Short Lived Revelations
Lost And Found Lyrics of 200 uncommon poems


Table of contents

2. Poems as songs of the heart
22. Poems like a waving from afar
38. Poems to resolve memory lapses
58. Poems with a thousand heads
75. Poems that belong to the biting word
93. Poems of a nomadic present
103. Poems ready to mow the black grass
growing wild in front of the kitchen window
118. Poems of the thousand-fold dust-waves
138. Poems about filling this malicious box
with memories
150. Poems in the hands of the unknown
162. Poems of the naked miracle
175. Poems like islands getting together and departing
188. Poems of the crowned ego reaching the age
of the dethroned


Poems as songs of the heart


I.

Peasants didn't invent May
although this act of ecstasy
- the blossoming -
seems
an idyllic creation.
The forest is stretching
its wings
around the lake
- white tapestries
lifting their wreck in the air -
and the feeling
of drunkenness
and madness
and sadness
overwhelms
the whole place.
This is why
the village is deserted:
two streets
made out of broken bricks
filled up with leaves
left behind
by the previous autumns.
Far away,
a woman is pulling a dog
and stops patiently
nearby every bush
as if
she lived through the same event
many times before.
An empty carriage
is poised towards the
horse fountain's tub.
It's almost
evening.
The branches are
still white and pink and red
after so many words I wrote,
and the Statue of Bolivar
has a touch of weired compassion,
(weighing what's human
in a man-horse pose),
and the heavy curse
of the old woman
sounds so fresh,
(taking up her
dog-problems in public).
If I was young,
to breath again
my insatiate passion
from the spring air
and show to a girl
my best
in that work people call love!
After an instant,
May snows with petals
scattering silently
under the sleepy eyes
of the coachman
while the patterns
of this fragment of life
slowly vanish.
It's so remote now,
no signs come from there,
just a simple,
lost echo.

II.

I'm in search
of a city
where the sun
doesn't look so lonely
and the world
is the opposite
of the man's despair.
As usual,
I try to be brave
and focus
on important matters:
the sink is leaking,
the abandoned paintings
are rotting away
and I can't deal anymore
with that eerie relief
of every morning
- when birds
seem to overwhelm
with their chirping
my own will
to keep silent.
The garden is like
a compact music box,
made of plastic compounds
which I can easily smell
after taking my high blood
pressure pill.
The gate is moving
its mail post flag
in the rhythm of my mind
that looses
- with every day -
its grips on my thoughts.
A flimsy contract
- this life -
with desires
which never come true
and an arsenal
of fears to shot out.
Rubber bullets,
you say,
ghosts glued together
that the thinnest breeze
can blow away.
The world
is equal
for each of us,
with clear cut rooms
and wisely placed windows
to allow us a glimpse
to what can be seen.
I know,
I'll finish by being burned
In a Budhist ceremony
and have my ashes
thrown in some river
so I try to think
which window
I'd like to see open
towards
my new form?
I don't really care,
I think,
for I trust
that a misplaced life
can come easily in terms
with its misplaced ashes!

III.

In the middle of the night,
listening to my heart
as it rebels
against the sleeping pills -
what the old habit gives
to us all -
and to the moon's squirm,
which I fail to recognize
as familiar...
The woman I love
is walking barefoot
in the icy balcony
with her enlarged
breasts-half-naked,
her Hallo teeth
exposed to the whether
and her yellow eyes
lost in an intensive stare:
she,
who can get quickly hot,
is not going to compromise
for what she calls
"my neurotic love!"
So,
this sleeplessness,
she says,
is nothing but
the pay she gives
to the unseen darkness
in exchange
for her erotic fears...

IV.

People dream
their childhood
and then they live
with it
as if it was the only part
of life
they wanted.
Not me!
Sometimes
when I live in the past
I see myself
in that little farm,
near Bucharest,
abusing my dog
with cries and screams,
or addressing my aunt,
whom I caught
kissing with a peasant
- a counterrevolutionary,
the Secretary said -
while laying
on the straws pile
near the cart camp.
She was terribly trembling
and I tend to think,
even today,
that what I saw
wasn't love.
She saw me too:
this little scar
on my knee
is now worthless,
but I remember
that it hurt terribly then,
when she screamed
to whoosh me away
then she threw the scythe
and opened my skin
under my knee,
that made me blink
like an oyster,
crying blood.
I watched her
when she got up,
her elongated breasts
couldn't find
their place back
in her slip
and
the counterrevolutionary,
whom I saw later
drinking
in the pub's door,
and the aunt
blue little prunes
on her hips,
which became
purple
and then black
- stained flowers
surrounded
by yellow-down-petals,
horrible
under the direct sun,
and the battle
against the "evil nest"
the next day,
which
made my aunt cry
and crash
the peasant’s harmonica
against the wall,
and cry again
until her eyelids dried up,
and nothing else,
but
the little pink walls
of an unmarked brothel,
near the main road,
where
people said
the peasant
held the Russian troops
in check
like a real man.
The broadcast
of the news
began that day
with the Russian anthem
played in the background
and I understood
immediately
that
the Revolution
won another battle
against Evil.

