Butch - Pogany '31

Butch - Pogany '31
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Putine lucruri le rup tipare, culoare gasesc in cioburi...

Imi tot imaginez ca oamenii din lume-au disparut...

La fel cum eu o sa dispar in infinite incercari de a ma salva
La fel cum tu vei esua in infinite incercari de a scapa
Imagineaza-ti des ca suntem altceva..

Oglinzile dau sfaturi oarbe, d-aia n-arat ce vor sa vada
E ca si cum mi-as tine frica intr-o vaza.
Putine lucruri le rup tipare, culoare,
Gasesc in cioburi, le spal cand sunt murdare.
Vorbesc cu mine des despre distanta pana la fericita disperare
Si ma gasesc tragandu-ma de par, ca e exasperant de mare.
Imi tot imaginez ca oamenii din lume-au disparut
In infinite incercari de a ajunge toti pe soare,
La fel cum eu o sa dispar in infinite incercari de a ma salva,
La fel cum tu vei esua in infinite incercari de a scapa...
De-aia:
Imagineaza-ti des ca suntem altceva si nu doar vorbe.
Poate un timp am fi putut sa fim o cobza
Sa stam cuminti...sa stam cuminti...
In bratele lui Tudor Gheorghe, in bratele lui Tudor Gheorghe

Toate aveau un sens pe vremuri. au disparut si sensul si cuvintele acelui sens

In alta ai fi putut sa fi un nai in mana lui Zamfir
Un cersetor in ochii lui Nae Caramfil
Ai fi putut sa fi o piatra, si vezi in pielea ta
Brancusi sa isi infiga dalta, dar nu in asta, in altaa


In asta totul e drept si se loveste de pereti,
Ca sunetul inalt pe care nu-l percepi.
In alta am fi putut sa fim poeti,
In asta suntem doar beti, irelevanti, incoerenti.
Pricepi ceva din asta ?
In alta primesti povesti, flori de cires
Si stai la masa lui Caragiale
Si il privesti fara sa indraznesti sa ii vorbesti.
In asta te chinui noaptea sa atipesti,
In alta sunt zane bune si struguri mai copti
Bacovia e beat in alta.
In asta, e plin de politicieni si porci
Si nesimtiti si hoti
In asta devii satul de tine,
Cum eu devin satul de rime
Cand tot ce scriu nu intelege nimeni

tu oare vezi asta de 6 ori pe saptamana ?

raku - mi-e de-ajuns
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Diminetele pe fete le vezi catusele
Ascultand "Atentie se inchid usile"
Cautandu-si fericirea aproape cu ochii inchisi
Cat de tare li se pare zdreanta de la pagina 5
O bucata de branza la pranz impartita in cinci insi
O vodca la un salariu si o pereche veche de jeansi
C-asa-i viata la oras, dai la faras sau perii
Dedicat la toti baietii de cartierul Primaverii.
Pune ca Toma Caragiu pe al tau schelet un nume
Vei simti o lume de pume stand la panda sa il darame
Atente la tzoalele tale si la stema de la masina
Iti arata respect,chipurile, ca damele de rutina
Pace celor care-s de vina ca inca primim lumina
Stima miscarii underground si muncitorilor din mina.
Fericire celui ce mereu la Dumnezeu sa inchina
Ca viata cate ii urca in carca niciodata nu il inclina.

nu-mi spune tu !

am nevoie de liniste, nu de linistea in care nu auzi musca, ci de linistea aia in care mustele nu-ti bat la usa la fiecare juma' de ora, linistea definita de telefonul meu in offline sau de portofelul meu fara bani.
saturat sa fiu pus in lumina ca o parcare goala, unde gloata priveste; si gloata judeca; judeca stramb, fin'ca luata ca o entitate, nicio multime nu depaste 70% din ce-ar putea fi fiecare individ luat in parte.
separat de factorii ce-mi disturba mediul, aici imi gasesc eu calmul, asta mi-e sediul. eu nu doar tai si spanzur, separ organe, fac ritualuri, totul in randuri, dezintegrez apoi le planuiesc, construiesc, finisez deci recreez. asa ma recreez.
vezi, ironic, nu platesc niciun pret, castig cand scriu, castig si cand citesc.nu fac uz de scuze si nu tai la cerberi frunze, dar uneori simti ca repeti pentru pereti si asta te face sa te lasi, dar astepti, apoi continui cu pasi drepti...

