***
The pulchritude
will fill me
with celestial
earth
no one
has ever fought for her ‒
in the sockets
of stone of the Greek
goddesses,
the lizards made their nests.
The
complete happiness no longer flickers.
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***
The
infinity pervades you
the full
moon saves you
in a guerrilla
war against the sleep.
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***
People
are perverted
you’re
not surprised at all
out of
the cellars and on the paths
wild
beasts are watching
blind
cannibals stay together
to set it
for a crime the devil
lets the
gloomy bad luck burn
Oh, cheerful
country, how crippled
your life is and you have no age.
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***
Devastated
by loneliness
my souls
runs to a desert
of the agglutinated
solitude
he
makes me feel the thirst
for the
first raindrops more
acutely
than the sand ‒
I look
over the child
who I
was at another time
among
splendid temples
of
which only fragments
remain
among pieces of trash
and wild plants.
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On the
ruins and on the tombs
the flowers
sway like some flags
measure
of all things the man
sad
measure was thrown in chains
in
silence, in death, by a power
that
changed nothing but the stage.
Nonetheless
no friendly hand
stretches
forth even the dinosaur
from
inside the man asks for help
and he
doesn’t know where to search for it.
The
Maker breathed us out in front
of poisonous
steam as it seems
so that
He incite us in crime. We should
have
been lied to! Should the mercy
have
been the source of death, should
we have
been fed on lie? Then the forgiveness
then
the oblivion. And let’s set out
on the
path of the serpent. The new
hour is
on the point of blowing up
like a nuclear
bomb in her silence
all the
gnashing of teeth, the whistles
of the
fire and of the artillery shells,
the plague-stricken
sobs calm down.
All the
memories fall apart, the acts
of
repentance the acts of revenge run away.
The fizz
of the nuclear bomb fills the bones
with fear as if we haven’t always relied on this.
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***
Death
does justice in this world
she doesn’t
absolve anyone
the victims
also die, the executioners
and the
judges and the sinners die too,
the ill
and their physicians, the defrauded
and the
swindlers die too, the emperors
and
their subjects die too ‒ thus is in this world
and certainly thus is in the other one, too
and in the best possibility that will come
here on earth in case she comes just as believe
the ones who believe that any world is invented for them.
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Protosauruses
hatched in the swamps
of the
big mosquitoes came from the East
they
shared our bodies among them
and ate
them with vodka, they shared
among
them everything: the greediness,
a loaf
of bread and the rain they shared
the
guilt, the wine, the animals, the refusal
and the
night, always the postponements
so they
not kill us all at once they installed
the
loneliness, they shared the crime
they
installed two scourges: the Bolshevik
inquisition
and the Soviet society that don’t
leave the
least hope for the man and the humans
divide
into segments as do the worms
and their
eyes pop out of the sockets
like
some snails out of the shell
and
among all the noises of the universe
you no
longer hear anything but the drops
of
water trickling down the walls and down
your
bloody flesh. Today too, these Bolshevik
reptiles
make the sky no longer exist, make
the sea
no longer exist, make the earth
and the
trees and the grass no longer exist
but
only the crime and the cold stone of grotto;
they
make humans no longer exist except
for you
yourself and your executioner
with his jowl full of flesh, the suffering and the death.
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Au venit din Răsărit protozauri
clociți în mlaștinile țânțarilor mari
au împărțit trupurile noastre între ei
și le-au mâncat cu vodcă, au împărțit
între ei totul lăcomia, o pâine și ploaia
au împărțit vina, vinul, animalele
refuzul și noaptea, mereu amânările
ca să nu ne omoare dintr-o dată
au instalat singurătatea, au împărțit
crima au instalat două flageluri:
inchiziția bolșevică și societatea
sovietică care nu lasă omului nici
cea mai mică speranță și oamenii
se împart pe segmente ca viermii
și ochii le ies din orbite ca niște melci
din cochilie și dintre toate zgomotele
universului nu mai auzi decât picăturile
de apă prelingându-se pe pereți
și pe carnea ta însângerată. Fac și azi
aceste reptile bolșevice să nu mai existe
cer, să nu mai existe mare, să nu mai
existe pământ și arbori, și iarbă, ci numai
crimă și piatră rece de peșteră; să nu existe
oameni decât tu și călăul tău cu gușa
plină cu carne, suferința și moartea.
***
The
living night
vertical
is the star
the chance floats like a spectral lichen.
TO READ MY BOOK "CANTICLES I" PLS FOLLOW THIS LINK
***
I’m crawling slowly-slowly
and I can’t believe that all is real
and I can’t believe that nothing is real
from whence the salvation would come
I’m
passing away slowly-slowly
and I
never know where I am.
To read my book "Canticles I" pls follow this link https://a.co/d/06GN4Wu thx
***
The cannibals guided by the memory
of the dead laugh and flay
the slaves just as they’d peel an onion.
To read my book "Canticles I" pls follow this link
***
Hardly rotated by a game
the nudity of the danceress will fade away
under the harsh tongues of the effeminate.
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***
Nazismo-Yahweh, the Jewish pride
and the German pride together
pressing the Old Testament like some
grapes ‒ a long dream of a rare beauty,
the paradise spreading across mountain
landscapes where only the disaster dwells.
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Lenin is a Russian Yahweh
on the face of the mummy
is written The Old Testament ‒
his spirit blackens the walls ‒
that’s the indifference
nonetheless he sees the hours
passing empty.
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***
These frivolous monkeys
move like some cockroaches
across the surface of a bottle
some artificial obstacles
drive them mad
as does a Mongolian invasion.
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***
That nothing becomes existent
I immerse myself in that all
in soft, endless fall ‒ everything
is capitulation only the thirst for Truth
is sizzling.
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***
The ground under your feet escapes
you get poisoned in wandering ‒
the mystery kindles the heart of the night
there where the dew gets chiselled.
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***
Prior to the silence
before you were born
the angel wept.
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***
Hopes, cruel hopes
to you shall I return
mine is the shadow
that’ll watch over you ‒
life is fruitless ‒
a huge honey fungus
on a dry trunk.
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***
The false, maniacal,
ferocious, tight-fisted
scholars merchants
explaining texts
they transform
a body into a corpse
let’s re-find
the innocence let’s be destroyers
as were Attila
and Genghis Khan let’s blast
these useless insolent
critics that dirty
the works of
art, the Poetry. We must burn
them with the
fire of the idea. These cruel
exegetes dig the
national grave of the catastrophes.
They are some Negroes
full of old scab they lick
the shit from
Satan’s factory, animated by the fever
and the cancer
humble, they seem to be asking
to be boiled
in hot tar. The smartest thing is
that the
artist leave this stage.
***
The hideous
Balkan man
listening to a
Bach’s chorale ‒
in shame and
disgust
he hid in the
bed and pulled
the blanket
over his head
he shitted on
himself in bed
so he no
longer see the light ‒
at once he
morphed from an Orthodox
to an
anarchist.
