You know nothing, Jon Snow

‘You know nothing

dear Jon Snow’

she said to me –

her voice was low,

and when I rest

upon her chest

she bit me hard,

it’s wild wild west!

The night is dark

and full of terrors,

are you afraid

to make some errors?

Your mouth is sweet

and kind of juicy,

are you a diamond,

are you Lucy?

Now I confess

while you caress

my hair, and I

your brand new dress.

Our hearts beat fast

while they unite,

is this the last

time I might hide

within you hair,

so bright, so rare?

‘You never know –

she said – it’s simple’

I might be Jon,

might be a cripple;

then you dismiss

me with a kiss,

for ignorance

sometimes is bliss,

but I am conscious

while I dream,

so, please, do welcome

to the machine!

If the mockingbird don’t sing

Drink whatever water

the rain is willing to send you

because one day the lake you will

be swimming in

will become a mirror

sheltering your image.

Seek whatever truth

your heart is able to give away

because every lie adds to

the collection of darkness stored

within a blind lighthouse

seconds before

the perfect storm.

Greet with an open heart

whatever lover

who tells you goodbye

because the Broken Trinity

of the Broken Father

the Broken Son

and the Broken Holy Spirit

is the last joyful mystery

and the end of all guessing.

Accept whatever diamond ring

your mama is willing

to buy you

because the mockingbird

won’t sing at five o’clock when

you will be serving your

precious tea

but in the morning

at the least expected hour

when every absence

seems so real

and every presence

uninviting.

Being afraid, Love asks its bare question

Being afraid

Love asks its bare question

robs us of our separateness

forces us too close

to one another

and we succumb to the feelings

become part of them.

Being afraid

Love is a dancing partner

who will shoot

the heels off your shoes

if you are a lousy dancer

and believe me

its bullets are not blind!

Being afraid

Love is a salesman

of fancy pajamas

for even fancier parties

because lovers

are embarrassed

to show up naked

on their first date.

Being afraid

Love is a false clue

in a private investigation

because nothing

can really kill anybody

when they need

somebody to love.

You were there

When Eve bit the apple

and the sweet apple juice trickled

down her neck

like a melted necklace,

you were there.

When the Tower of Babel

was risen,

there was no tower at all that rose

towards the sky

but our insincere words

and you know that

because you were there.

When Jon Snow

was stabbed to death

by the watchmen

you knew that he was not

really dead

because you have Targaryen blood

and fire

runs through your veins.

When Christopher Columbus

discovered the New World

and stepped with his right foot

on virgin territory

he wore one of your sandals

because you were there.

When I was born

and after a while eventually died

all this time

you were there

like a sunny piano under my skin

playing your favourite tune.

The wedding

Fuck the bride

said the groom

have no pride

and then bloom

said the spoon

while bouncing

the baloon.

The wedding

will be over soon

said the groom

and if we hurry up

we would be on the other

side of the moon

by noon.

There was no moon that night

There was no moon that night

but the stars were falling

like flies and we rode our bikes

through dry lands and through

time until we reached

the bank of the river where

fish were jumping

with their open mouths

catching flies and mosquitoes

and falling stars.

There was no moon that night

but after a while she took off

her backpack

opened it and handed me

a bottle of white wine

and two crystal glasses wrapped

in paper and boy

was I surprised: this girl

thought about everything!

There was no moon that night

but nonetheless I enthusiastically

asked her if the next thing

she would do was to propose me

under the falling stars

but she suddenly threw me

a straight face and told me

not to get any ideas

because we are joking partners

that’s all we are!

There was no moon that night

but I tried to kiss her

while she distracted me

by tapping my shoulder and

pointing at the sky:

Look! You are missing all

the falling stars!

There was no moon that night

but the landscape was nonetheless

romantic and despite the perfect

alignment of stars there was

noone to conquer.

Silent listen

A song

which I shall never sing

has fallen asleep on

my lips

and I felt like the Earth

when the shadow

covers

the wet grass.

