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.