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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.