În această Tartarie caravlahă
încât nu e ochi de lumină
în acest cazan totul e întinat,
totul e atroce parcă dinadins,
începând de la huni până
la pecenegii de azi hoardele
mongole strigă în noapte:
Atenție! Acolo e răul. Hoarda
predestinată pentru orbire
reprezentând canibalul etern
ca să-i râdă lui Hristos în față
ațâțați de muște și de țigani.
Nu să există la ei nicio rădăcină
aceleași lucruri vociferate.
M. Eminescu n-a scris decât o singură poezie bună, antologică ”Somnoroase
păsărele” și nu îi ieșea atât de bună dacă n-ar fi scris-o după una similară a
lui W.I. Goethe.
And I enter the bastion of the members
of parliament built and planned according
to the dimensions of the temple from Jerusalem
from the Bible a vast hall like a huge cave.
Here the beings move simultaneously covering
the thousand-year-old distance from the crocodile
to the gorilla and every view goes into a decline
every sound falls silent for a split second as behind
a big screen you get airplane ear, your ears are
ringing ‒ the male and female individuals
that come one after another must and bear
a despicable thing just as they bear a disability
at peak time they all become crocodiles and they
woo each other hitting each other with the tail
from behind under the knee and they laugh
thievishly. “Let’s take revenge on them, you stupid!”
the speaker speaks with an uvular R, “let’s rejoice,
the money is ours, the food, the soft flesh are ours.
All those violent whom we didn’t disfigure let them
rot in jail! There is the same amount of reproofs
that I administer to myself and that poison
my existence. And yet we must make them
thousands and thousands of hard laws we must
impose thousands and thousands of taxes on them
we must break the napes of their bulls’ necks!...”
And he puffs away at his cigar, as tall as a rain maker.
“What profundity and what brilliance!” she licks him
with her tongue a whore who says that in the evening
she went to bed healthy and in the morning
she woke up dead. “You are some humorists,
circus performers!” howls a smaller, swarthier
crocodile and then they begin to babble all at once
and those 600 monsters in hubbub full of unhappiness
they increase the pain in the air, they increase the pain
in the world ‒ they are all the same colour grey
without shades ‒ she increases by seven seconds
per second with every step of ant and the nature
of the pain is a triple, cubic nature and the condition
of a martyr, you carnivorous, voracious, insatiable
crocodile is an infernal pain and the function
of reptile is doubly painful and the wealth grabbed
hurts us three times, annihilates us ‒ never have these
vipers dreamed of human humans, they always put
suffering in their wallet, in their glass, in their food
in their butcher’s shop, in the electronic tablet
of their children, and they appear and weep like
some poor mommies, never with so much painful
gentleness in the voice never with such a proximate
assault of the hunger on the throat, never have they
played the part of a macaque getting out of the skin
of crocodile ‒ and thus nor was death more lethal
than death even the furniture, the kitchen cupboards,
in their drawer they didn’t find so much ground pain
so much hunger and the crocodiles from the parliament
start the game again this time morphed by the pain
into chameleons. And what eyes they have! And they
still see the crucified bread, the bloody flesh
and the chameleons are sad as far as the crop.
***
And she darted a last look at me
a sum of all her looks ‒, cheerful,
tired, ardent, empty, vivacious,
orphaned, melancholic, altruistic,
nunlike, libertine, lucky, unhappy,
dead eyes. She blinked a few times
dreamily and she told me so,
“Don’t cry for me, a bird sings
this simple life on a branch
and our hell rejoices again
our sufferings are wind
and the stars hear tell of them.”
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***
The voice of the songstress
filled the universe:
Lord, take care of me!
And yet who takes care of me?
A wave of laughs flooded her.
She fell asleep like a humiliated,
smitten, derided lioness
with the sweet dozing
of the exhaustion in a desert of gold
with all the worlds that she experienced
successively, with her art, with her spirit
with her bitter emotion.
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***
And again begins the suffering
and our hell close to the earth
rejoices, so much despicable
fate drives you crazy, the world
stretched like a deserted stage
she was made of stone, the soul
found another place, he was
with snow and night.
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***
Over the woods burnt to a cinder
black roosters
sing the death and the resurrection.
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***
The wave of words knocks against the rocks
I fly beyond the limits of life to an everlastingly
new life in these houses out of luck wherein
you’re not permitted to ululate and quartered
all, the secret knowledge, celebration in the void
fountain of my living, unendurable death
and the wave of silence wherein you quickly
immersed yourself in the foam barely touched
by your step.
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***
I’m severe, I’m gentle
a grain of star, a blade of sky
a lonely seed in a huge whirl
of wild wounds and I spit it all
on the face of tomorrow’s martyrs.
I forget it all with women and flowers.
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***
Touching love’s Aeolian hands
I run after people’s misfortune
a breath hardly keeps the mirror of my flight.
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Man is purpose of himself
all that one tries for everyone’s
good is doomed to failure,
the saint and the assassin
are a speck of dust that proves
life’s strange idea she hits
both blood and vision.
The idiotic sceptic urges you
to totally retreat and to play
your game because he’s
the only one, a single
game, always the same one.
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***
You don’t know me, you don’t know me
the soul writhes totally involved in this game
against the stream however the eyes dream on
of other pleasures stronger than the poison.
You fall into routine. What are you thinking
about, wrapped in your impotent thoughts?
My blushing, pouting cunt greets you strangely
sweet. You languish lanky like a dog on a leash
of some foreign powers and you feel small
and insignificant tormented by sufferings,
robotic confusion. No repentance comes
crashing down on you. He snarled, whimpered
and caressed her big toe with his mouth.
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***
The petals’ detachment
from the trees in blossom
at deserted sunrise
the soul settles on the ruins of Troy.