V.

I live
the Manhattan
now.
During
the summer nights,
when the fax machine
squeals confused
in a paper jam,
and the news
from the whole world
hang on a bare
technicality,
I become possessed
by fears.
I know
that a war
can be voted
by The Congress,
that the hunger
in Somalia
is kept un-cured
by local fanatics
armed to their teeth,
that a simple scratch
- if infected
with my doctor's blood -
may develop AIDS,
that the fate
of our continent
may depend
on a seven foot wall
around the Atlantic Ocean.
Fears don't follow
one's acts orderly,
like CO2 does
after each breath.
They come together
like a troop
of whispers
and expand
in their white wrap,
getting louder,
buzzing,
beating
the walls around,
hiding in the closets
until they grow
sharp teeth.
News mean then
no more than
troubling fears
getting ready
to strike,
as they pass
from the inception
to the stage where
- stealing from one's life
what's left
becomes
their ultimate aim.
And what about
my obsessive night dream
when,
inside sweet oases,
I see myself
looking for the cross
on which man's soul
has been crucified.
Sometimes
I wish
I was like the unborn,
wearing
its cold coat
or
like the madman,
who,
when allowed
to walk freely
gets scared,
and
when restrained
abandons himself
to pain,
like the defeated fighter
thinking death
as his bitter pride.

VI.

If I'd be asked
to write some critique
about my own poetry,
- an intimate policy -
to be used
by editors
after I die
- sort of a way
to classify
dead poets
without
available biographical
information,
I'd write
- after a moment
of confusion -
another poem:
wrapped
in my original skin
and fed
with scorched vegetables
and wild meat,
drinking
rain water
- I grew up
in the ancient city
of Bucharest -
so
the origin
of my life
could be
tracked down
to the life-size-baby-photo,
with the scent
of the common caste
with its foretells
and so on,
and then,
on a high note,
to my mother's voice
- already mentioned
in other poems -
talking
about rabid bears
facing
the kingdom's sharp shooters
- "they aim at the bear's balls" -
and some
picturesque stories
involving my father
- a hero
in his own way -
and some
close relatives
getting harsh treatment
in the only
“terminal” hospice
- Happy-Happy Hospital -
a ten minutes walk
from the mayoral home,
and the doctor,
showing up too late
to be remembered
by my dead aunt
- ill with typhoid -
the doctor said,
because
of excessive bodily fluids
exchanged
during her
honeymoon.
Then
I see myself
laying comfortably
after my own demise.
The music
is played with sobriety.
On the altar
the white plastic flowers
are sighing
at the sight of the royal crown
set on the poet's head,
senselessly...

VII.

The public park
is closed.
The trees
are drowned deep
in their mystery torpor
as if time
took never
the forever-moment
into account.
People are laughing
in a patched
colored photo
at a woman
fingering a mail-box,
her lazy look
driving the viewer
stupid,
while
in the background
one can see
the love-begging
of the city theater's audience
- women dressed in red
and wearing pearls
from Kyoto -
"shells lending
their pink color
to an unformatted stone
while the oyster
is starved
to death".
Another photo
shows
a strange summer scene
with uniformed
police men
- drums
and flashlights
in hand -
marching on
the city suburbia
and looking
for people
who fornicate
in the state-owned-bushes.
The park
was closed
to put a stop
to this contagious
love-making,
for
those dizzying nights
are not yet
subject
of an union's chart
or
some local
constitution.
It's perfectly all right
now,
but you have to be cautious
when
climbing a stone,
now
that
one can call
an ambulance
through
a cellular phone
while doing...
This statue
showing a gold
and marble
cellular phone
and the stone hand
holding it,
was commissioned
by a wealthy lover
to remind us
that his mild
beloved woman
was aware
of
some pain that
was happening
when she decided
to make love
and use a cellular-call to
anounce it to the large theater
audience

VIII.