"This life was so close to never happening"

"We'll drive. Keep driving. Head out to the middle of nowhere, take that road as far as it takes us. You've never been west of Philly, have ya? This is a beautiful country Monty, it's beautiful out there, like a different world. Mountains, hills, cows, farms, and white churches. I drove out west with your mother one time, before you was born. Brooklyn to the Pacific in three days. Just enough money for gas, sandwiches, and coffee, but we made it. Every man, woman, and child alive should see the desert one time before they die. Nothin' at all for miles around. Nothin' but sand and rocks and cactus and blue sky. Not a soul in sight. No sirens. No car alarms. Nobody honkin' atcha. No madmen cursin' or pissin' in the streets. You find the silence out there, you find the peace. You can find God. So we drive west, keep driving till we find a nice little town. These towns out in the desert, you know why they got there? People wanted to get way from somewhere else. The desert's for startin' over. Find a bar and I'll buy us drinks. I haven't had a drink in two years, but I'll have one with you, one last whisky with my boy. Take our time with it, taste the barley, let it linger. And then I'll go. I'll tell you dont ever write me, dont ever visit, I'll tell you I believe in God's kingdom and I'll see you and your mother again, but not in this lifetime. You'll get a job somewhere, a job that pays cash, a boss who doesn't ask questions, and you make a new life and you never come back. Monty, people like you, it's a gift, you'll make friends wherever you go. You're going to work hard, you're going to keep your head down and your mouth shut. You're going to make yourself a new home out there. You're a New Yorker, that won't ever change. You got New York in your bones. Spend the rest of your life out west but you're still a New Yorker. You'll miss your friends, you'll miss your dog, but you're strong. You got your mother backbone in you, you're strong like she was. You find the right people, and you get yourself papers, a drivers license. You forget your old life, you can't come back, you can't call, you can't write. You never look back. You make a new life for yourself and you live it, you hear me? You live your live the way it should have been. But maybe, this is dangerous, but maybe after a few years you send word to Naturelle. You get yourself a new family and you raise them right, you hear me? Give them a good life Monty. Give them what they need. You have a son, maybe you name him James, it's a good strong name, and maybe one day years from now years after im dead and gone reunited with your dear ma, you gather your whole family around and tell them the truth, who you are, where you come from, you tell them the whole story. Then you ask them if they know how lucky there are to be there. It all came so close to never happening. This life came so close to never happening."

"Champagne for my real friends, and real pain for my sham friends."

"Well, fuck you, too. Fuck me, fuck you, fuck this whole city and everyone in it. Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. Fuck the squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job! Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores, stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN! Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from! Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gekko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for FUCKING LIFE! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Worldcom! Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, 'cause they make the Puerto Ricans look good. Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St. Anthony medallions, swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos. Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermes scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take five steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on! Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin' Otisville, J! Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Al Qaeda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fuel fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal Irish ass! Fuck Jacob Elinsky, whining malcontent. Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass. Fuck Naturelle Riviera, I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back, sold me up the river, fucking bitch. Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar sipping on club sodas, selling whisky to firemen, cheering the Bronx bombers. Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row-houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue, from the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split-levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it, let the fires rage, let it burn to fucking ash and then let the waters rise and submerge this whole rat-infested place.
No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all, and you threw it away, you dumb fuck!"

"mana intinsa care nu spune o poveste nu primeste pomana"

SDST - Skit
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"casca bine ochii ! asta-i orasu-n care traiesti. de-aici se vede perfect, mai bine decat de pe intern. vezi cati "nimeni" trec pe strada ? milioane de "nimeni"..cand ai venit la mine cu fata asta de nimeni in proza, ce mi-am zis eu...mi-am zis: baiatu' asta vrea sa fie cineva, baiatu' asta vrea sa invete meserie. exista 3 meserii de baza pe lumea asta: bogatia, saracia si sexu'. din oricare castigi o paine, dar din dragoste si din scris, mori de foame ma idiotule."

"Football is like chess, only without the dice"

cica a dat o ploicica mica intr-o dimineata acu' vreo 2 zile si de-aia-i asa racoare. bine, nu e racoare, da' macar nu mai e ca'n Riddick, cand ti se vaporiza berea-n pahar. pe mine m-a mancat in siret sa ies la fotbal asa ca m-am echipat si am taiat-o spre multy facility sport base aka curtea scolii. dupa ce-am dat de 2 ori mingea-n boscheti si a trebuit sa alerg dupa ea sa n-o pape balauru' vecinului, am zis ca nu-mi mai trebuie.
obosit, spasit, sleit in drum spre casa, mi-am adus aminte de vremurile alea cand eram angajat full time in curtea scolii, iar seara pe tv, zbang meciuri-faze-goluri. asta era inainte de a fi cocalarizat fotbalul, inainte de era aluia cu miros de urda care ii pateaza fata ca cea mai ieftina pudra...

asta-i unu din golurile mele preferate all time: