Ionel Ciupureanu


martie 13, 2015 by admin

Ionel Ciupureanu, I who had died was coming, Max Blecher Publishing House, 2013

It’s logical and enough
In case I keep you company
the space you invented will not

devour you
nor the air between us will matter

your cataplasm is living and
words wouldn’t cease from being uttered

I beg you entertain me it’s so simple
it’s enough and it’s so logical

nor would my flesh abandon you
it would be wise to salivate together

it’s simple and so logical and enough
and isn’t quite so terrifying.


I know for sure

I said hello to the dead and yet
the dead wasn’t  there I know for sure

and it was good
now we keep talking about the windows

if I drink the dilligence overtakes me
I made an effort and I saw the daybreak.



Not long ago I was on holiday
I overslept together with the flowers

I kept thinking over and over
how could I possibly die further

on what circumstance
or if I had really died

We wouldn’t die

My veins are dilating again
my blood is easily dropping

alcohol is such a good conserver
that’s what people keep telling me

we shouldn’t even die after all
because we aren’t mad, or are we?

some love poetry, others – forcemeat rolls of cabbage
I saw this thing on television, too.



A transparency tenderly poured forth
a fulcrum an improvisation

tenderly I will have to kill
to defend myself from death

and then improvisation again
and then the silence of the sparkling dust


Farewell to the arms

I dream of you so I can heal from you
and yet I can not heal from you

I swallow a pill to be able to crawl to you
my veins stick to the image of your organs

what crap whom shall I venerate
I swallow a pill

to imagine that I exist
and don’t know what else.


To be boiled and well mixed up

I was born from nothing I know nothing
your nightmare exhausts me again

it’s unnatural
yet fascinating

it’s disgusting I don’t know that’s all the same
I’m mumbling so that I can breath

your whispers disintegrate me
the sense of darkness eats me up

that’s all the same and it’s unnatural
and disgusting yet fascinating


Rain doesn’t mean a thing

The silent wind over the silent flowers
a coldness close to hunger

an end inside this freight train
bear that in mind

the rain doesn’t mean anything
the dead are covered by words and

the air has been caught by the screw
I am still striving to die


A disembarking

I grew fat while staring at a window
I am good-for-nothing

within the ridiculousness there’s something ordinary
and afterwards a tolerance

an obsession without staining
a boredom looking for confusion

very well a disease something loyal
rather a disembarking
some shadows or anything else
does no longer matter


Punk menuet

I dreamt myself in pink skirt
and a pink blouse

I spat at you all the demons
and I spotted my blouse

I filled up the ashtray and
the table cloth

it was also a bit of madness
hoping to understand something


Wake me up and let us die

Were we mere objects I wouldn’t think of that
we wouldn’t lose ourselves

when you pass me by
you pretend to nibble at my brain

do you really feel me?
does it really hurt you?

leave inside me anything you want  I have nowhere else to stay
I also need an exhaustion

an acute lack of space
will outline our stillness.


Self forgetfulness

Your flesh devouring under my flesh
your brain gasping and destroying both of us

you own something like growling of the broken bones
our desires flow into weird shapes

remember that I am so far beyond
your objects are ignoring us

I throw up what I dream and start it over
looking of course for mutual confusion

in the afternoon flowers look red
and self forgetfulness seems never ending

come back to your senses there is not much time


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