romanian literary monthly

~Victoria Milescu: “Poems”


The town fades away

                        in the driving mirror –

            dogs and birds

                        abandoning their cartridge box.

It’s misty. Nudes with edelweiss armlets

watch over the varnishing

tank cars have dissolved the bas-reliefs

                        on the sacred radome.

We sit on the side of the artesian well

                        ejecting in the air

                                    champagne tachyons,

your beret over your eyes

                        and long term tins

            sharing out to the suspects…

The town is a purgatory,

                        a sulphur spiral

a large-scale, magic sleep extends its liquid


to the weeping willows

                        on the shore of Styx…

A glass in their hand

                                    and sipping

                        the maestros of the genre


            leave us

after the second half


                                                the golden box

                                                            of joy of living.

We want to reach

            the long eternity of morrow

                                    scan in corpore

growling then, enthusiastically,

                        the Toreador’s aria…




Towels, undershits, hanlies

                        circulated around us

                        on the copper wire of sight     


                        we stopped at the crossroads

                                    to telecast the murder

                                                we were challenged

            under the beaconage. We were waiting.

Who’ll be the first

                        to throw

the blood ball

                        of the stellate heart

            and Ether to step in?

(But Ether was on a trip to the Antiles)

            There are a lot like me

                        you murmur by telepaty

when you’re doing that thing

                        near the radar, mutilated

though it’s against my wish, my friend

            you are the sacrifice lamb, as they say

our ship is drunk

                        and with no skipper, yet!




Our most refined death

                        comes from Bagdad

let’s extend it a heartly welcome!

            At dawn, hundreds of bodies,

            of eyes,

                        of mouths

                                    of cannons

broke their ranks


                        carried away by the mirage…

Desperately I was clutching

                        my new identity

            dropping at corner

                        my old, registered coat.

They have invited me under the chronometer:

                        murder or self-murder

                                    in mass-media

the magus inquired when

                        he pinned

                                    the badge

                                                on our bare chests!

Naïveté was present, too

                                    sponte sua

riddling some well armed Flemish visions

            then, the nomenclatura of the clasics

                                    with their solid armour…

Give a fulcrum

            to the hypnosis on land!

A mask for Goya!

A TAB for Rembrandt!

On guard there are:

                        Lie and Untruth

With silence’s referendum

                                    in the barrels

They’ve locked the Crystal Palace

                                    and opened Labyrinth!




I caress his hands in gloves

            though he is not mine

                        I lay my head on his chest

I cover his bruised shoulders

                        with my white wings

            I kiss him in everybody’s sight

though he is not mine

                                    I keep him away

                                                from your stones

            and his eyes caress me lovingly

though he is not mine

                        we pass embosomed

            through the Moon’s riddled lungs

since a boy carries a machine-gun.

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