Concours de poésie

Miruna Teodora Todor, Poetry, Group II

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Miruna Teodora Todor participates in the “Poetry” Section of the English Category, International Literary Creation Contest, 3rd Edition, from Timișoara, Timiș County, Romania and is 17 years old. She is a student of Banat National College. We thank her for this participation and wish her success.

The clutching rock

A hole, a greyhound rock,
Its eyes, bubbling under the foot-
A boot, loose, like a tooth,
Crushing the rock vengencefully 
For being crooked and sharp and put.

A rock more graceful than a leg of sand,
A crust on a peacock’s beak,
I leak over the rock’s bladder,
I leak over the glistening skins-
I peel the scales off my fins.

The rock is me – I am this hard piece
Of earth, of meat, a set of red teeth.
I spill my sweat over this grass,
A goliard, a phantom of glass.

I think I might be strange,
I am not well – I myself am hell
And nobody’s here, only a crusty lip,
A clutching rock, a mental doc.

The ganglion

I was caressing my sleazy skin the other day,
My bulging neck, slim, like dim-lit fins,
I was projecting my ebony fingers like pins,
Rolling rough, scratchy like roots of iron seaweed,
Blue, sweaty, sour like a pulsating filling.

I touched a ganglion, yellow probably,
As I had envisioned it,
And how unhappy that made me-
Cruel to the bone and the marrow fully.

How much has changed since when,
I was given this ganglion – well, 
How much has changed since
The seconds started spilling in fumes,
As corrosive liquid and platinum brown flutes,
Started pouring into my walls, my shell, my wheel.

How much I had muddied it, like a brazen face,
At a fast pace, a fast race – cheap cancer on sale for a change.
I had made it swell, maybe made it hell.

My ganglion which is me, yellow probably, 
I had made myself a copy of a figure,
Ghastly like a killer – a drink,
I guess it made me think,
Of renouncing all my sins 
Before I start shrinking like beans.

Red reverie

Bloody – as in a dream,
The vampire scolds harshly at the veins,
In a town full of roofs and dangling plates.

I am too in such a gothic scene,
A cathedral – where you, like a gargoyle,
Bruise such a thigh, such an ego, you
Bite on such a blueless tide.

No question, you reprimanded me – 
Such a bony mask, a plastic bag –
A flask of carved meat.

Should I worry?
Or should I break you brawn,
Spurting like a dome of lizards,
Reeking empty like a bunch of killers?

I ought to burst like a static 
On the crowded page –
Where you envisioned my old rage.

But I shan’t now,
In this town of lewd chromatics,
Where I will rise awfully mute 
In this bed of rotten pus.