Bogdan Puslenghea

Nothing to read here


Days go on. Our feet mingle in the bed.
Mine cold; on nights like these. Awake,
looking through mirrors of sleep. Our
theoretical pride mutters: we’re the
good guys. On nights like these. The
pen writes by itself and pauses only
to make sure we’re here still. Ghosts of
irreversibility, lovers taking opposite
directions. Enemies forgotten.
The hand reaches for the skin; rain
beats like a madman’s drum, my mind,
or what’s left of it, seems most likely
to collapse. We are unbeatable. I cry
and cry; emptying as store shelves. On
fast forward. Days go dark and days go
bright. Hours of despondency, unraveling
of some inexistent plot.
We finally hit the glazing moon with
predictable axes. We split and share. That’s
fact. And days go on.
And days go on with gleaming sadness. We
have ten fingers each.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m very optimistic
and I’ve always been an actor -
but a bad one. You – my raving crowd.
Will I be changing? Pan down
to rightful actions? Smile at the sun
unarmed? You still can’t tell. To whom?
To me.
Time, our superficiality reborn, after
the flood: my friends occasionally
dress in black.
Today runs forever.
It’s 10.10 in infinity.

Bogdan Puslenghea is from Timisoara. His work has appeared in Otoliths, Degu A Journal of Signs, Truck, International Times, Haggard & Halloo Publications and Caliban online.
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