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***
Stars and trees in blossom
caress each other in loneliness ‒
the loved one is absent.
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***
The profaned sepulchre:
the crucifixion, pincers
that grasp God.
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***
A word in expectation
the sea caressed him before nightfall ‒
you don’t know how he started up.
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***
Now the serene one has come back
the furtive creatures, too, that have become
new, a hardly visible, grey cuckoo
traverses the sight, he arouses a long
shiver within us as does the echo
of his heartbreaking song the bells
are ringing for the Vesperal Mass
and I’m listening to them with great gentleness.
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***
The Sacred Cross be light to me
not the dragon be duke to me ‒
go back, Satan; ‒ there are innumerable
dawns that haven’t yet twinkled ‒
make us see them, Lord. A single
pleasure exists, that of being alive
all the rest is misery. Not to expect
anything is horrible. The world is
unchanged, the time always elapses
you were rising once and you’ll set
some day. The precarious step
is the most audacious there where
the mind can’t follow him except in death.
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***
In the silent distance
the water is of lead at source
I wouldn’t know how to slip
completely under waters,
the main thing accompanies me.
The grass is of nails.
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***
I have my house built in the wind
next to a windmill
that gyrates in the wind as does the sea.
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***
The longing to die
attracts hands that tremble in the air
a god laughs like a child ‒ you no longer
have poise of mind in time ‒ you’re
no longer afraid, no one judges you.
Nothing can console us for death.
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***
The moonbeams enshroud the bed
on the skin of the girl silver frost.
I wrote in Chinese ink, “I love you”
the Dauphin keeps her in the handbag
wearing the imprint of the dolour.
It happens that she be also happy.
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***
The moon trembles
I watch her, I listen to the noise of the waterfall
forgetting any thought, the sand.
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***
The morality kills the immorality kills
only the inferno is a good, fertile ground
over there exists what the eye didn’t see
and the ear didn’t hear and the hand
didn’t touch and what wasn’t born
in the heart of the man ‒ over there
is the fire, the sword, the war that cleanses
him of the rust. To live in him means to verify.
Over there we begin with not loving anyone,
then we love all the beings that populate him
after that we no longer love anyone but a few,
then a single one and then the only one ‒
don’t ye hesitate anymore ‒ behind, a huge
crowd that marches untiringly to a pit
whereinto they will all fall pell-mell, pushed
by a new crowd from behind, which, for her part,
pushes they are disappointed but they seem
to be happy. Over there it’s cold.
The humanity is a word like an ulcer in the anus
all speak of her with embarrassment, with wrath
and rage the brutality is the jealous god, all adore
her, plan her, set her in systems although she is
the anarchy herself. The brutality fulfils their lusts,
she’s voluptuous, she brings wealth money
and satisfaction she’s a cosmic fuck with a cosmic
orgasm and the massacres no longer stop for her
they invented the most terrible bombs, they organized
invincible armies ‒ in today’s wars prisoners
or wounded no longer exist, but only charred flesh
one thinks evilly nonetheless the creature called human
will perish for sure, there is no return journey
from this killer progress, although mercy exists
for everyone, no one expects anything the ulcer
in the anus swells like a balloon a horror Harhar
philosophizes, “The women are a hostile people
just like the German people. These nasty little
bitches bring the end. A single pleasure exists,
that of being alive and of exterminating the ones
who have an ulcer in the anus, the humanists.
All the rest is misery.”
What is Nirvana? What is The Truth?
Buddha doesn’t answer, nor does Pilate
Receive an answer about the kingdom –
The purple sky between twilight and night
Suggests to you, doesn’t strengthen you
In nothing but faith: what you believe is real,
Fragments of life raise you up in the air
As a horse that waits about in the rain;
The reality is what you think, what you feel
But a bird comes and her rustling erases
The reality, the secret disperses the useless
Side of our being; the word abandons the white,
The ink as spread as a cloud on the page
Remains imagining another cloud.
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***
All the errors
are equal
you feed on
light
you feel the
meridian power
of ascension awakening
within yourself
the descent, the wing, the ascent.
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***
The sky is
hollowed out
your mouth is
thrust
your hip mixes
together the seasons
and the huge sunflower
strips.
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***
I see the fossil
and the chalk
the white of
the eyes that gyrates
in her hand a
red flower that opens
that multiplies
on undulating expanses
with white
flowers, with strawberries
of gold she
remains like a stagnant tide.
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Black people castrated, hanged, lynched
as some poor frogs of the history
of the United States. Did God decide so?
God didn’t stop at all the criminal arm
of the white Abraham when this one
thrust his dagger into the belly of his
son Isaac, the black one. The blast
of madness that animates the crime
between the races you can’t imagine
that it comes from a Jew agent
who poses as God. I don’t believe
in God so much, I don’t think He left
us on earth so that we be a nothing
although that’s what the Gypsies show us.
The cause of all the massacres
lies in the race, the races form
a genetic chain as indestructible
as the DNA and the time departs
from him like rains from beyond
the world, let venomous rains
slip through demented azure
on the ill expanse of the conscience ‒
no one can see himself just as he is
except if he sees himself from the outside,
broken away from the human species,
completely alienated, stigmatized, alone
among his fellow men. That's why a race
shouts at another race: "You cunt
in fucking cunt!" and that’s why the Russians
and the Ukrainians want to butcher
the Moldovans all the Moldovans
and the Georgians the Americans
want to butcher all the black people
and the Mexicans all of them at a stroke
the Jews want to annihilate all their
brothers Arabs at one sweep like some
shitty flies the yellow Chinese
shout, “Shut the fuck up, you whores
you don’t have any drop of Chinese
wisdom ‒ they are all Chinese.”
