A list of the factors responsible for my psychological unrest




            Nightlights such as this one may be used to counteract fear of the dark.      


Catastrophomania - 

wandering uterus - 

roving winding jaunting - 

roaming travelling wayfaring - 

fickle thoughtless vagrant - 


or Love, 

which burns like an insult


and the floating world 

of the cherry tree outside my window

snowing flushed froth 

over the untroubled stones 


Sibiu Story


This cardboard car catapults us from one nebula to another:

through village after village after village after charred sunflower fields

after charred sunflower fields after ardour and simplicity


Motel Jezebel not of the best repute,

an in-between-hemisphere, electric-shocked one-night-stand-stop

among the already-vestiges of the last century’s factories price-inflated gas stations along the highway’s spine stretched unknowable as God

and baby-bedroom-blue as any tomorrow,

as any horizon: this is where things become too clear, the hypothalamus, the brain’s peacock,

here is where the entire world wiggles, it threatens to topple over,

a threat graver than any reality


We pave our path to the city’s centre (cobblestones suffer the advantage of singularity:

recognize that particular stone that we tread every day, perhaps,

as simple luck,

or perhaps as so many sights and frights nutritious to the obsessive mind)

and arrive at the inn we always stay at. (Isn’t absolutely miraculous that we don’t remember every atom of our lives?


Thank God!)


On the street with a heartless keeper on the street with the UrsulineConvent

a place of exemplary education for young ladies, and descend know cobblestones steep to medieval dimensions,

no difficulty to sled,


arrive at the train station

with your exemplary education,

your ghoulish guide rubbed out of a genie lamp points left: on your right there’s a hotel


that bears the name Continental, once Boulevard like streets that bore the name King Ferdinand and that metamorphosed to Stalin

and back to Ferdinand again


Pay your respects

at the cemetery where a little boy with a woman’s voice sings braiding himself among the graves, among the graves



Andreea in three minutes, or Iulia,

or Miss Scridon, or nobody at all

just any phantomette who might ascend that yellow cab

to the great Metropolitan Street where Tagore tread some time ago

and the Cathedral, of course, with its trippable front-step and kissable holy-relics it’s July the sky is an oven and we’re cracking of thirst

under the apostolic cataract in the sky


and the radio already speaks with the voice of the dead. Already the universe has interrupted its signal with sense, Already your head has been cut in two.

You don’t like to be a hypocrite, But this is what you’d do for love!


The Engulfed Cathedral

They have hung the moon 

from the ceiling of the engulfed cathedral

in unexpected snowstorms, they pull off their mittens, pull back their hoods, 

pull back the wrought iron door handle, 

breathe relief in the sweet 

warm crypt-stomach of the engulfed cathedral

It was the 27th of November that they hung the moon 

from the ceiling of the cathedral. 


My prayers today, on the 28th of November, 

 take the following form: 


                        My little star, grant me one wish and bring me three:

                        send me a lamp with a genie inside

                        the lamp genie is enigmatic and evasive, 

                        for this reason I admire

                        the lamp genie

                        when I grow up, 

                        I’d like to be a lamp genie


                                    my angel, bring me back just one object that I’ve misplaced

                                    Oh, how I’d tremble before the things I’ve lost!

                                    a baby doll,

                                    a coral ring, 

                                    a bracelet from the monasteries, 

                                    two email accounts and only seven passwords in total


penance for all – 

your sweet wax face frightens me 

and I see it in all places


they have hung the moon in the crypt-stomach of the engulfed cathedral – 

a warm, eclectic Christianity

How they smile beyond the thunder,

how they wear their molars like pearl chokers 

as they tilt their heads in wonder!

Never in the past five centuries 

has the engulfed cathedral been so full of believers

Footprints in the Snow

I took Schulz and Hrabal out of the library, 

and walked out into the gingerbread. 

It leaked into the toe of my boot.

I bought cheese from the deli shop

and wore the clouds’ stars in the cape of my hair.

Alone at home, 

I made myself hot chocolate. 

As I drank it, 

I watched the little blue-white wheels

stick themselves to my old pane. 


This was before the moths ate me.


andreea scridon