mediterana

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9 Comments
pe plaja murdară
stai și judeci încă o dată. secvența e bună:
soarele mării răsare din nou. portul din genova stă calm
tu ești doar ochiul și urechea ce te învață maeștrii zen
un punct pe plajă ce înoată leneș în apa călduță de septembrie.

istoria ta: mici angoase de middle-class potolite cu berile de vineri și sâmbătă seara
crochiuri reușite, dar expoziții ratate
oftezi, stai și judeci încă o dată: secvența tot e bună.

nu vezi, dar marea are în spate și alte cadre
tu poți fi copil pierdut, fugit de războaie eșuat cu capul în jos pe plajă
botezăm drama noastră colectivă cu numele Alan Kurdi

tu poți fi acel frumos om cu perfecții dinți sidefii
cu inima ascunsă între malta și siracusa
flori nu te așteaptă când debarci în noua lume,
măcar gloanțele nu te mai ating.

poți fi fata de la noi din est, legată sub autostradă,
trup vândut pe saltelele de sub arcadele pictate de ucenicii lui michelangelo

foarte ușor, uiți că marea nu aduce doar întâlniri de zei
mediterana n-o naște doar pe venus
mediterana naște și ură și frică

dar pe plaja murdară,
mai stai și judeci încă o dată
oftezi: secvența răsăritului e aproape perfectă.


despre autor:

complex, uneori calculat

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9 comentarii:

Anonim spunea...

Ah, the elegance of a man who writes beautifully just to remind you your pain isn’t exotic enough. A familiar blend of aestheticism and condescension — polished lines masking the casual machismo of comparing a woman’s depression to grand tragedies, as if suffering had to be ranked like medals. The writing shines, but the soul behind it? Dimly lit, at best. Probably like the author.

23 aprilie 2025 la 17:39
Anonim spunea...

What’s often missed in these lyrical hierarchies of pain is how neatly they excuse certain men from accountability. Comparing a woman’s internal collapse to global tragedies isn't empathy — it’s erasure.

This isn’t just poor taste, it’s part of a larger pattern: the intellectualization of cruelty, the poetic camouflage of misogyny. Sadly, when someone speaks this eloquently to diminish another’s suffering, it often masks far more personal violences — silent, and all too real.

23 aprilie 2025 la 19:32
Anonim spunea...

The real talent here isn’t capturing the world’s pain, but manipulating words, all while conveniently omitting the harm one causes others.

23 aprilie 2025 la 21:16
Anonim spunea...

Curious how certain chapters are always missing — the ones where consent was silence, and silence was mistaken for agreement.
Where hands rewrote boundaries without permission.
"Perhaps the one who betrayed the moral code deserved it, after all?"

23 aprilie 2025 la 22:18
Anonim spunea...

And what if her too, wrote poetry instead of staying silent? But she don’t have the time — there are already far too many court statements left unwritten. Too many court statements left unwritten — never to be proved, never to be heard.

23 aprilie 2025 la 22:28
Anonim spunea...

Taking photos of a naked sleeping person without their consent : one year in prison and a fine of 45,000 euros. Can you also write a nice poem based on these facts please ? I would also like to hear it with your pretty words.

23 aprilie 2025 la 22:39
Anonim spunea...

"Of all the women I've ever known, you're the only one I still respect."
It didn’t land like a tribute—it landed like a verdict.
As if respect was reserved for those who didn’t break visibly.
He meant it as praise, but it sounded like a sentence.
There was no tenderness in that kind of respect.
And that, more than anything, made me cold.

23 aprilie 2025 la 23:20
Anonim spunea...

But respect is not hidden in imposed silences

23 aprilie 2025 la 23:41
Anonim spunea...

In a dream, I had finally left the room.
You were still speaking — maybe writing. But this time, your words no longer pierced me.
They floated, suspended. Like your gaze: bright, but empty of meaning.

And I looked around. I saw what I had left there, scattered:
fragments of self-worth, sparks of joy, long silences,
and far too many apologies I never owed you.
Excuses and sacrifices you demanded, but never truly saw or heard.

I picked them up. One by one.
And I closed the door behind me — not violently, just firmly enough.
I didn’t run. I chose to leave.

That dream was the end.
The end of your guilt-tripping. The end of your mockery.
The end of control, of misunderstanding, of reproaches,
of pressure, manipulation, perverse humiliations.
The end of my affection, my feelings, my devotion.
The end of our friendship. The end of my gratitude.

It wasn’t revenge.
It wasn’t even a breakup.
It was a return to existence.

Now, I walk without unnecessary weight.
I have come back to myself.
With my strength. My voice. My reclaimed identity —
the one you never knew how to love,
because it never needed you to exist.

24 aprilie 2025 la 13:54

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complex, uneori calculat.