sâmbătă, 13 august 2016

droplet - a poem

                                                      - David A. Marin
Patterned substances
Archetypes
Circles rewinding again and again
Same narratives
Reloaded ecstasies
River ran so fast,
it broke into a lake.
eyes - gold and warmth
flame across everything perceived
and then
- drop -
coming down like fountains of acid
eyes - silver cold
the same smiles now look like frowns
and every frown vibrates hatred
summer of love
mid-cut in the autumn of the lost...
the laughs of Camus and Satre
and the echoing bellow of Nietzsche
as you scramble on the ground
for a penny to take you across
through the Acheron and back.
A maniac scrambled in the sand:
When did we go so terribly wrong?
When did we go so terribly
When did we go so
When did we go
When did we
Did we
Interrogation mark.
Spear of doubt.
Wounds covered
with the morphine of dreams
cries of ember as heavy rain falls
on the sparks of the phoenix. 
flying rastaman shares a smoke
whispers in your ear:
"Jim's dog chases across the Earth
hoping to catch a bone once thrown"
and you can't help but stare a lot
freezing in a half light
the smell is strong in the night
the droplet falls from the thumb
red on red on the petals
some blood
bloody hell
there's this saying
fuck the sayings
like a proverb
screw proverbs
you know what they say
fuck what they say
every rose has its
predictable
fuck predictable
fuck the punchline
fuck the poem
fuck you
fuck me
also, it
feels like this generation's lost
in the lyrics of a grunge song


luni, 13 iunie 2016

Rose-red cadillac - a poem

- David A. Marin
I took the car today.
Truth be told, it wasn't really mine
I found it unlocked in the parking lot
of the cheap highway crack motel
A rose red caddy, like sweet lipstick
It had blood on the back seat
And there was Belgian candy on the passenger seat.
Driving, smoking, I don’t smoke, but clutched
was a Norwegian wooden pipe, clutched
to the brown, sparkling leather steering wheel,
and the smoke disturbed someone,
even if I was driving alone.

Truth be told, there was a guy in the trunk
I set him free, he didn't even thank me
Just ran barefooted, white underwear
Into the sun-creased hedges.
Dropped his anatomy notebook
Must have been a med student
Got himself in drug trouble with the cartel
Scoring coke with that pretty dental student next door
said she had the dough but, yeah, she kinda ran low.

Anyhow, read a bit into neurology
Neurons are very interesting, come to think
Truth be told, wish I was one of 'em myself
Just one thought to be
One thought now, and one thought after
Not more than one thought going through me
One thing to deal with at a time
And always someone to receive
that very thought…
Now, sometimes I become one single thought
when I think of this girl I'm seeing.
When it's her, sometimes it's just her, till the chaos hits.
Alas, I'm driving still
The desert on my left and right is nice and all
I wonder if the student will find peace within
I think the cops put out an APB
Did I leave the oven on?
Was that a gunshot coming from the hills?
What was the name of that movie?
Did I just hear somebody scream?
Truth be told,
I wish I’d be in that hotel room making love to her still.
One thought still.

Good thing the police sirens are just in my head
Didn’t I buy this car last month?
And wasn’t the guy in the trunk the asshole from the club?
But why was he all tied up
Who set him up like that?
Weird.
As I was saying…
What was I saying?
Anyway, meet me after I cross the state line, hun.







miercuri, 25 mai 2016

an empty birthday card / o felicitare goală - poem

- David A. Marin
(Traducere mai jos).


This year, I got a birthday card
There was nothing written inside,
No memorable cover.
No couple bucks.
It was as blank as an empty canvas
Covered in naught.
( I looked at it today and laughed
Maybe I ought to frame it
Sell it as modern art. )

There was no metaphor intended,
Girls forgot to write
They were busy smoking, asking for a light.
There was no metaphor intended,
But I saw one nevertheless.
There was no metaphor intended,
But it was a perfect show
Since they remembered buy, forgot yet write.
Chasing form, forgetting essence,
Chasing cover, forgetting content,
It was the most capitalistic gift I have ever got
And that is an amusing thought
Since my pals and I, we give and receive money.
“We accept it as a root of evil, but
Don’t take a piece out of my pie. “
So Floyd said.
  
