The numinous

Lies in that kid with polio

The whole neighborhood

Kept going on about

For nine years.

The numinous

Lies in boxing games

And in the tragedies

Woven around

Broken nose bridges

And broken love, and broken lives

Hidden beneath grapevines

Lost in bad quality tobacco

And homemade wine.

The numinous

Lies in the broken lock

Of the neighborhood bakery.

The kids who stole the money

Inside were holy.

There was holiness breathing

Out of each and every pore

For there was also life

And nothing inside them was quiet.

But this is a frame story

And right now, if anything holy

On Earth

It lies in the cab driver

That used to live on my street.



[dream 1] I am on the outskirts of a city unknown. As I walk more and more towards the limits, I notice a certain degradé, an architectural playground of a soccer mom who’s under the wrong impression that there’s also rat grey and shit brown between black and white.

Some houses are underground, an uneducated eye could easily confuse the actual attics with basements. Everything is painted in pastels, or what once were pastels, like some postapocaliptyc PG13 version of some pompously named hick town forged by the mighty Habsbourgs.

The roads are dusty and there are people going on with their daily business, whatever might that have been in such a place. They look…different. Dressed in rags, they are trying to hide their various deformities. And I instinctively know they are coming from that part of the city, the outskirts of the outskirts. They were born and bred THERE.

While I keep walking trough he thing, I see someone I am familiar with. It’s Dead (yes, that Dead, who played with Mayhem and tragically offed himself in 1991). We stop and chat and I tell him I’m gonna take stroll beyond the city limits, to where the dismembered weirdoes keep coming from. And he tells me he’s not going. The guy’s afraid. So, I call him a pussy and go on my way. I know that I will find HIM there.

[dream 2] I am a stranger in a strange land again (pun intended). I am near a body of water, surrounded by some weird buildings whose purpose unknown to me but thought to be highly important. For a few moments, I am convinced that I am somewhere in the past, but then I notice that the body of water is a lake, and that lake is Cocioc, around which the park near my home was built. In my dream, it is landscaped and all, clean and neat. I realise that I must not be in the past, because the lake’s been like that since the 70’s and I am definitely NOT in the 70’s, but way earlier.

Puff! Everything around changes into wild vegetation and I am seeing the lake as it was before the 70’s. The whole place used to be one big swamp, actually. There are some people that have camped temporarily or permanently, in some improvised tents. They seem wild, like gypsies if some sort. Untamed. Eating whatever, fucking whomever, fighting, loving, bleeding. And there I see HIM again, he looks about 13, screwing some tribeswoman. I can empathize with these people and their passion, their suffering and their eternal bliss. And I woke up.


Arrgh, can’t sleep. A gazillion thoughts invading my mind as I try to close my eyes and quite a few cats invading my room. Friggin’ big day tomorrow, gettin’  inked again. And there’s another reason, as well.

I keep thinking about old friends, they might as well be dead and buried.  You have to keep up, bro! I ain’t lookin’ back. Once you sit your ass on that big mossy rock, it’s yours to stay.

On Those Who Rest In Peace

Marquez is dead. The cats are sleeping, cuddling peacefully. The streets are quiet.  Old drunks are sleeping clasping chipped glasses in their decayed hands. Their wives are waiting for the seagulls to herald dawn and thus their husbands’  return, listening carefully to the dogs barking and howling at vagrants passing by. Perhaps he’s going to be home early tonight.

And even if that tavern door is going to creak open a few minutes before the sun rises, even if he is going to sneak back inside, even if she will not feel the smell of moonshine tonight, Marquez is still dead.

And even if the dogs stop howling, and the cats start quacking and the drunks stop singing and the roosters play jazz and the vagrants build up a palace and the dead a republic, I am still restless.

The cats have stopped mourning


The cats have stopped mourning

Thought I could finally rest

Put my head on the pillow, close my eyes

Wake up to a life of peace and deep understanding.

The cats have stopped mourning

On cold tin roofs.

They stopped mourning for

That Golden Retriever and 2.3 kids

I buried along with their braces

And their high-school diplomas

And the dog’s collar and my kitchen gloves

And my baked apple pie and my husband’s

Home made sandwiches.

The cats have stopped mourning

For my yoga classes and my book club,

For my Vogue subscription too

– it serves as a pillow for number 0.3-

Deep underneath the sour cherry tree.

The cats have stopped mourning,

The silly beasts are in heat,

Rubbing against the legs of the living room ghost,

Crossing my path, dancing to the rhythms of

Dixieland Jazz, making funny faces,

Screwing around with wide eyes and electrified

Tails – tales.

Those damn cats have stopped mourning

And I opened a bottle of wine.




in other words by charles bukowski

This time, I’m not going to post one of my own. This is from the one and only Charles Bukowski:


the Egyptians loved the cat

were often entombed with it

instead of with the women

and never with the dog


but now


good people with 

good eyes

are very few


yet fine cats

with great style

lounge about

in the alleys of

the universe.



our argument tonight

whatever it was



no matter 

how unhappy 

it made us 



remember that

there is a



adjusting to the

space of itself

with a delightful



in other words

magic persists 

without us

no matter what 

we may try to do

to spoil it.

Beware of feathers

Slay the chicken! You know what slaying a chicken means? In the first place it means you’re goddamn hungry and you wanna make a soup. Then, it means you want to change your destiny. The slain chicken was the first sign that man was sick of his shit destiny. Steal from the world, rob the world, set it on fire, give back contempt, but at least give it something! Give it gonohrrea, if you wish, for the world’s a whore, but give and take whatever you want to have, woman. Nothing is going to come to you if you don’t slay that goddam chicken!

great love

all that stuff you’ve read about love, all those poems and romance novels, with sweet syrup dripping down their pages – all bullshit! great loves are never to be found in great words. sure, go, read your fancy pants literature, drink your tea, curl up in a blanket -but hey, you’re as dead as an Aokigahara hiker.

great love lies in sleazy words: cock, puke, cunt, puss, liver damage. great love lies in bad odours, as lovers lie in their bed for days. they told you great love lies in Chanel no. 5? lies! great love lies in days old semen stuck to your sheets.

great love is not to be written, and sung, and praised. great love is to be drunk and smoked and bled. and if you write something, your ink would better be semen, and blood and whisky. otherwise it’s horse dung in an ice cream cone.

that’s it folks, you’d better have a bottle of Famous Grouse waiting for me, for I’m damn happy to be alive and lovin’.


I’ve got the blues

Been playing this bittersweet thing for a couple of hours. So odd that this little thing, that little moment, those anemic butterflies fighting to take over your innards  can also accidentally take over your reason. Getting old, getting old. Bones hurt, brain hurts, heart does not hurt…yet.



She used to be a teacher. A lonely, beautiful teacher. Until the accident that changed everything, including her very true nature. She was left blind and disfigured, however not powerless.

Three other women were assigned to take care of her. They dressed her in a black Victorian outfit and made her put on a mask. Two of the women were wearing the same type of garments and masks, one of them was wearing white and sat in a chariot. They had been specially trained to help people like her.

One would think that disfigurement and blindness would leave someone powerless, She was everything, but powerless. She was eternal and she instilled such great fear. I knew her name and I still know it, despite not remembering the exact choice and order of letters. Even if I did, I would not call it loudly.