e-revista EgoPHobia - ISSN 1584-6210
by Lucian Mareș Truth I know the truth. Truth is unique, complete, undivided. And you are not part of it. Because your destiny is not here, not now. Your truth is somewhere in the future. The truth is a moral law given by precise knowledge of reality, and reality is only past, only history. Truth […]
Adriana Boagiu is a poet whose lines carry a wordy town into flowery flurries of memory and eroticism, both ingenuous and insidious. Her sound skinning sonnets know how to allure and kill softly, while her irregular-iambic-pentameter or vers libre riffs shake and caress with mixed mercilessness and affection. I am happy to greet her shrewd […]
by Patrick Călinescu When she had tried to smile back at me, her lips creeping on her face skin stopped her short. Unable to sketch the least outlined lip curvature, she just nodded her incapacity into a final shrug.
by Alexandra Claudia Manta Languidly, I squeeze ink from my wrath. Purple ink covers these soul-peels like little fractal veins circulating my unloaded anger. My moth-mouth stares at daylight wide open, burnt by the unexpected gift of foreseeing. I am legion, but I am squandered. Split I am by your eye blink, and unlocked to […]
by Alexandra Claudia Manta Lately I’ve been thinking at some linguistic operations such as substitution, permutation, and at underlining and the use of block letters in written communication. I and Myself. I within Myself. I whom I see in that which I see you see. Is reality merely a question of vision and point of […]
by Marius Surleac I run over the seas and dive in the skylines burnt by the fires of hell the night that will come with all its whispers will embrace us
by Marius Surleac today dig under me with your bare hands until you’ll pass the ribs you’ll lose half of your soul the blood will spread over the knees and within hair, emotions will be gripped
by Marius Surleac rest your wounds in my shelter tomorrow when I’ll have to die you shall give me a kiss
by Marius Surleac through dice the six-shooter gleams at the burnt end of the bullet at the other end, like in a comet tale, blood spheres
by Marius Surleac hell is beyond the grey blocks – the desert where no human skeletons resisted to erosion, but became part of