This year, the person who gave me that card
We blocked each-other out of our lives, now she’s gone.
I smiled as I locked away the pictures of us
My phone lighting up like fire with texts, swears and insults
Like a pigeon, almost collapsing from the weight of the death letter he carries
Strapped so gently to its wings, yet suffocating.

Alas, I kept the empty card
And me, myself and I,
We talked and laughed,

For we, and I mean I, know it is me that should be writing inside.  

*


Anul asta, am primit o felicitare de ziua mea.
Nu scria nimic in ea.
Nu avea coperta memorabila
Si nici un eurocent,
Sau un amendament.
Era goala ca o panza alba
Acoperita in colorat nimic.
(Azi m-am uitat la ea, 
am ras
m-am gandit sa o inramez
sa o vand drept arta moderna).

Nu a fost nicio metafora intentionata,
Au uitat sa scrie,
una prea ocupata fumand si luand pastile.
Nu a fost nicio metafora intentionata,
Dar eu am vazut una oricum.
Nu a fost nicio metafora intentionata,
Dar a fost insa una agasanta:
Fugim dupa forma, uitam fondul,
Fugim dupa copertă, uităm totul.
Cadoul perfect capitalist.
Superb de trist.
Si acesta e un gand amuzant,
Pentru ca în cercul meu, ne dăm direct bani.
“Acceptam banul ca sursa de rele
Dar nu imi lua din ciocolățile mele”
Așa ziceau și Floyd.

Anul asta, persoana care mi-a dat aceea felicitare
Ne-am blocat unul pe celalalt, totala separare
Azi ne iubim, maine unul figurativ moare.
Am zambit cand am pus deoparte o poza cu noi
Gandindu-ma ca a fost frumos, dar ca nu vom mai avea momente noi.
Telefonul meu ardea cu mesaje, injuraturi, insulte grave
Ca un porumbel, aproape cazand din ceruri
Din cauza greutatii scrisorii de moarte
prinsă de el, sufocant, 
porumbelul zburând, fără stol, și zdruncinat.

In fine, am pastrat pleșuva felicitare
Si eu, cu mine si cu sine,
Am ras si am zambit, chiar deloc sumbru…
Caci noi, adica eu, stim ca eu sunt cel ce ar trebui sa scrie inauntru.









duminică, 22 mai 2016

the breeze - a poem

- David A. Marin



The ship’s floating
Not breeze, not wind,
Mobile hill of dust and wood
Sweating in a pond of blue
Blue, blue
Floating,
You keep telling yourself
You don’t need no woman
You keep telling yourself
You’re a big man
There’s no breeze, no wind
Heating sun on the mast
Cracking laughing Henry Morgan
Lighting a joint, rolling it with waves
And the crunchy smoke is the sea foam
Roam, roam, roam...
( On the topmast 
When you climb high
Feel like you're on the line
Between the point B and the great A
Wanting so bad to get to A. )

But it sure is nice
When there comes a breeze
A mermaid 
to drop you to your knees
Get you around the seven seas
Yet the breeze, it comes and goes
She comes and goes
She’s nice, but she knows
She’s nice, but she just goes
You stride on alone
In the great foam
This road
We must walk alone
For Acheron, we journey lone
For the heroes meet in Valhalla
Yet they get there alone.

So keep rowing,
Sing a sailor's tune
When you're singing 
you ain't sinking
When you're writing
you're not drowning.
So keep rowing,
No breeze, breeze, no wind, wind
Just the rats and I on my ship
Getting a free trip
Just the pearl white rats under the ebony deck
And my crescent burning neck,
Row as hard as you fucking can
Row as hard as you fucking can
The people on land have theirs
But you have yours
The land people have one type of sand
On your salty feet, there lie a thousand
Row as hard as you fucking can
‘cause
The ship’s great
And you’re great too.
Take in the wind
Howl-howl, seawolf
Don't waste time
We're on these seas for quite just a while
Pull them sails
And row as hard as you fucking can. 