I know that
one can listen
to the seasonal whisper
or look into
the deep memory
for some pastoral posters
- pinned up
on the
hotel
hallway -
and start a poem.
There are
an infinite number of poems
one can write,
as many as the hazards
of the mind
to be unwrapped.
In the next room
my daughter is parodying
the raw rhythm
of a rap song:
"Mom is crying,
wash your face,
mom is laughing,
throw a dice".
And,
if permitted,
one can use
the family saga
as impending poetry-news
written on a TV monitor:
"Uncle Kamiliotis has diabetes,
my ex-wife is shopping
with another man
in a smaller-sized Paris,
a splinter got
into my cat’s little pat, etc.".
Getting philosophical:
"Either of each moments
are neither sign of justice
nor un-consequential
happenings..."

IX.

Ready to write an erotic poem
while waiting for a computer load
to finish
- a new game
called "Dictator’s Den" -
and getting interested
in Miami's political
main stream.
It's an old master game,
using geography maps
and Google zooming contexts
and whores
and downloading keys
and an electronic pliant
to help the players
get virtual.
There is so much absurdity
in this shadowed power
brought by computer games
into our common life,
in our bedrooms,
in the basements
- where the CPU rests
under a round fan
and near the cooler -
yellow beers from Mexico
and a frenzied bottle of Alizee
- while we forget
main topics
such as our inner self
trying to shine out,
our life
- now a collage
of illusions,
clearly a lost dream
without epic.
The game
is loaded.
Somehow
at the root
of this erotic poem
there was
some political debate
between the warm self,
preserved untouched
by the polemical intent
and the cold mind,
climbing the time scale
and looking with its eyes
towards the icy landscape
of the old age.
The house of corny fire
is what stops the self
from jumping.
Then
again and again,
the gentle touch
is tossing body-and-breath
into the blind storm
of the original sin,
winking to the Bible,
until IT comes,
the pompous orgasm
which let us forget
hunger and thirst
and etc.
and the whole political climate
- kissing off...

X.

Our private laws are written
in our hearts
as implacable orders:
To invoke them as an answer
to one's faults
is like returning to the sea
and blame it
for being the cause of
one's drowning.
No one can see one's guilt
not even the horizon
in its nightly fall!
What about when we ourselves
get caught faulting
by a moment of absence?
I found out one day
that I was living amid alien faces
as my words lost their meaning
and my moral laws
sounded like
songs on the land of the departed.
Then I thought:
this curve
between two humanly drawn points
is a light we should strive to see
with love - as a metric measure,
and the open mind
as the only glass wall we have
to break
before leaving.

XI.

Letter to the woman I met in the train and nevr saw again

I thought I could offer you a lost world and, with it,
a bondage,
while erasing important data, such as my age,
the residues of a life-time-love-harvest
and the benign thought, cloudy innocent,
that a heart can conquer another heart
through a healing quest;
as many as - so many years ago –
I saw my intimate love flying low,
in the cage of the possessed.
You called it the penitence of
the clock!
A small voice ringing in the air!
Look at love as labor
of a virginal body giving birth, you said!
Or, as a pure matter-energy equation rehearsed on a species!
As if you could
say that love, for reason of knowing what really love is,
may take precedence.
Clear your spirit and let your body live free,
in its brevity,
the rolling-of-the-lights-by-the-blue-clouds-of-the-dew
pregnant-shadows!
Inside your body,
inside my heart,
while looking at your mouth composing a smile!
It's your fruit of grief, you say,
It is the inarticulate grief song,
lost and forgotten,
like a peacock in a dusty granary,
left to roam around with its show-off tail
till the end of the winter season.
Still, I can't refrain of thinking of you as the silent tear
carrying with it so much beauty
among the indifferent crowds.
A laurel leaf left its crystal behind!
Fir-cone lights in a shell!

XII.

The world is becoming more and more
a place where people
get imprisoned by DNA formulas
which are now applied
to IQs, feelings, diseases
& ETC.
In science
there is no place for innocence
- as "living" in math
is judged as an offense -
for life doesn't know how to pay its debts
to the brain.
There is no empty DNA to let you
start your life from scratch.
You are a dot on the universal chain
of birth-life-death transcendence.
The world is mapped around
on prime DNAs - known as clusters -
zigzag DNA weddings,
zigzag DNA cocktails,
zigzag DNA soup
extracted from the book
of revelation:
a page shows your eyes' color
the next page shows your 3-D stare
through the indiscreet key hole
at a woman naked body,
and so on,
till you read this one,
an unexpected blueprint
of vanished landscapes
with dinosaurs puppies
- seen at the History museum as mummies -
or this one
showing a sea algae
moving slowly
through the original stillness
to make what in the twilight
resembles a mammal-man.
Soon,
we'll forget that we used to be alive
in our own way
not as an accumulation of DNA points

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Boris Musteata, Library of Congress
Bildmaterialien: Boris Musteata
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 06.05.2012
ISBN: 978-3-86479-658-6

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