You’ll shrivel, you’ll be an exotic fruit

/, Blesok no. 30/You’ll shrivel, you’ll be an exotic fruit

You’ll shrivel, you’ll be an exotic fruit

You’ve sung beautifully and yet you heaven’t changed your life
Decameron
Epilogue
You"ll shrivel, you"ll be an exotic fruit
The Antipa Museum
“Enemy of the People” – lover of the country

I also cut at the seed of your tenderness
I also was sent to the Channel and death climbed upon my belly
It used to whisper me that I was handsome and lisping and it tried to spread out my legs
I smashed its head against a rock

I bent over it and I munched it
I threw myself down on the edge of a ditch
I washed up my clothes and I returned
I also put my name down on her telephone notebook

And the evening while withdrawing in a corner and listening to the prattle and sharing of those around me
I felt happy because God had left on His radio next to me
I loved you while standing my country, while I was chopping wood
I loved you bending a little over the bricks I was piling up
For the hen coop inside which I was to bark only for you

I loved you down on my knees and I loved you being lied down
Twisting and throwing aside the counterpanes and crawling through the cinemas from the neighborhood
Caressing you until your excited flesh bit its own little straps
Your intestines were coming out in the light of the screen to dance
And your sights were sewing an army on my back using some shells

I also went to Botswana where people wouldn’t die so well
I went to Paris –I went to and pro in Paris-
And the belly I was going to and pro with bristled up and ran away
I made the tour of various countries and with each jolt
Death would place its spit finger on my neck and on my face
But my loins want to tell you something
Wish to tell something to your thighs

How will I go out for a walk on Calea Victoriei
How will I live without making yon
Raising above the ham-and-beef shops out of the mercy of whom we live
Above the advices and the mudboles
Our milk and honey flow down on as from
Above the spots of fat
From the soup and from the penitentiaries courtyard
Above the prayers book out of which I whisper to you
While you’re spreading sex on all the things around me

When you don’t come I feel out of order I defeated
Nobody shows his noodle any longer
With its good neck meant to be twisted below my windows
My life is over my socks torn
My cigarettes are jumping directly towards you
And is asking you gently to bring me a coffee
Which you don’t

You undress on rhythm of a worn out blues you take
You make a huge pile out of your own clothes
You climb on them
You slide and sweat
Straining to get at the same time with me at my highest thoughts

Where you’ll never get
Where only boredom and regret
Tenderness or anger can get
Where the blackbird doesn’t sing and the wind doesn’t slow either
Where I shiver wrapped in news paper
Cough bleed read on my own skins
The news about your talking nonsense
You’re in the cloud of flies buzzing already around my jaws

AuthorDaniel Banulescu
2018-08-21T17:23:33+00:00 January 1st, 2003|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 30|0 Comments