and now you see me
such a lonely cigarette
in the corner of my lips
all my life I've travelled
through a cosmetics-for-memories plant
and now I wake up
with my face drenched in green
on an electrical pillow
the blue-jeaned governor is playing golf
the moon of diamonds is the madman's pulse
anxiety is ninety storeys high
and despair is combing its long hair
in the bathroom
the general is journeying
on a freight car
the audience are watching in slow motion
the bullet getting out the president's body
the sawing star
slipping from one sense to another
without counting my dollars
the sea only crouches at my feet
as a naive prostitute
children are drawing on my door
the bizarre hats of the women
who've committed suicide
in the mirror bled white by a scream
strikes the pendulum of its own hallucination
the water jet/white nenuphar in the room
clouds scratched by the red memory of the moon
on the street loneliness setting off
automobile pistons
the clock thinning out the satin of bones
in a psychiatric unit
wall and neutrino
the world breezes through the glasspane
the woman with eyes so intensely
commercial unbuttoning her blouse
a destiny not hers
days passing like
so many strange force lines
Friday a bird hops abstractly
in the underground
the soldier scything the grass of naive paintings
Corina a long way from home
time teasing my derm
as a mysterious gothic coin
evening the city's musical nerves
taut as anything
you're passing as a shy leaf
in the real jet of illusion
under the great walls happiness
is a spring sunk deep
in salt lakes
the woman dancer kinetic sculpture
in the baroque relief of the night
the billionaires' club
is fascinated by spotlights
women their complexion philosophically white
the words gracious fans
for fox terriers
the woman getting out the park
fright heavy makeup on her eyelids
in the blinding blizzard of neon signs
immigrants combing their melancholy
imbued hair
it is not easy to survive
through imagination
the general learns the abrupt compression
of landscapes
the young raise barricades for the present
beyond the great walls
horses unbraiding the rare green of the plain
I was lost in thought my senses in a flower
the factories sparked out coloured cold
the electric arc hachured a bee
in spectral labs
pure air petrified
was the word
the eye would not enlarge it
in the wound laid open to all
the days the days the days
you're singing/got no fortress
to touch
only the scorching vacuum: neutrino
and the white tennis racket
blossoming the girl's face who's got lost
in a plexiglass tunnel
and you're singing
hadn't the light/burnt
the capillaries of silence
in the vacuum of magnets/the divine
fortress wouldn't have perished/spearmen and all
what worlds the effigy leaves for us/in our mind
we press their coin/on the wound
of radioactive carbon/gliding into
the last journey/to luana
you're singing/the hill gives birth to a crystal eagle
called melancholy
cyclists pedal
under the silver blade of speed
you're singing/got no fortress
to touch
only the sea
and the grass of the lens smoking up
in the iced eyes of astronomers
you're singing/the wall with wings
of rubber
tears up the sky/the naked shoulder
of the dancer her hair
a thousand blossomed limetrees
and you're singing
my love a star's touched me/unexpectedly
with its skin of opium/and forgetfulness
and I've realised we/what a coincidence
live in an explosion/unfinished
don't you feel how time rises
behind the bird/as a porthole
while we're dreamily hit/by an echo
of moon in the eyes/of a swallow
ay the wall with its rubber wings
ashbranch in the tear
of the child/you're singing
of late motorbikers have faces
of violet sand
resembling the black bite
of emptiness
between two houses
you're singing/at the wheel laughs
the card-tattooed dancer
while the beach bleeds
falling nights
and you're singing
the world enfolds you/sad clown
through ease increasing your unease
not knowing it's you/or her
one eye open/in a lily
maybe it's the bird/that permeates you
quantifying with its wings a ray
when the muzzle of the gun/watches
like a tunnel beyond/everything
you're singing/the music budding in snakes
on the dying man's lip
the beach blinding lovers
with falling nights
and you sing and sing and sing
under the light-guitar of the lighthouse
while the automobile stops
dead in the middle of the song
and the dancer falls into your arms
nonplussed you look at her not knowing
how blood
wells up into your cold mouth/pale carnation
exercised danger
turns into phosphorescent worlds
like the clothes of black
yet I've searched everywhere
after the golden logarithms guitar
out of eternal Greek bodies
the cloud behind objects
reflected an evening
the colour of scream
a chain of torture of
thought hadn't touched protected a name
out of billions of fragments
- phosphorescence of salt
on the limpid leg of the fountain -
the house was a dimension
of the sea
whose edges were heard
by the automatic's noise
yet how is one to go on writing
