Tag Archives: Marius Surleac


by Marius Surleac

extend the twine that back-naked clowns walk on
asking to eat cold parts of a rainbow,
helium tanks, lead bullets,
black gas masks

their sneers disguise the silence of your tombs

give them black peel atomic truffles
fire and leaf to nibble them
to watch on the screen how fades away
only their shadow

you’d act like a doc and vodka
be poured in jar bottles
on the beach of damnation just ash remains
and murdered birds wafts you like life threads
on the back, on last journey

please tell me, the word
I gave you yesterday
it lives anymore?


Putrefaction goes high

by Marius Surleac

the azor dog broadened yesterday its vision
within the worms community’s lunch
passed through them as through glass flaws
until the fraises became rectum
and rectum roasting breeze

it’s almost August
Jack dances merengue with the tommy-gun to hand
in teeming spines of the already recognized waltz
burning hash in a corner
sunk by alcohol and different frequency
lines shaped within the drumhead

it is the time when flowers
bloom from corpses

Jack’s champagne supernova

by Marius Surleac

there are moments when your kinky look
passes beyond – the spectacles’ frame, the scarf
beyond the crop top and the back that covers your hot knockers –
like a stranger within the crowd, just a touch

the babbling of those around, the flush,
make you feel like a water drop on the glowing pan
with every impetus everyone else’s beast begets inside you
you search yourself for shadows

don’t you know how to dream?


by Marius Surleac

with one eye over the other’s nudity
birds flew from the window –
perhaps they knew that night left us on a street’s corner
through dumpsters, prostitutes,

we often tucked away in the twilight on the beach –
after several hours of hard searching for slippers
petrified on sand, having our knees grazed in the
shelter among the algae, with sparkling waves
and marc over the hairy shoulders

in the morning gulls were practicing martial arts
with the enemies of bleeding pupils – the horizon
hanging in the rose of a sunspot erupted
at no more than 4 inches from tub
us two, the pathway to heaven


by Marius Surleac

the start is like a batch of metal filing
collected in bile over the years
I wait to form conglomerates
then remove and make them statues …
small, inconsistent ones
to be lost in the dust when I forget
that along with them I went on
with irreversible footsteps unto the world
it chokes me
and when I’ve no air left
I cram them on my throat wrapped
in pieces of cloth
that taste like fear