and your gestures are sweat and your words \u2013
\nsolid blood And
\nthey work with them
\n bearings, spark plugs, screws
\nwithout knowing they’re crocheting your life
\n out of the neon lights of the city
\n a wedding \u2013 corrugated and grotesque
\nBut I know everything I’ve seen
\nhow they unbury their dead every morning
\nfrom the red latrines of the city
\nand kiss them on the mouth
\n with the wonder of the little girl who opens up a doll
\n and sees its liver, its heart, its kidneys
\n Because I live here
\nin the centre of the disaster
\nand I’ve seen
\nI, antonin artaud,
\nmy father and mother
\nand I myself<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
like a small fence, like metallic lace<\/strong> (excerpt)<\/p>\n Bucharest opens like a huge syphilitic flower Only the silence of a drowned dog in my body there is a place where they come on motorbikes and a place and behave yourself <\/p>\n Only the silence of a drowned dog By Ruxandra Novac<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":119,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[484,7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-23137","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-maintenant","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23137","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/119"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=23137"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23137\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=23137"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=23137"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=23137"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nand I know that nothing, nothing can any longer prevent the disaster
\nof the rags of my twenty three year old mind
\nNeither the holiness of Tanger, nor the narcosis, nor the butterflies
\ngroping their way in slaughterhouses, terrifying the workers.
\nNone of all these
\nNeither the training, nor the small churches, nor the sex of the city
\nraping the night
\nnothing<\/p>\n
\nfloating down the river, in the sun<\/p>\n
\nto attract insects and in
\nthe left arm \u2013 a place to carry out sacrifices
\nthe skin explodes sometimes like in a city
\na bomb after war \u2013 and then they come
\nand camouflage the places with wool and \u2013
\nbecause I wanted to learn sometimes
\nthey do it wrong and use something else \u2013 sometimes artificial
\nsnow and \u2013 because I wanted to
\nlearn they brought my pills and I swallowed them and
\nslowly they all mixed up inside me<\/p>\n
\nand behave yourself
\ndon’t torture people and animals<\/p>\n![\"ruxandranovac1\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/04\/ruxandranovac1-300x225.jpg\")
\nABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong>
\nRuxandra Novac<\/strong> was born in 1980, studied at the University of Bucharest and has released two collections of poetry. She will be reading, along with Elena Vladareanu and Adrian Urmanov, as part of the inaugural Maintenant<\/em> reading series next month in London.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"![\"ruxandranovac3\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/04\/ruxandranovac3-150x150.jpg\")
Bucharest opens like a huge syphilitic flower
\nand I know that nothing, nothing can any longer prevent the disaster
\nof the rags of my twenty three year old mind
\nNeither the holiness of Tanger, nor the narcosis, nor the butterflies
\ngroping their way in slaughterhouses, terrifying the workers.
\nNone of all these
\nNeither the training, nor the small churches, nor the sex of the city
\nraping the night
\nnothing<\/p>\n
\nfloating down the river, in the sun…<\/p>\n