when seeing the micrometrical
oscillation of music
on the sky that hides away
one evening the colour of scream
how tempting to think you've died
your eyes fixed under the limpid
leg of the fountain
evening when peasants are passing
in limousines used up
by wistfulness
the meter ticking away
of a dying species
ole man you've left
your fingers in a rock
of shadows
their tips touch
starry nenuphars
in the lit up street
as a melancholy
lighter tongue
so often have I sung
crushed glass knees
on my lips
a certain wavelength
sound can break crystal
likewise the word
in the yellow ear
threaded by sand
of the unborn ones
the city stone clock
carbonic snow fruit
mystify the roots
- a blindman crosses the street
his astronomic derm
on the tips of his nerves -
the city dust clock
newspapers/yellow soap/squadra azzura
the pale crystal field of the windows
survival geometry
under the desolation river
of old bodies
the city water clock
polishing the wall/saxophone/black bite
till the silver trace of a fish
leaving the skull
often I've heard
often I've seen
the eclipse
between music
and the infinite eye
of blind people
too young I died
for the blindness
of life
astral illusions' blond player
under the silvery mist of speed
the black lens of wheel could suck me in
neutrinic eyes the poplars
macerated by cement
in the galaxy of synthetic ideas
I'm gazing thru protection goggles at
the word
embodied in billions of commas
a tornado of texts the city seems to me
with musical towers
"modern people don't see a thing, their eyes
encompass nothing"
I've stopped hearing the twilight's electricity
troubling the transparent wounds
in the breath of horses
- what silence is that
made up of frozen noughts
on the speed lever -
technological laws
are learnt in the boxing shed
with unconscious blows
on childhood's soft belly
the sun can be watched
thru the diaphanous lens of hardness
thru the fine bars of women
in luxury madhouses
text and wave
the unknown is the one sufferance
of the word
on supermarket escalators
the stirred up
seekers for blitz love
the child severs the telephone
wires to the ammonia factory
poetry suffers life to come to it
if we are forgotten by the hour
stone climate
or Gothic branch
in the atom of the burgh
locked in the dome
we rejoin in silence
play, ole man
in ceilingless room
with violet walls
lambskin walls
lest you may hear the breath of the dead
so close
to the lip that it separates us
from ourselves
my wild happiness
a tiger's voice
in a yellow faith
death one reason to sing
has sent me the mirror
to remind me of
the old memory
of the bird
red flying heart of chance
my wild
thin white sand
on dirty
oh that I had a thinner lilystem
of sleep
than the breath of the suicide
the snooker player scans irreversible positions
in the room with yellow spirals
in the scraggy hair
of the madwoman
there should be somewhere
a button for the lilac forest
of my home county
the glass city
has see-through thoughts
events occur
on the stadium screen
the green water of gravitation
gets rusty in the vase
and we never mistake
the silky buttons of tears
in the central city square
for more than a hundred years
no word about the red shooting star
which they say was a gipsy woman
her clothes burnt red
by love
try to sing some more
among the vertical walls
that yellow wind
on my brains
language and life
infinite approximations
of the human being
the blind blood of the sound
seeking a sensuous
motorbikers fall off
the spikes of their own blood
in the middle of nature
till a bird with negative
starts singing in their bodies
yet anxiety has increased in flags
multiplied by the square
twilight rooms resound of
tango yellow crystal
and black
on which youth glides clean
into solitude's reverse
children fall asleep, their teeth on edge
a mountain thread
white automobiles stand quiet
as a snowfall
of glass and steel
on the edge of the abyss
it's as if out of figures
humans emerge
their derms hearing
a farther ever farther skull
in black valleys of walls
walls and walls and walls
late have I come to defend
the peak of my tear
from the cold
blossoming lemontrees burning
the silence in the spherical breath
of fishes
the sun wears the bracelet
of a night of
on via appia
minotaurs pass
from future into past
the world has fallen on my fingers
imperial guillotine/a famous sculpturer
wraps up the mountains in plastic sheet
- adoringly numerical images -
morality struts nude on the beaches
of continents/meme la poesie
a quelque chose du dernier match
de cassius clay/the old man only bears
relief movies kinetic sculpture
and computer programmed tea/according
to the temperature of solitude
my country the core of a dream through which I fall
in an old manuscript
my heart is one beat ahead of life
politics is a dancer, faked banknotes her dress
the powers-to-be function to a T
"mon pays scalpe de sa jeunesse"
coal moon and grace/like
an old engraving on my lap a temporary
death/a high figure wind in an iron whisper
