EZRA POUND

 

EZRA POUND                       BY VLAD NEAGOE

 

Here is the predicament, lo, I have reached

the shore in an end and in a commencement

in a point as in a black sun that clods under

the feet. And yet here my wind blows,

the wind of the glossy eyes traversing night

by night all the parts of the world bringing

me the void unto void flowing steadfastly

from wound to wound passing through

transparencies into the eternity the same

winds, the same rivers the same light falling

from the nothingness on the grass of gold,

into the eyes of the world with my lost

worlds, retinue of flags in tatters. Now

I am thrown like an opossum on the heated

asphalt, I would complain to the death, to

the barking star, resigned, I listen to my own

voice that comes undone in the universe

filling the hearing of a whole continent,

it penetrates the hearing of the poor in spirit

gathered around the cage as at the menagerie

to see me how I stay recumbent like a killer

in heavy trembles – no trumpet makes their

joy collapse!  They say: look! A rare beast

you should shiver with the way he talks

vanities to himself never to some curious

people out of pain; I’ve lost a cart of heavy

years to tame the Luminous Sound, to teach

the neophytes the usage of the words, to make

them love the nuance, the ineffable, an airy

untouchable wall so that they should be fine

explorers of the Spirit, they should catch

the echo of the Truth alone in the mysterious

surge of the soul so the providence should

get to winnow them in her own riverbed.

And here I am lying down stooped behind

bars in the suffocating air without a water

droplet while the consciousness slips like

a thief into the New Order a serpent of silver

ascending like a desire to the Self, strangely

it seems that even now my season laden with

gold has arrived. It’s been years since I’ve

written fulminating poems I’ve translated

from a multitude of languages so that I should

make all the centuries present in a point

through them, making out through them

the future landscape of the world moving

towards the huge mirrors of the enlightened

night, an immense duty polished in the mind

by the spirit like a huge seashell by the waves

it’s been years since then and I’m still trying

to bring the perfect art of expression of the senses

so the rhythmical illumination should freely

fall into our souls, the meaning of

the accomplishments into the Unique

Consciousness, the Complete Spirit

and to situate my dear ideas in a continuous

flux I’ve built a front of living images that

fight, breathe and talk in the dreams as

all the symbols of the nature talk images

far more real than any realness through

which the pure music penetrates, the Love,

the Immolation, the aired blood of the martyrs

advance for the rest everything is delusion

and again delusion so that you should only

be able to fill your mouth with insects, with

gossamer floating in the moving air with

tempests at the time of great misfortunes

so that tomorrow if I pass away the world

will become blind in the desert. Therefore

les us ascend, immortal soul of mine:

the night has weighed on us, heavy garment,

in the vultures: so many are flying through

our mountains, let us ascend, let us ascend,

you soul without cease with all the treasures

that flow through us, without caring about

the house, let us tear her away from the heart

like a mask, going through customs of the sky

floating amongst the huge struggles of the skies,

under the wings of the flight himself, amongst

sharp beaks and claw hooks, amongst the feathers

torn-out in the scuffles and carried by the wind,

amongst my dear eagles, now you should let

yourself be carried by the great streams, you

should put an end to everything and you should

nestle yourself in the purest abode in the third

unique shell-shaped Word smouldering in the fire

of the tranquillity like a flash of lightning petrified

in the flesh and in the blood, on the crest

of the century a miracle: I am no longer as in times

past on the luminous road where I was playing

and where my mother, friends, the dogs and

the pussies in the district were searching for me

to cosset me to assuage my wounds, to wash

my face with milk: now I see behind only

downfall, collapses of lights, outbreaks of

marshes that swallow my traces like the sound

of the horologe in the deep night. I am convinced

as the nature is convinced of the minerals that

I stay here and not of my own free will,

in the centre of the world, hanging by a hair

as if an entire world had expected me to fall

in this place like a necessary illness, they should

have adored me, should have paid me like a king

so that I should turn on the Lights of the New

World for them, which is to come and She is

coming because I see her, but at first let me

light a cigarette near this yellow flower that

trembles in agony near the black cage that

enters my bones with the shadow of

the latticework under the breath of the exhaust

gases. Here I am drawn out of the great river

that is not seen amongst us, arrested and dragged

like a serial killer in Las Vegas of the bestial tortures:

you should only think how the world changes

ceaselessly only to be able to contemplate your

fate, but why must such a merciless simulacrum

have happened precisely to me? For the words

softly uttered that appeased the war? In order

for me to deny what I do not know? In order for

me to bring back what I missed dominating?