joi, 5 mai 2016

Happy Birthday to the Rain - a poem

- David A. Marin
The day is the night
The night is the day
Time’s a man-made structure
So it’s all okay.
Fine with the world
Hey, world seems fine with me
Yet the slow fever, it still burns
When I lie in front of the computer screen.
Ride the night into the rain
And let the wind hoist up the good flames
May the night calm down the day,
The rain burns out the bad fire
Only so do bright red purple sparks fly up, up, up and yet even
Higher.
It’s just me, myself, and I,
And you, yourself, and thy,
And us, ourselves, and it all
Our souls, bunch of amplifiers
Celestial guitars bursting through the speakers
One speaker into the other
– both recording each-other
Big machine of heavenly music, its duty to play to others
When they record each-other
the notes, they sometimes mingle
yet the songs remain quite different
imagine sitting in a room full of rockstars
all playing such different songs
the bass gliding upon the stars
somehow you listen to and feel each
and every one
song, distinctly.
In this case, you'd be a Big Guy.
We’re all a bunch of rays of colors
each ray, imagine a new color,
yet together pouring down endless buckets upon the sun
and back at it again.

Happy birthday to you too, Rain.
I sing you a tune with
one hand on the throttle
forgetting the breaks
the wheels, no screech
just the hum of the wind
as my hair you gently fondle
in the bright light of the great night. 



Dorothea Tanning - Birthday (1942)



marți, 26 aprilie 2016

Oil in his eye - a poem

David A. Marin
The robot talks
the suited-man watches
the blackness out the window
the flaming gorge of stars
nebulas singing quietly
as lovebirds by a fire
asteroids gently walking
by the meteors grasping the
skies with lines of ash
the robot talks
to the businessmen
seated on the black cruiser
towards the mothership
enormous fire from below
“LAdiES AnD GEntLeMEn
DoNot Despairrr As Y-O
NoTiCe YoUr pLANeT
ExploDiNg BeNeath YoU
On ThE ScrEENS of The SeAt
On WhIch YoU ReST
ThE FaTe OF The PlaneT
Was Imminent
yOUr Bussiness Ventures
WiLl Be taken care Of
As All Of Y-O Have Arranged
And do know that This
CoMProMISE wAss
The bEsT cHOICe,
Bussiness-wise”

The Robot talks away
As the planet blows
And the 0,001% eat plastic food
On leather chairs
On a spaceship towards
Thy mothership
And across the sky
From an asteroid mine
An alien ship, painted pink
Approaches like a pencil’s ink
And the robot stops talking
The ship is moving, the men and women
Drinking, eating, in silence and artificial light
In the plastic fright
Thinking of their life ahead
But the pink vessel lights up red
Inside, green people with brown hair
With tears on their faces

As they watched Earth go
The pink vessel, color of passion
Of smile, of life
A Flying Love & Pleasure-Hub
On which stand aliens
And three humans who were on vacation
They watched their planet burn
The pink vessel, the suited man watches
No expression, no smile, no grin, no frown
He doesn’t think of his money, for once,
He repents as the oxygen dries out
And the pink vessel shots their windows
And the robot’s operation system crashes down
The lights go out.
And his dark tie
White shirt
Black tux
Gold watch
And fortune
Fly through the void
Through the nebulas

The pink ship sails across the sky
With the last three humans
Back to another Earth
With another folk.
“Why didn’t you save Earth
10,000 years ago
When the poles were melting?”
Asks a robot, from the control board.
The humans do not respond,
And the little pink metal creature
Sighs mechanically and flies about…  

His friend, another metal man,
Going through a human’s room,
Finds a weird-looking wooden object
And takes his metal hand, and plucks
A string on the guitar…
And the robot goes to the humans
One of them looks back, water in his eye
Robot stops scanning the man, looks at him instead
And thinks ahead...
Even though he scanned the guitar
And his system instantly learned to play
He closed the program
And with oil in his eyes
He stuttered
Metal-man to man,

“T-teach me a s-song you w-wrote
I don’t want Earth to die”.  






luni, 11 aprilie 2016

Versetele Aroganței: 57. Spovedania

David A. Marin



Am tot auzit zilele astea de lemn, spații mici, și Dumnezeu... Și mi-a venit să scriu asta.
În orice caz, după mine, nu cred că știe cineva fix ce preferă Dumnezeu, deși poate că înainte de mall-uri sub nume de lăcașe, Dumnezeu ar prefera Omul, iar inainte de lemn, Copacii. Natură, alea-alea. Hipiot răzvrătit.