man-manuscript/machines have a sense of reality
death only knows me behind the visor of breath
child/a high figure wind leaves
in my eyes the music walls gold
speed performance and dynamism/the future
a word in which all the occurrences perished
the world has fallen on my fingers
in my heart joy
has the diaphanous murmur of death
I'm looking for a house that resembles mother's voice
often have I heard
my own flesh surrounding
a red stain
my own flesh white word
of stratified masks
above the word the future
eroded in atavic
river of limpid masks
rotting away on walls
like the discarded skin of angels
and you're singing
clashes with naked soul/sea star
bird clashes with eye/dreamers
bells tolling for my was
day dries out/colours cub
all around/this myself so wasted
late infinity
sea star/clashes with naked soul
you're singing/streetcars their iron
welded to your anxiety
quo vadis
follow me my love
into the yellow city
wall and neutrino
where dusk creeps on with the electronic shotgun
of jazz
hurricane and hyacinth
celestial equator
in the lovers' eye
yet where's the ocean
green and empty
ocean of the original
the walls amplify
the optic nerve of gold
festivities erosion
horse races
and uranium waste
loneliness advancing
like oxygen fissures
in stone
snow hiding
rotten canals
cigarette butts
black nostrils lying in ambush
organ tubes in skips
and masked landscape
cuts off
well well well
nudism can be indulged in
regardless of weather
in the mind
our spectators' specs stem out
straight from orbits
ever since a kid I knew
death wall
was phony
one motorbike-man
that'll never leave
its own human
my love do use
the tree circle
as royal crown
spring the madwoman
spring as a queen
youth as a viola
with shining nerves
light mask of all who died
beyond the decimal edge
of rotors
the crane could have been the undulating line
after the birth of a star
yet my nerves
saw it not
sometimes death
is too close
liberty of the stars
the fragile grass
could be a decimal tree
oxygen of power
polynesian iron
green osmosis
of quartz
in the amethyst of the brains
liberty of stars
grass stone and human beings
fear cloud in the communal
no-one knows the nightingale
the icy language
of sacred eye
music out of a blue stone
scream of lithium
aztec sex
yet we're left with something
from the mirage of truth
a manner of breathing
oddly the leaves seem to count us
in their fall
houses shaped as a shrill sound
nobody lives in nobody
often the poor hear the nought in objects
blind people's hands do not signify
in litheness of pure
bars stroking one word
that thought-lives us
imitating the wistfulness of
unborn gods
we sink too soon
in the sleep-iron landscape
our fingers deafened
by the cranial blade of computers
surrounded by liquid helium solitude
and pounded heart
in the vacuum mouth of objects
we can only be saved by the word
the word that grinds its own shape
with the intensity of a star
breathing its own catastrophe
the word through which the violet
ribs of children can be seen
sequential workers
their complexion as dark as statistics
the gauze bandages of goods
hiding rotting canals
we live in approximation
our eyes shredded
by speed
nonplussed we fail no notice
that our dogs return from hunting
bearing sumerian tablets on their collars
who are you coming out of the net of time
to touch our civilization
with a myrtle sprig
ay sleep hauls cities
on paltry claws
their music a breeze from the future
yet cybernetic bells snow down
on blue deafness
in the psychic wave of walls
the diver suit
of boyhood
waiting by a light
taking shape under their eyes
no-one around the breath
of elms
only the silk sirens of sleep
oxidating the iron garden copy
the gramophone out breath in its mechanic ballet
and red marble eyes
when somebody dies the walls
get closer to the station's
if I open my eyes
in the empty room
white walls covering
the red woods
the trace of telephone cord
in the red ants' dust
white walls covering
the red woods
where a white hare
scorches my proffered palm
a form of solitude
white walls crumbling
the red walls
until the sandglass fills
with the red ants'
music multiplying the holographic vacuum
of the self
only an iron bird can sing
in the gold-threaded tree
yes but that song is lame
like the absurd shoe of one condemned to death
only the word can resurrect things
in the iron filing tub
of our faces
a cut through the quiet crumbling of civilisation
in the golden tent
the city releases
the malaxators of the mountains
yet a time comes when the ship
fills to capacity with live stones
and the lotus-shaped water
vibrates as a lamb's muzzle
in contact with them
be happy in the peak of the body's shady droughts
as a time comes when objects
unveil the cosmic sense
of eros and the erosion of shape
into the very last fragment of flight
and everything turns into the light
that cannot leave its

Suceava, 1979-1982

English version by Liviu Martinescu

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