In order for me to oblige myself to touch what

does not belong to me? On the long road of

the regrets that I abandoned out of conviction

after midnight. And look! An infinite wall

of mist has been drawn in front of me like

an invisible, venomous flow: I no longer see

America, I no longer see Europe, nor do I see

Romania anymore, the dream of our airmen

and of our poets about salving their chapped

lips with a droplet of holiness, I no longer hear

the president Truman having a pee while singing,

because inside me and in the distance the eternal,

delicate engraving, JAPAN is shining in sharp

lines, in great detail! Don’t worry I say again

to my soul: all of them will obey you: the New

Order is not a flat, hasty formula a lie hidden

in the smoke because it is thought of down

to the smallest detail, it is perfect like the Word-Egg

himself in full sacrifice. The lookyloos, the dervishes

the starving lumpenproletariat dream about stars

and sex through our eyes – it’s offensive! Their

cruelty creates a baneful responsibility, they lead

us to destruction, to the marsh, to the abyss.  My

being launches flame, the whirl of the war is calling,

my wrathful brain does not come to an end, has

no end, has no limits, he has hot core: he always

begets the New World Order and she shows herself

only through him, her images are hemmed with red

on the horizon, the world leaps on another axis

in deep change, my blood brings her in waves.

Bugles resound from those four corners, from those

four towers at the end of the world, she propagates

uninterruptedly through silences as during a chat

with attentive, grimacing faces: policemen in disguise,

soldiers, dictators, bigoted women, organ-grinders,

children, cops, idiots, conjurers, hunchbacks,

the abomination of desolation herself in the new

light of the boundlessness enshrouding our boundless

houses, of the hot or rancid hearts shrinking

with fears. Here she is, verily I say unto you,

she comes, she comes, she comes unflinchingly,

Pharisees coming out of the Pharisees seventy

times seven cannot dispute her because she never

ends. And it’s natural for her to come because

we have all become far too cautious, too resigned,

peevish, petty, half-witted, without any drop

of doubt, without inclination towards sacrifice,

look! Even now a whore is singing to my head

and she is very sexy, deploring my heinous fate

whereas I lean on the Image, she is the only real

thing, like a stigma of the progress. Only now

does her song make me discover the borders

of my loneliness, I the most open individual

to world, Dr Loomis Ezra Pound, the greatest

and the oldest aristocrat of the spirit and of

the incorrupt blood let his works be perfect! –

as testimony stands the shining effigy of a god

of the ancestor imprinted on the one hundred-dollar

bill, I now accused of high treason by the henchmen

of the greed, by the federal Tribunal of the imperialists

I stay here up until new orders in the disciplinary

military camp under strict surveillance, without

any favourable treatment, spat by anybody!  

Hallo! Great world can you hear me?

“Whom do you want to speak with, mister? Ahem,

ahem!” I want to speak with the birds, to speak

with the beasts so they should understand me,

with the moist earth because he is wise, with

the leaves of the red maples because they store

up my childhood, with the sky as swollen as

a belly covered in blood, with the divine Image:

only I live day by day with the arrogant and

sharp-tongued guards between the pornography

and filthy swearwords like a stinking carrion

on my feet, spat with stupid, wretched words

always pushed towards the chasm between

the bars through the quiver of the sentiments

of death. The poison is rarely dripping her big

droplets, the hope retires without any colour

to the round and smooth nests of the indifference

a web of spiders is slowly falling over the mouth

and is perfidiously penetrating the bone marrow

and in the heavy night only a strange apparition

passes by the cage with the lit cigar, he is a general

who likes to see an intelligent beast in the cage,

he salivates for pleasure when he walks to and fro

like a shadow watching me out of the corner of

his eye without any question, in his lifeless eyes

a cruel condemnation glitters, his brown hands

roll the cigar in oblivion, he passes as in a ritual

and climbs my brains, he knocks on my hard

temple, his muffled acid swearwords spread

across the meninges, they peel my skin, my

muscles off the bones, he fishes my loves out

of the blood with the watching black eye

from the foliage of the sequoia, he listens

foolishly to the opinions of the folly that are

not my strong point by noon of the hot day

laden with dust, rumble, choking smoke

enveloping my cage, the gloominess of

the anxieties that hangs over it like a yellow

cloud. It may be hard to get yet another life,

but I think oftener and oftener about

the reincarnation the present one is destroyed

like a poor wreck and I’m still thinking:

still the best thing that can happen to a poet

is to be hanged for the glory of the hypocritical

times, yes it is, set fire to me, yes it is! Tan my

skin exposed to all types of bad weather: yes

it is day and night you shall put the stinging

reflectors on my eyes, while the trained soldiers

do evil deliberately get nasty with their verdigrised

mind, they do it in a continuous flight of ideas

they do it between having a scratch in the nose

and having a scratch in the ass, smoking cigarette

after cigarette, spitting on me when they pass 

sniggering by my face towards the privy and

then in my mind she occurs the way she passes

from among hundreds of cats the soaking wet

grey Chartreux cat traversing the heavy garden

after the rain. She is warm I remember how I

clasped her to my chest, her strange name hardly

crosses my mind, probably her name was

Lelia-Nova. I feel exhausted, I am going into free

fall only the thought that there is always something

even worse consoles me, something uninterruptible

I should remain silent, I say to myself, you will not

name the henchmen, lo, the turning point! Everything

consists in getting to the turning point, as soon as

possible, I, the Poet, the weakling, pariah and

paranoia with the daily bread, the water and

love who in her own name from the soul calls

the New Order, Amen. His intimate substance

goes out on his skin, extends like a bright red

wound leaving scaly burns on the edges:

in his mind he perfects his Image always

the evoked one, born out of his being, an entity

that he completes with the description, with

words from the Word, he feels responsible

for his vanity, for the vanity of world’s

insemination with ideas grown in the test tubes,

in the shallow-pates, in the homunculi – an insect

with the sting as long as a spear that breaks

the carapace of the love, of the pistil of truth

penetrating through the fissures of the silence,

always fugitive, sitting like a king upon a lotus

flower Confucius inside him smiles, trembles

next to The Grand Inquisitor who washes himself

before his own auto-da-fé, becoming entangled

in the light smoke amidst the barbed wire that

surrounds the barracks, as from the colours

of the non-being a spring of blue sparks broke

out, he said melancholically to himself: these

are neon lamps with acetylene, these are lights

that illuminate the way of the Angel of Death

the henchmen will mockingly strengthen

the bars of the cage, they know well that my

hands cannot break them, an act of defiance

against the human fragility! And who, Lord,

can give me the freshness of the yesterdays?

Who comes will he heal this deep wound

into which they fired in plenty with all

the cannons without the slightest hesitation?

Who will sink me again into the murmur

of the endless Being? What should I do?

To whom should I complain? Should I write

to Stalin? I don’t know his language. Should

I address a beautiful report to Adolf Hitler?

He burnt like a candle. Should I disturb

the duke Mussolini, the embodiment of Caesar?

Where may he be now, my dear fellow?

Should I write to the paralytic Roosevelt?

What does this one know about the man

and the loyalty? Ezra Pound asked himself

with his face stuck to the bars, placid sunk

in thought although he knew the order

having come from outside, “Nobody shall

approach this beast, nobody shall permit

him no word, nor shall the shadows dear

to him pass over here, everything shall be

erased, kept under constant surveillance!!!”

The beard as red as fire, formerly shining

turned scanty and yellowish, he weeps 

furtively coiled up in a corner of the cage,

he looks like a hooked sign of the death

at the menagerie like a smouldering

lump of coal whereon someone has just

spat and it’s still sizzling this is how

the stench of the time looks like in

the dust and the steam, his eyes were

drying, his brains were drying, his limbs

were drying too: they were mummifying

him alive and holy verses will be written

on his skin, the hope deeply rooted in him

will be shaved with a bayonet with the blunt

blade he projects testamentary shadows onto

the crouching sour sky, he opened his mouth

once, twice but he uttered no word, only

a mute voice propagates in the ether, “I am

convinced, I am far better than they...”