The perfect poem

has an infinitely small

vocabulary

which in the end

is reduced

to these two words:

SILENT

&

LISTEN

both spelled with

the same

letters.

The songless bird

From all the turtles in the world

I chose to love a songless bird

From all the pebbles in the sky

I chose The catcher in the rye

From all the buzzing honey bees

I chose a chocolate cake with cheese

From all the priests and holy faces

I chose a pair of shoes with laces

From all the disciples of Zen

I chose Catwoman & Batman

From all the mountains in Nepal

I chose to smoke some red Pall Mall

From all the famous Jedi Knights

I chose to read Wuthering Heights

From all the roads made of red bricks

I chose a detour in Twin Peaks

From all the heroes in Egypt

I chose to die in my own script

From all the sea horses and fish

I chose an Apollonian dish

From all the common bucket lists

I chose the woman with no fists

From all the flowers in the field

I chose the house that Jack once built

From all the mornings in September

I chose the one not to remember

From all the hells and purgatories

I chose a bag of rusty worries

From all the nasty cuts and stings

I chose to hide under your wings

From all the books of poetry

I chose Serghei & Dimitri

From all the horses, mules and sheep

I chose to haunt your beauty sleep

Cinderella

Do you want me to show you

the edges of universe?

I asked her.

No, she said to me,

I only want to live in a small room

where we could grow kids

and make tender love all day long

and where during the night

you would lock me in like a Cinderella

so that you can go out and see

other women.

But I do not wish to see other women

I only love you and if you

don’t want me to show you the edges

of universe

I will gladly live the rest of my life

in a cabin in the woods

with you.

Don’t be stupid, my dear,

you need your daily dose of inspiration

and I can no longer provide you

with that

for my pussy has turned dry

and I got wrinkles all over my face.

Oh, stop it, I know you don’t actually mean it

and this is some kind of testing

and I am not falling for it,

no, baby, you haven’t got wrinkles yet

and if your pussy turns dry

I will moisturize it with the morning dew

because you are one of the few

and I love the way you cook stew

and I also love you.

Say my name

If you are kind enough

baby

to save all the drama

for your mama

say my name.

If you prefer

things that don’t run

at supersonic speed

say my name.

If you dream of a hero

with no muscles

no massive triceps

no tight abdomen

but with a sexy ass

and a big heart

say my name.

If you enjoy

the simple pleasures

of life

say my name.

If you agree that

the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’

breakup explanation

is just plain old fashioned

bullshit

say my name.

If the marks on your neck

are love expressions

written in flesh

say my name.

If you want death

to have the same attitude

towards you

as a drunkard

towards an empty bottle

say my name.

Please ‘Like’ this poem

I like the new Like button

in my chat list,

one thumb up burning

and erect

like the blazing torch

of  the Statue of Liberty,

the symbol of appreciation

towards everything that

we like.

One Like has a single

dimension,

it is able to enter our body

and expand itself

into our groins and bowels

like an endoscopic snake

until it finally owns our soul

and we like that.

I myself have the childish

satisfaction of

continuosly pressing

this Like button

like a retard who discovered

his pubic hair

(or, on the contrary, the lack of it)

for the first time.

It somehow owns us

and there is no possible

way to fight it

because its eyes are infinite

and sad

like those of a newly

born animal

and its torch shines

in the distance.

The art of a soft landing

When God created death and life

the poet sought a muse

but instead he found a wife

and drowned in self abuse.

Full moon

When I showed my latest poems

to the editor, he told

me in a patronizing voice:

‘Why on Earth do you

write in English

when we live in fucking Romania?’

‘Well’, I told him, ‘everybody

in this country understands English.

Hell, Romanians have the tendency

to speak it better than

their mother tongue.

All Europeans speak and understand

English fluently, except our

Hungarian brothers,

but who cares about them?’

‘Well, tough luck, smart ass! I have a

Hungarian great-grandfather and

I don’t speak English and thus cannot

evaluate your book! How can I

publish something

I don’t actually understand?’