(Pictură: Ego et Rex Meus, 1888, de John Gilbert)

Ghepardul privește iezuitul
Iezuitul privește prin ghepard
Știe iezuitul, ce face ghepardul
Ghepardul știe că nu-i greșit
Dar văzut-ai tocmai așa
Confesiunea catolică
Mare rit traumatic
Când nu-i adogmatic.
Să-ți faci vină pe ce nu-i greșit
Simte cum frige camera spovedaniei
De râsete luciferice compătimitoare.
\\
Un băiat târât de părinți
În zisa casa a lui Iisus
Să se sperie de cântecele de cor
Și de vocea groasă în ecou
Și să se pună în genunchi
Așa-i zisa spovedanie
Și să zică nimic, nimic, nimicuri
Căci, părinte, nu o zic cu rea-intenție
Dar dacă vrei adevărul
Pregătește-te la mici tridente zburătoare
Să-mi saltă din a mea gură
Și să îți străpungă galbena aură
Cu șocuri mici electrice feline
Și să nu mai stau eu în genunchi
Să stai tu…
Sub a mea mare umbră.

Al Pacino ca diavol – VANIATEA e păcatul meu preferat
Dar eu zic că modestia și umilința e păcat mai mare
Și mai păcat e când voi ziceți că-i respect.
Ascultă-mă, căci eu vorbesc cu zeii.
Și mie universul îmi e prieten.
Si eu până și cu Dumnezeu înjur,
Fi-ți-ar furia să-ți fie,
Eu sunt libertin până în străfunduri.
Uneori mă văd culcându-mă în
dimensiuni paralele
cu unele dintre vrăjitoarele pe care le-ați ars
de-a-lungul secolelor.
Mă gândesc că aveau sex-appeal de dădeau pe afară
și pseudo-pietatea voastră și traumele parentale
nu vă lăsau să vă apropiați de ele
așa că le-ați ars pe rug.

Ascultă-mă aici, părinte, căci eu sunt
Păcătos, dar păcatele pentru mine
Nu-s doar alea din a voastră carte neagră.
Și ascultă-mă, părinte, căci eu sunt păcătos
că n-am citit Coranul dar știu cât-de-cât ce-i prin biblie…
Ascultă-mă, părinte, căci eu vorbesc cu Dumnezeu
Și râd cu el și înjurăm, căci îmi e prieten
Și vorbesc cu Freya când mă gândesc la fete
Și le dezbrac și îmbrac și dezbrac în capul meu
și e total O.K., și Freya îmi zâmbește
Și sacrul meu nu-i sacrul tău.

Ascultă-mă, părinte,
Dă-mi a mea pace.
Dă statului a lui pace.
Dă copiilor a lor pace.
Ascultă-mă, părinte,
Căci noi am tot ascultat.
Când o să îngenuncheze biserica
Să-și spună păcatele nouă?

Oare mâine, oare poimâine,
Înainte sau după ce preafericitul”
Își parchează merțanul în Mântuirea Neamului?
Înainte sau după ce vă șerpuiți în treburile statului
și în a noastră educație?
Catolicii au avut cruciadele, dar măcar
cardinalul Wolsey a ridicat și școli
și acum Francis vorbește de ce-i
actual și relevant
dar e ok, că voi vă rugați vara pentru ploi
și faceți amendament la constituție
ca să definiți căsnicia ca o uniune
între femeie și bărbat
de parcă căsătoria vă aparține vouă
și e a voastră proprietate
și e doar din Biblie
de parcă căsătorie nu aveau și
romanii
și nordicii
și grecii
și egiptenii…

Ascultă-mă, părinte,
Căci noi am tot ascultat.
Când o să îngenuncheze biserica
Să-și spună păcatele nouă?
Vezi umbrele de pe pereții catedralei
Vezi lacrimile istoriei
Vezi păcatele
Și simte-mi, părinte, furia,
Simte-mi tridentele și simte
Cum soarele ce intră prin vitraliu
Este lacrimă lui Ra
căci Soarele însăși îl blochezi
Când ridici fortăreți ale opulenței
Și predici umilința...
De ce nu folosiți sutana
să predicați pacea și iubirea
toleranța, egalitatea și omenirea
nu să dați sânge ca spada
în suflet, minte, viață?

Ascultă-mă, părinte,
Căci noi am tot ascultat...
Când o să îngenuncheze biserica...
...Să-și spună păcatele nouă?