The voice clings to his chimerical image,

but his face does not show itself neither

here nor elsewhere it grows dark beneath

the wall of stone and the last verse falls

into the profundity as disillusioned,

silent as a gleam. From now on I can be

united with myself, with the obstinate

Ego as adamant as a tide with the shadows

of the night burning over the rooftop

of the world. Your precious Image will fall

too like a tattered flag at half-mast --,

a simple death for the rest – nothing.

No, no, no, it’s not that not these ones

represent me, ah, but the cage, but

the beast, but the new order are real,

are pure, tangible spirit, are the thing

that hatches me up in the sun, in the smoke,

the terrible ideas whirl me, the New Order

is because she exists, the New Order is

and comes to make up the ideal social

system in harmony with the sea, with

the mount, with the spirit, only the New

Order shows herself eternal, immortal

she will wash the lard and the dampness

off the flesh and bones in her bosom she

brings us diamonds, sublime elevations,

she will penetrate into your heads like

an oily layer coming wave after wave:

the hoops and the staves of your pates

full of prejudices will burst, only I see

the endemic place in the four corners

of the world with four persons, four

colossi who clasp the world in their

arms and the world doesn’t see them,

doesn’t know them doesn’t hear them

by chance, they are like some children

and in their folly they discover the great

resemblance between the pistil and

the caterwauling of the cat on heat.

The New Order, they teach us, is a belly

heated until the incandescence, cooled

by the wind in the beginning he is asleep

and glitters like a sequin on the islands

of Japan studded with shining violets.

Lo she comes! – Ah, she goes away again!

Together with the air of the morning, her

breath remains only on my immortal Image,

the Lord appointed me to keep the secret,

and lo now I got to be prison imprisoned

with her inside, the imperialists have no

intention of sparing me, the predestined

giants doesn’t listen to me; they cough:

the dust of the day chokes me, the asthma

drains my breath, only in some moments,

at night, I remember the heat of the women,

how much I wish I loved my executioners

then, I wish I inseminated their brains with

the idea of the New Order, without many

words, without love, as the end of the world

sometimes comes in the dreams, looking

into my eyes with a strange smile, the torturer

stands and weeps, I remain silent and hear him

summing up the mercy; and how shouldn’t you

die from laughter while the misfortune has

the taste of banana? I wanted a crown of laurels

for my people I left my bed of gold with soft

pillows, the splendour, I abandoned my noble

lineage, I descended into the sordid street,

in the gangway the choir of the heart united

in the glory of the Saint Lord was sounding,

the light was proceeding from there, the good

and evil steps, the shipwreck was coming from

behind, the stenches of the alarming feuds,

never the enthusiasm of the copulation. I took

to the road of the re-encounters, I scraped

the leech, the swamp and I passed to action

fixing the horologe of the immolation in heavy

trembles you should think: I voluptuously

sucked the pus of the people covered with

sores in my own world created by myself

of tragic successions: by the bed of the moribund

people I wept, I picked up their last wish, I gave

them the mug of water, the medicines, I polished

their tombstone, I ordered funeral wreaths and

pallbearers for them thinking on a poor murky

day, “Your turn will come, too. Don’t worry

your pretty little head about it, especially

because you see mustiness, the interminable,

annoying gangrene everywhere...” between

two and three constellations I collected clothes

for the poor, I gathered old things, I gave

the last farthing; I taught the young to write

well: the words should stand as moulded on

the front line, I gave education to the brilliant

people so they should not exhaust the spirit,

the tempestuous visions prematurely. Then

I cheered up the young ladies in the capital

cities, I kissed the lepers, I put a little bell

around my neck like them sounding it through

the gangways, in the cafes my bright red beard

was the delight of the lachrymose widows,

of the lusts that lust after something easily,

I was roaming about with patched-up greasy

blue jeans, with the unbuttoned shirt, with

the zipper turned shameless by ravenous evil

eyes, with a diamond earring in a ear like

a Buddhist monk I was running on all the streets

and where the need set the seal I was present:

