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Poezii Rom�nesti - Romanian Poetry

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Bedroom talk
poezie [ ]
trad. Irina Stanescu

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
de [edu ]

2007-12-20  | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english]    | 



We looked at each other with the same pair of brown eyes, yours blue, ate at the same table, prayed and joined hands in the Râmeț Mountains; we cut ourselves in the same wire, confessed to same Anthony, the monk from Mount Athos, slept on the same starched pillow and shared the same bath tube with tart pine shower oil, falling asleep in the same honest clasp.

We both imagined the same piano concert that we made love on. We wore the same sweater by turns, sharing the same riches we puffed the same cigar, we fought out of the same reasons, we both made the same personal mistakes in different times of the day, invoking tolerance. We both studied at the same schools, the same psychology, but with separate teachers. We punished ourselves the same way and we used the same - kept unsaid for special occasions - foul curses, such as go to hell, have another drug handful and go play, sun of a bitch, dumbhead, ass-fucker, you are a depressed jerk off, you’re in wonderful, go say hi to Saint Peter and send me a postcard, go kill yourself, get your silicones off and dream in colors, what am I suppose to do with your bloody feelings, farthead, no good piece of shit, merry whore, look at me when I’m talking to you, up-Huşi scoundrel, you wanna teach me a lesson lest you’d feel your own stinking self taste, flush the john, alcoholic moron, I’ll give you a hand to killing yourself, if you’re so keen on doing it, let me show you art.

We are afraid of the same past errors, we keep aside from the same failures, wish for the same things, to be loved, understood and appreciated, forgiving one to another, faithful and sincere at least with ourselves, even though everybody hates, kills, fornicates, lies, steals – and we don’t. Of all these things we’ve done as one, in such a resembling way, I call you as an "inamorata", and you as an ideal; you as an outcast and I as a Harley Davidson. But beyond all the above, none of us has no trigger what so ever, besides our own projections, today having a coffee, tomorrow feasting our eyes upon each other, never the same glances.

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