[…] And my palm slides along the chalky surface of the wall –
green and smelling like cheap music.
Within the pores of the wall sank like mild fangs my thoughts,
seeking the old brick beneath the coating
This is not to be said
without capitals. it’s not worth it.
it’s difficult under cascades of thoughts – cold and slightly acid,
churning the edge of today with residues of yesterday’s feelings.
without tomorrow.
broken fall the images, pixel by pixel,
meaningless names, voiceless words,
and among all those cliché phrases, correcting my ever rebel dreaming –
this is not to be said,
this is not to be done,
this is not to be thought.
because the world.
what would the world say?
the world would say green, and porous, and bitter edges, without photoshop.
and it would also say that i deserve my winter – as much as it is.
and it wouldn’t say anything else after that – because i’d shut its mouth with a handful of cotton,
just to stop hearing its hypocrite voice screaming in my brains that
only the wall
and my palm coarser than it,
scratching its delicate and green pores,
and the plant begging for water beside me.
see? this is how an authentic wailing wall is born.
when in your house,
in the room where you should make love,
you make poetry.
and you shut up, listening stubbornly to the green talking to you
about the old brick behind it […]

© 2014 Liliana Negoi

originally written in Romanian


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