I explained to the deaf-mutes that their house

was burning, to the madmen that it was good

to breed and no one from those who were

assisted following a rigorous opinion poll

wouldn’t have hesitated to jump on my back

to stab me or to hammer a nail into my brain,

I feel on my skin their smarting shadows of

assassins, the tickling of the laughter of lumpen

proletariat erodes my shadow, my trace but

I swear that I will not go mad to please them

and thus it is concluded that your hatred

does not touch me, does not pierce me I

who licked the shoe cream off their shoes

well out of much love for the sake of the fresh

air, for the sake of the unshaken walking

towards the New Order, towards the new,

purer, clearer world, towards the New Word,

and on the forced march I became

the laughingstock of the world for the croaking

columnists about midnight; you hear me, you

crippled world: the pimps, the bearded men,

the procurers, the whores and all that is

the embodiment of the success are making

fun of me, are spitting in my mouth as you’ve

heard it – the brilliant one, that learns day

and night with great energy the hoarse sounds

of the Georgian language so as to speak with

the carrion that eats carrion, but gigantic one.

The henchmen of the pleasures burn the soles

of my feet, with the poisonous tongue in filth,

they put chains on my feet, sulphur on my eyes,

chlorine in my pleura, tar on my lips, drugs

in my blood, I jotted down everything

scrupulously and no quotation – I know

the Truth and you will swallow him, you

will belch him out together with the newly

invented pleasure, multiplied in the deep

wells --, he burns like the heartburn of

the strongest poisons after the most delicious

food. I who have the posture of a Leader,

precisely to me it shall happen that I shall be

cast out, precisely I shall live now a fictitious

world far from the realness, you say, it’s

absolutely impossible for me to express your

world, bound to the watch of the senses. Ah,

I would lament for myself and for my mother

this is how they caught me, how they tied me,

how they stuck me into the cage for the beasts,

to kill me, to crush me, to macerate my body,

to put my translucent head on the ash so he

should prophesy, so my masks should rot

away on the ramparts, so my brains should

flower like a torch, so my meninx should

burst, should bleed, so they should tear

my lungs with the air burning in my chest

to shreds, they arrested me at sunset so they

should shut any breath of mine they threw

me upon the wet and cold cement floor

the gangrene goes up my legs, the dampness

penetrates my bone marrow between my

and the other realm they set soldiers with

iron faces. But they will never fetter that

something elevated and floating in all that

moves and stands motionless in this world,

he is no word, he is no thought, he is my

wavelength through which I propagate

at any moment behind the transparent

glass partition. Let us go out a little while

for a breath of fresh air because I don’t

give a damn if Adolf Hitler can be

the Saviour, maybe he was the embodiment

of Joan of Arc a saint, a martyr, an infant, 

Mussolini can also be a Caesar easily,

Jiugashvili is possibly a tsar too, shaded

by too many eyebrows, but I will not go

mad to please you. Do you really want

to defile my sepulchre of a damned and

poor man? As I’ve told you: we are all a clot

of the genital fluids maybe we would have

deserved to be drawn out of the placenta with

the hooks: Freud’s whims have humiliated us

enough, his bellicose theory reduces us at every

moment to the instincts of lynx only the paralytic

Roosevelt doesn’t understand, but I will not go

mad to please him --, he is a declared enemy

of the belles-lettres, I will not go mad, I will not

go mad, I will not go mad, I will not go mad

let us go out a little while for a breath of fresh

air would you really like to desecrate my sepulchre

of a poor man with excrement? And those who

give testimony experts on the meanness of

the theories about the man and his biological

functions can be an exemplary sample of

the madness as is the ladybird Kinge,

the executioner wearing the skirt and having

a voice as if putting a strain on her belly,

a phallic creature for the others existing

in herself and per se spreading libidinous

trifles, according to which I would be a virtual

assassin, personally, I can simultaneously

embody all the masks and characters this

is my own intangible misfortune but I will

not go mad to please the imperialists, let us

go out a little while for a breath of fresh air

with the whole interest whereof you are capable,

with whole Babylon in exaltation with the whole

slobbering libido of gastropods, with all

fecundated images, with the whole lottery not

worth a dime, with the whole stinking show