‘Quite simple, sir. You have to trust

your instinct. I assure you this is

a fairly decent book,

not for the masses, but for

the refined reader.’

‘Well, that is a solid argument

not to publish it.

I need manuscripts that sell,

not subtleties. I published

your previous manuscript and nobody

bought it. I have a strong feeling

that the poems you are now

burdening me with

will not resist ‘til the next full moon.’

‘I disagree, sir. It all depends

on the marketing. If you want you can

advertise my new book

on the day of the next full moon and

publish my manuscript in blood ink

and tell the public

that I am a dead writer

who returned to this world as a zombie

in order to write

the memoirs of his lost love affair.’

‘Get out of here before I zombify you

myself!’, he shouted and threw the

manuscript towards me.

‘Well, fuck you, sir!’, I answered

and left.

A Dick of A HABit

While reading the climax

of Moby Dick

when the captain finally

confronts his nemesis

I turned page 589

and accidentally caught the whale

by the tail

and dropped it on the ground

thus serving a very consistent

meal to the cat.

As you can imagine

Captain Ahab was not very pleased

and after he cast upon me

all the pirate curses and insults

that he could remember

he stung my thumb

with his harpoon

and got drunk for the remaining

64 pages.

Tea poem from the tea bag she gave me

It was getting more

and more obvious

that she

would never be convinced

to join the

5 o’clock ritual

with me.

It was,

you might say,

not her cup of tea.

To be in love

To be in love

sucks more than

love itself.

They both suck, actually.

Nothing sucks more

than the awkward sensation

of flapping butterfly wings

inside your stomach.

There you are,

a nice decent fellow

and the next thing you know

you find yourself smiling

like an idiot at the sight

of a devilish lady.

To be in love

hurts more than an open

surgery

without anesthesia

or a hundred broken bones.

To be in love

is a fucking disaster,

World War II reloaded

or just the simple equation:

(Hiroshima + Nagasaki)²

To be in love

is craving for attention

like an ego maniac

lost in the ego trip of

his own desires.

To be in love

is the blind gesture

of counting the petals

without realizing

the irreversible damage

you do to a flower.

To be in love

is forgetting to eat and

thus devoiding yourself of

protein and filling your heart

with maple syrup instead.

Worse than being in love

is falling in love,

that split second that led to

the retarded decision of giving

attention to the chimera

who will devour

your soul for the rest

of your life.

It´s not about

It´s not about

the one true love of your life

the soulmate you think

you have just met

but about all the others

you previously failed

to love.

It´s not about

the future you are dreaming for

but about the past

you were never aware of

and the present

you often dismiss so easily.

It´s not about

the one true God you think

you finally found

but about all the years of ignorance

before that.

It´s not about

the adorable kitten you are

now affectionately caressing

in your lap

but about all the others

you drowned

at birth.

It´s not about

private jets and bullet trains

but about the pedestrian walk

our ancestors used

for so many generations.

It´s not about

one inspired poem

but about

the previously aborted ones

and all the failures

that made you who you are

right now

and from now on.

Scar song

I have more scars

than a war veteran

but despite their disgusting

appearance

women tend to find them

sexy.

Not a single woman

has stopped dating me

after I acquainted them

with my scars.

First, they stare at my scars

as if they were some kind

of surreal masterpiece

signed by Dali

with a toledo sword

and then timidly

ask me

if they can touch them.

Then, they beg me

to recount the story of

each one of them

and are very insistent

about it.

So I chronologically

start my scar odyssey

with the one just above

the belly button (given at birth),

continue the journey with

the one on my left elbow

(won at a penalty shootout in

my early childhood)

and abruptly end my voyage

with the nastiest of all

(tumour extirpation)

along the femoral artery.

By the end of the story

some of my listeners are so impressed

that they begin to cry

as they bend over and tenderly

kiss my scars

as if they were some kind

of sacred icon.