Dave – I want to set you up with the girl I am tindering

(Dave este un tip random de pe The Listserve … ca noi toți)

I’m lost in your bloody mary tree house.
Rope swinging by fibers of your savory thoughts,
Splashing on the shores of your vodka soaked vitamin D,
Drying off on a beached bun,
Tiptoeing on the rim of your glass.

Tipsy,
I tumble off your edge,
Cascading down oblique hills of olives.
I plummet through vodka paradise,
Straight into a pillow of pulp.

You look down,
Open your mouth,
and without words,
Swallow me whole.

Anunțuri

Wilfred Owen – The End

After the blast of lightning from the east,
The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne,
After the drums of time have tolled and ceased
And from the bronze west long retreat is blown,

Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth
All death will he annul, all tears assuage?
Or fill these void veins full again with youth
And wash with an immortal water age?

When I do ask white Age, he saith not so, –
„My head hangs weighed with snow.”
And when I hearken to the Earth she saith
My fiery heart sinks aching. It is death.
Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified
Nor my titanic tears the seas be dried.

Ciaran Carson – Belfast Confetti

Suddenly as the riot squat moved in, it was raining
exclamation
marks,
Nuts, bolts, nails, car-keys. A fount of broken type. And the explosion

itself – an asterisk on the map. This hyphenated line, a burst of rapid fire …
I was trying to complete a sentence in my head, but it kept stuttering.
All the alleyways and side-streets blocked with stops and colons.

I know this labyrinth so well – Balaklava, Raglan, Inkerman, Odessa Street –
Why can’t I escape? Every move is punctuated. Crimea Street.
Dead end again.
A Saracen, Kremlin-2 mesh. Makrolon face-shields. Walkie-talkies. What is
my name? Where am I coming from? Where am I going?
A fusillade of question-marks.

Nichita Stănescu – Poezie sentimentală

Pe urmă ne vedeam din ce în ce mai des.
Eu stăteam la o margine-a orei,
tu – la cealaltă,
ca două toarte de amforă.
Numai cuvintele zburau între noi,
înainte şi înapoi.
Vârtejul lor putea fi aproape zărit,
şi deodată,
îmi lăsam un genunchi,
iar cotul mi-înfigeam în pământ,
numai ca să privesc iarba-nclinată
de căderea vreunui cuvânt,
ca pe sub laba unui leu alergând.
Cuvintele se roteau, se roteau între noi,
înainte şi înapoi,
şi cu cât te iubeam mai mult, cu atât
repetau, într-un vârtej aproape văzut,
structura materiei, de la-nceput.