of the democracy, with the whole armamentarium

and kit of the creation you shall put red cap

on my pate and you shall give me what belongs

to me and you say this is what I desired more

than you and your relatives: the Honours,

the Glory, the Power, the Wealth too, the Love

too, the whole World, the real one, spread

underneath my feet. I may be haunted by

complexes, I may be the chosen one, I may

be related to the quality of my father’s semen

and of my mother’s amniotic acids, I may

be the Giant, the Intelligence herself, the shut

system through which your greedy paw

doesn’t find the hole to draw out the worm,

I may have considered that the women are

a simple seminal receptacle, clay, I may have

lost the phallic battle, I may be the demon

of the devoted plebs of Mammon and it

will be he will go bankrupt on the threshold

of fascism, on the threshold of communism,

on the threshold of cosmic masturbation

on the threshold of Islamism, but I am

the chosen one, I am the prophet, and I

will not go mad to please you, to please

anyone... The high spheres are visiting

me: the perdition is no longer mine. Ah,

my extravagant pictures, ah, my elegant

port! When will I still wear earrings with

turquoises? Ah, my velvet jacket, my mane

of a Spartan soldier, ah, my beard as living

as the fire when my bell bound to the throat

was calling the throng of lepers in the gangways:

I will never ever go mad my stupid and

uncultured works bear testimony as the green

stands for the life my endless, misunderstood

work a smile from the beginning to end

stupid and fecund one why did you forsake me?

Long years lengthen out like the slobber on

the padded walls in the lunatic asylum blinding

me with letters of fire, “Eat this worm: the wind

does not rustle,” it has been told to the madness,

it has been told to the rats that never tire of

glorifying the theories of the sex act.

To you, Jiugashvili, Georgian from the high

spheres who are a black hole, outline of a hardly

sketched man I write a letter, I write a postcard

from my Las Vegas wherefrom the New Order

of the mankind is seen, which broken in two

only my mind of a giant and yours know and

she is not a creature of my insomnia, but she

has the lucidity of the crystals of empty glass.

I drew the plan on a piece of cardboard with

a red pencil and the new world we make her

in three days’ time Tuesday, Monday, Friday

and maybe only on Tuesday, then we will live

in a gigantic mausoleum of glass, but who

will be the tenant? Our stature will not comprise

the mankind. Our vision will also be the one.   

Save me, you tsar with a small forehead, I am

dying, for twelve long years I have been staying

in a lunatic asylum in the padded room wearing

the straitjacket I speak with Confucius and I

learn your guttural language full of sounds

hard to pronounce this is the hardest sentence,

the most terrible punishment for me to find

out that you don’t understand me, you grey

marsupial. I am your last hope, take me out

of my cell which stands high in the tower

thrust into the sky like the arrow of the soldier

thrust into the rib of Jesus, high in my Las Vegas

like a glass that pours over the red horizons

they lifted me up to rot alive the imperialist

Rockefeller the imperialist Guggenheim

and the imperialist Morgan and the radioactive

Truman and all those who make the war of

the oil, of the cotton, of the gold, of the market  

but I terribly love the kingdom of Italy: he is

full of eternal women and blue angels the violet

shadow of Japan too, her chrysanthemums flow

through my irises and mix with the blood from

whence the non-split New Order springs. I see

you moving your moustache of a Prussian, being

on the watch and you steer your squinting eyes

aside and you silently suck your black insect

in between your crooked lips and then why

don’t you listen to me? Why don’t you come

to embrace each other, to play with me a little

while? You lycanthrope, you giant of the trivia,

you trash of the lusts strewn all over the stables,

you butcher removing the sacred skin of the world,

you the one with the paw bigger than your body

with the tentacles that weave the cobwebs on

the planet I write to you from the tower where

the wind dries my skin, the sun mummifies me

in an unknown Word, I feel myself becoming

a cosmic histrionic man I write to you although

you don’t deserve this, I know you manoeuvred

master keys, you tampered with the secret locks

I heard you stole pipes, matches, body linen from

the line, socks, footwraps, you stole the combs

of your pagan acolytes, sticking your hairy paws

as far as the inmost depths of the soul, you turned

their pockets inside out, they were sweating blood, 

you stole the fine-tooth comb of Lenin, of Nikita

Khrushchev while he was dancing “Khopak”

