childhood chalet

Milk thing

On my first travel abroad

I was alone against the strong

Divorced aunt´s row of vegetables

Lettuce, seeds, tomatoes, farm,

Liquids from soya or plants

No drugs there – no medication

No balance, eat what your body

Really needs,

Which is Holy Health –

I was a skeleton there

Measuring pure water with

Soya milk, my waist with a ribbon

Scrawny, uglier than Sissi

And no cats licking the milk

Pouring from my lips – no nothing

Indecent out of my throat

A crumb of natural bread

A farm a little too far away

My aunt´s bike to reach this

Reach Heaven, mystical milk

I should drink –

And she had been told by mother

Doctors to feed me fine, fats, proteins

Of milk, and yoghourt, very easy to swallow

No tubes, hoses to my stomac,

Just “normal food”

But she was so unnatural with children

Her son died – pointing fingers

“I´ll get the fucking milk for her”

And i was writing my paper about

Rimbaud, Edie Sedgwick, Plath

With empty stomac ,

Yet souled, passionate,

Inspired by the gods above,

Words they wrote so fluently on my

Diary of sorts.

And drawings explaining Rimbaud´s rib

Against his flesh

And walking, walking too much

Too long abroad –

I could hardly breath

And walk at the same time,

Just eat, sit and write the paper

And my own thin fingers

And ankles i walked so proud to the beach.

I kept writing in a trance, lying on the sand

Wrapped with towels, eccentric sun

Perfect geometries, the farm, the Glory,

The dance of Edie falling flat from the ceiling

Like her dead child, in memoriam –

I should fight against mother´s milk

Dancing in the summer fire, over the dunes

And warm waters.

Writing, possessed, starving yet denying it.

Running abroad, further and further

Until exhaustion, until Graduation

I excelled dancing, dancing silent performance –

Then the ambulance

The hospitals and hoses and noses

And stomacs everywhere

Command, signatures, your name, your body name,

Drink normal milk with a pill to sleep

And balance, weight, size, pair of shoes

Off and tickling to make me smile

And swallow that thick liquid

And sleep everything off,

Unsouled, paper done i excelled, i excelled

Doubting about my sanity

And my aunt´s son, dead too soon

And my pointing finger –

Deself

Jobless, you said you quit your job

As i quit mine. But for different reasons.

I´ve driven far away from that house

I have this white room, do you remember

Tracey Moffat? Do you remember blow-jobs?

I don´t. That´s my past.

I´m feeling so far away from all that jazz.

I paint murals. Drunk. Until i get

Intoxicated with the smell of paint.

Even if it´s harmless.

I hurt. I am damaged.

Cold May. Iris didn´t blossom yet.

I remember when i was someone else.

I don´t know what´s wrong now, weak,

Maybe it´s alright.

The white walls are impossible spaces.

I can´t bear the murals.

All canvases against the wall

Except yours, you and your daughter

Sister, pregnant.

Here all books start. For everything is finishing

This chalet, my wedding tent, the bride, the bride,

Old witch and i hate cats,

I hate having a car, i hate it all.

The blank, the white square of this wall

Is not depression, or schizophrenic architecture.

I´m just overwhelmed, and too sensitive,

Too silly. O i´ve been so naïve

But i needed it.

I spy my Romanian neighbours- they do speak

And play all the summer, over a mountain

Of sand, and a plastic swimming-pool.

They have brown hair, blue eyes. They are tanned .

I have freckles. Or something worse.

Last night

I couldn´t walk, i lied on the road

With my black coat.

The retarded staff went out for a coffee,

Numb eyes and faces=i belonged to them!

Pride of some kind.

My hair was long and i was self-erotized.

A tornado lifted my skull, installed more ideas,

Wedged between synapses, this man

I know for ages. He´s changed. And me too.

And the distance. And my silence.

I write words.

I say Hm. Him.

I need an end to everything.

This mural. Blue and Whitesnow –

A tornado, a tube, grey and smokey.

Me, naked. Parents with a hat

And a scarf.

I quit my job! Running naked except for

My flesh-color shorts.

Drunk, they said, Welcome home –

So i spy our neighbours to take photographs

Of Eastern Europe, because i know, i know –

My sister gave me the digital camera

To save my life, and my soul.

I don´t know where i´m heading to.

Philosophy, a know where so much is hidden.

A plot. A line on the floor to follow.

I just believe in my neck for vampires.

Thinking, thinking too much for too long.

Deself, white walls.

There´s been an end or will be.

I need whiteness, assedness, words even crud.

Black cushions performing

Books, red threads. Red hair.

She´s fine

She´s fine

She´s fine

Because i can paint murals,

With too much intensity.

But god, she´s blessed!