In the city with transformers, transgender and trans-fat
the story told with graffiti-tongued voice
could pierce the memory like a drilling gun.
Her dress tumbles in the dryer
Her umbrella circles around the rain
Her stiletto-shoes explode in rhythm and blues measures
to end up in Sunday asphalt-music.
Father Peter hidden in pop-culture art-expressions.
Her name drops from the phone receiver directly into my brain.
Her nail polish goes on my mouth along with her fingers.
The silence was always mine
because I lack the sense of proportions
and the plotline-limb.
I lack the narrative bone.
But I still have the other ones.
In a way, I am as healthy as any.
But, if you try to check like a general practitioner
where the hard stuff lies inside me,
your fingers would go astray, all over the skin
in a desperate attempt to find a solid bridge
to my liquid mind and to my square-like soul.
Once upon a time,
there was a little boy who was dreaming under a huge oak tree.
Princesses, dragons, adventures, spells and castles,
all of them were marching before his wriggling eye.
When the bad sorceress came and waved the images away,
the story went blind and the boy, limping to his house,
buried himself into the long blanket of distress.
I lack the narrative bone,
yet I can keep my body straight.
I’m inseminated by what they call “word imprecision”.
On the edges, my mind fluids are leaking.
The stiff organs try desperately to keep my illusions together.
Spilled in the open air, they might fly away like disasters out of Pandora’s box.
I lack the narrative bone.
Exquisitely, my blood spins around something
not-yet-heart-shaped.
I see demons, a friend told me once with dramatic emphasis.
I don’t. Maybe I am just disabled.
Nonetheless, I see streetlights and bodies.
Red ones and horny ones.
On Magnificent Mile I see cars, celebrities, pavement stones,
significant lips and significant others,
flying hands in expressive gestures,
impeccable shoes and origami ties.
Red ones and horny ones.
I hear voices, she told me next.
They give me unhinged gods and infamous rhythms to my prayers.
I hear voices, she said again.
my mother’s, my baby’s, my kitchen’s knives’,
the voice of Bob Dylan and Omar Shariff,
Dalai-Lama and Obama.
Joggling with city lights,
I hear the human race’s future
in words and exclamation points.
If I lean my head to the wall,
the sky train clinks in my memory
like Nutcracker clinks in the dancers’ legs.
Thinking doesn’t come with erudition and experience,
but with long dead silence imprinted in frozen skin.
I lack something. Maybe a bone or a stone. Or something more consonant.
While brooding, the body stands still.
And the blood stops running through improbable veins.
I don’t hear voices, but thoughts
banging to the back window of my brain.
I don’t see demons, but words with strings and
terrible meanings.
Natasha’s dance is the secret plot of our time.
And my missing bone, the secret agent with Bond-ish eyes.
Author Bio:
Diana Andrasi completed her studies in philology at the University of Bucharest, followed by a master’s degree and a PhD in Comparative Literature at the University of Montreal. While researching for her doctoral thesis on the subject of thought-image as a poetry device (at the beginning of the 20th century), she became interested in research projects linking contemporary poetry to urban legends, political ideologies and global cultural development. She wrote articles, poems, and essays in both English and French. She lives in the far west of the Montreal Island.
the story told with graffiti-tongued voice
could pierce the memory like a drilling gun.
Her dress tumbles in the dryer
Her umbrella circles around the rain
Her stiletto-shoes explode in rhythm and blues measures
to end up in Sunday asphalt-music.
Father Peter hidden in pop-culture art-expressions.
Her name drops from the phone receiver directly into my brain.
Her nail polish goes on my mouth along with her fingers.
The silence was always mine
because I lack the sense of proportions
and the plotline-limb.
I lack the narrative bone.
But I still have the other ones.
In a way, I am as healthy as any.
But, if you try to check like a general practitioner
where the hard stuff lies inside me,
your fingers would go astray, all over the skin
in a desperate attempt to find a solid bridge
to my liquid mind and to my square-like soul.
Once upon a time,
there was a little boy who was dreaming under a huge oak tree.
Princesses, dragons, adventures, spells and castles,
all of them were marching before his wriggling eye.
When the bad sorceress came and waved the images away,
the story went blind and the boy, limping to his house,
buried himself into the long blanket of distress.
I lack the narrative bone,
yet I can keep my body straight.
I’m inseminated by what they call “word imprecision”.
On the edges, my mind fluids are leaking.
The stiff organs try desperately to keep my illusions together.
Spilled in the open air, they might fly away like disasters out of Pandora’s box.
I lack the narrative bone.
Exquisitely, my blood spins around something
not-yet-heart-shaped.
I see demons, a friend told me once with dramatic emphasis.
I don’t. Maybe I am just disabled.
Nonetheless, I see streetlights and bodies.
Red ones and horny ones.
On Magnificent Mile I see cars, celebrities, pavement stones,
significant lips and significant others,
flying hands in expressive gestures,
impeccable shoes and origami ties.
Red ones and horny ones.
I hear voices, she told me next.
They give me unhinged gods and infamous rhythms to my prayers.
I hear voices, she said again.
my mother’s, my baby’s, my kitchen’s knives’,
the voice of Bob Dylan and Omar Shariff,
Dalai-Lama and Obama.
Joggling with city lights,
I hear the human race’s future
in words and exclamation points.
If I lean my head to the wall,
the sky train clinks in my memory
like Nutcracker clinks in the dancers’ legs.
Thinking doesn’t come with erudition and experience,
but with long dead silence imprinted in frozen skin.
I lack something. Maybe a bone or a stone. Or something more consonant.
While brooding, the body stands still.
And the blood stops running through improbable veins.
I don’t hear voices, but thoughts
banging to the back window of my brain.
I don’t see demons, but words with strings and
terrible meanings.
Natasha’s dance is the secret plot of our time.
And my missing bone, the secret agent with Bond-ish eyes.
Author Bio:
Diana Andrasi completed her studies in philology at the University of Bucharest, followed by a master’s degree and a PhD in Comparative Literature at the University of Montreal. While researching for her doctoral thesis on the subject of thought-image as a poetry device (at the beginning of the 20th century), she became interested in research projects linking contemporary poetry to urban legends, political ideologies and global cultural development. She wrote articles, poems, and essays in both English and French. She lives in the far west of the Montreal Island.
RSS Feed