the comb of Molotov, Beria and Dzerjinski and

of all bald-headed bandits from Kremlin, poor

devils, they no longer have an instrument for

scratching themselves; this is a gesture, a test

of pure competition this is something that makes

you be on a level with the earthworms, with

the pieces of trash, but I know how efficient

this is for a giant who was born of the clot of

the amniotic fluid of a whore of good semen

coming out of the spasm of the hardest pecker

well, this is what father Freud was telling about

your appearance. This is how it was suited

in the skies that I should address myself to you

monster, I, the great aristocrat, to the most hairy

man on earth who wolfs down the lives

by million, I feel the taste of your saliva

in the mouth of my pains brought by secret

streams, they run through my tissues, I consume

you in loneliness, I mix you, I disfigure you, all

my cells digest you, all the viruses inside me

break you atom by atom when the eyes of

the world sleep I who breathe with your

respiration because you stay in a tower

in a corner of the world and I overseas

stay in another tower I see you imitating

my gestures of a solitary animal, you will

consent to my resurrection because I am dead

here in my Las Vegas lifted up in the clouds,

come here, you hairy man, and also see what

the poet sees: my well bridled images flutter

in the wind and I don’t give a damn because

they flutter in tatters, hanging out on the long

lines like the body linen to dry or if they stay

in the great railway stations with the luggage

at the feet, they have sex madly in the brothels

until they don’t give a damn too and they no

longer do anything while I revolve behind

the bright red glass partition with many hubs,

with the outstretched arms the dead rise from

the coffins and listen to what I’m telling you:

the Dialogue, the Decalogue, the Catalogue,

the Constitution, the New World Order appears

like an indifferent belly under your little and

evil eye of a feverish serpent and dancing,

being jubilant with the dead in the pits with

the quicklime; detention camps, blockhouses,

mines with water, crematoria, jails, empty

houses, despondency, schizophrenia, psychosis,

raped wild animals tortured thousands of times,

nooses, bullets fired into the nape, your portraits,

visits, visions, terrified symphonies, breaking up

orchestras, crowd of happy cows at the gate of

the slaughter-house, you pulled the pilasters

of the sky out in that part of the world and

a black shroud falls from on high over

the northern hemisphere and chokes with

the stench that you exhale spitting tobacco

fondling your eyebrows of a rat silently

while I revolve here on the axis of the world

with my heart in the heart of the world around

myself, eaten away by the fevers of the fear

I already see you stepping over the edge of

my sepulchre you spit on my cheek dried

by the death from between your teeth, I

forgive your desecration, I know you are

nauseated by the corpses, you dead man

who concatenate yourself with the dead

along and across the Empire of the evil

like an immense duty done with great

responsibility your stenches float around

me penetrate into my yellowish skin

as dry as the parchment and on it the text

of the New World Order will be written;

