Like a king that knows
the surname of his every
20 000 soldiers
I’ll buy your silence with their numbers.



On a distant planet
the liver’s a cosmic ship,
and any drop of water
has one that dies.


What’s better than a methyl season
after an exhausting day. The wedding bed
slips on butter until it falls into the ethanol:
until you notice that you’re happy,
that instead of a heart you have a
idiot child that throws potatoes
and that all your silence is everything…
’cause – if we hadn’t any viruses
we’d be antisocial.

Dreadful afternoon

Dreadfully we both went
to buy ourselves vile tennis shoes,
to tighten them on our feet
with what nature should have left us tails,
let’s step on surgical asphalt
in the same ordinary summer, inside
a broken peach, with the starry fist in the air.

We went and we thought
we were getting bread etc.
Someone reversed the laws of nature
and everything falls out of the sky.
Bulky death made in Belgium, a wheelchair
for the loneliness of dried fruit.

Like peanuts we’ll be two in a grave
and heaven before us will be butter.

Nature’s mistakes

Out of all of nature’s mistakes, you’ll only
learn a few.
The ear drums stick to each other
from too much silence / the right is lining the left
and you can hear them grating and grinding
until you take fire.
It’s then that you understand how selfsufficent you are
to yourself – food, army and peer,
religion and bank account.

Out of the ten commandments
nine are the dandruff
of the one you break.
And the commandment lives.
And the commandment grows hair
which idiot angels
brain along
the university’s balusters
there where you only come see me.

Everything seems so bucolic,
and rustic to you, the steps
run down the alarming brain and,
when hitting against a wall,
you’ll find in it – a premeditated dose of accuracy.

Out of all of nature’s mistakes, you’ll only
learn a few
like why the wine finds flies
if it’s not the first dead body
and if it is, then why does it come from water.
You won’t learn these things
solely when the peach’s pips will
grow commandments
and hallow-eyed peach trees
will grow from mistakes
so that couples will be
them and the peach tree.

Darie Ducan/Cristina Ștefan

For keeping the mind

You shall die poor and forgotten
like the nude marrow grown to a tower
where sea heads foolishly melt
the last pieces of effervescent calcium.
The printing errors shall return
from their wanderings, like migratory birds,
a chance will leave you in the puddle
of another way of being
and only through what you haven’t succeeded
you have a referent, through what you have not tried yet
you have a door through which
the antimatter groom will chase you away.
In your sleep sinks gather
in which the brain that has not forgotten you
dribbles rythmically
and they will find in my autopsy
and at my autopsy they’ll find
my body filled with goodbye notes you hid,
all written with blue pens, shiny and clear.

Darie Ducan (Translation C. Stefan)

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