come and put the diabolical master keys

into action and take me out of the straitjacket

of the imperialists who impatiently wait

to relieve nature on my sepulchre of a poor

but a gigantic man I know only the instinct

of the mosquito is alive in you to suck blood

until you burst and the fear of the poison

that you are sure you will swallow at

the appropriate moment come, you breaker,

and say it too, but how you should have lived

alone in the flanks with monsters traitors

with the fear of not glimpsing the face

of the future the countenance hardly

made out amongst the cobwebs ah,

somebody examines us fixing his eyes

on us: the present makes love on the saws

and this transit like a dry jerky cough

that no longer stops filling the mouths

with the mist: the leaders masturbate

themselves on the stairs of the foreign

doors leaving the sacred semen on

the bonfire hastily kindled on the threshold

the Foreigners will make us be reborn

and from now on we will live in tranquillity

and peace; the insomniacs diplomats even

now are beating the drums mewing like

the cats, I revolve with the clenched fists

in the pockets under the great skies I and

the great murmur, I and all bankrupt

anti-“isms”, I and Nobody and Nothing

and the One who is not visible in those

three colours green-red-golden, the blue

is hidden: Christ, you shall enter our hearts

and with this nobody perishes in the madness

of the darkness of crystal. Come let us look

at this for a short time, for the rest everything

is paper, the Kingdom of Heaven is in us

and do not flatter your benefactor, come,

beloved Leader, the imperialism of the life

and life’s imperialism, the consumers of

corpses, the illusionists of the reality,

the buffoons and again the imperialist

deception and the Freudian sexual

exacerbation, the heroes and the heroines

of the brothels, the organic reality,

the directors of the pain, the whores

and the revelations of the power

dissociate cell by cell of mine, my organic

makeup, my misery. Come let us sink

in a planned way the world into the whirl

with the densest night wherefrom oceans

of violets will rise, your paw in the inmost

depths will feel the heart of the life and then

I will no longer be abandoned. Bring me also

a philanthropic, phallocentric whore, a Soviet

phallophiliac whore, she shall at all costs be

a Russian woman, her name shall be Natasha

dressed in baggy trousers and padded coat

good for the foundation of the New Order,

of good semen, detached from everything,

open to everything she shall also teach me

what the school of the communism is because

our women are lying sluts they are evil and

peevish she shall embrace my ideas,

my images she shall change the tone

of her sigh at every moment she shall

dispel the sobs all over the world;

to hell with your stupid bitterness that

purses your lips, leave it in Siberia,

and come, beloved leader, to America,

please don’t forget your bag with master

keys bring me a bottle of vodka too

let us make the best cocktail let us sprinkle

the wound of the knowledge with it

and we will stick your master keys

into the open injury of the core of life

the other tools with hooks too you,

statistical sacrificer and sacrificed goat,

thus the world will forget everything

so as to no longer know anything,

the world will no longer know anything

nor is it possible to know something:

there will be children happy about

recognizing only the flowers and

the genitals, but we the giants will

revolve with the outstretched arms

free and blind and we will no longer

be so stupid and ridiculous so schizophrenic,

so schizoid and separatist the vital energy

will make other shining molars other organs

grow from us but in the meantime move

your ass of a tyrant and come to America.

Can’t you really hear me, you scoundrel,

here the aroma of blood and of flesh is

sweeter, come let us revolve around

ourselves around the axis of the world

to the rhythm of the cosmic clock as

the moments revolve around the earth

accompanying the sun point by point,

we will be four giants in the four corners

of the Empire of Justice and we will sing

Hallelujah, Glory be to You, Lord. God

bless and SAVE the Constitution and let

Him pluck us from here like violets and

let Him renew the ageing day of the humankind.

I sign: I am nobody, my name is nobody.

Look, the doors open unexpectedly the red

shadow with the tiara seems to trample 

underfoot all the sufferings of the humanity,

his smile trembles in the air he shows

the stigmata on the palms of his hands

with tears of blood, “Why are you shouting,

what are you doing man?”

“I am writing the new Gospel, father.”

“In vain, son.”

“Look, father doctor, I’m eating it!”

“That’s why I made you a saint.”

“Why?”

“So that you should journey through

your own entrails.”

“Yes, that is why. Far from the centre

of the smoke.”

“Love is always fugitive, son, even

more fleeting is the memory.”

“The horizon is illuminated, the happiest doctor,

and is the harbinger of void.”  

“You don’t abandon anything, not even the socks

not even the nails, you take everything with you,

son. This makes up the centre of the Universe.”

“Despondent memory, despondent life, I should

purify the flame.”

“This is it, old man. You finally got to the end.”

“Exactly: this is how I cleaned the flowers of

pollen, but the traces of the butterflies remain,

breathe...”

“Breathe and shut up!”

“How about the Unique Word? I hear his sounds!”

“It doesn’t exist, son. All you want I bring you

quickly.”

“Ah, lamented traces on a single breath days

pulled along without shores, what have I become?”

“You are free, man!”

“Free and nothing: like a shadow I slipped

through the barbican of the life and now

I go away an even denser shadow and

I go to bed in the evening as if I were

to be buried in the morning and always

on and on day by day night by night

by the light of the death I write my Poem

unto the coming of Your Kingdom, Lord.”

And he deeply buried himself in the silence

then in the deep ground.