LOVE LETTER

 

Longing in expectation and with the hope

I passed over so many things fast-forwarding

I overtook the phase of romantic childish games

I can no longer play the shy woman I can no longer

be inaccessible. I want us to do it instantaneously

spontaneously together so happily: I know how

to traverse you, you know how to penetrate me

deeply and pressing down. This is a means

of communication with God. That’s what I was

thinking about when I was six. That makes me

see the Archangel Michael.  

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FEELING UNDERSTOOD

 

***

Another room there always exists

a bed where I make you an object,

there we can live without anybody

without anything. Darling, don’t

delay, my silhouette on the bed

cries out for you, feeling myself

understood.  

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EPITAPH THE IMMORTAL

 

From death till dawn

I stayed strangely awake

in bitterness on the field

one night. Close to the feet

the jackals were howling ‒

I got to the place where

there aren’t dolour and sob

without the proud life full

of bitterness up on the summit

down in the valley.  

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INITIATION INTO THE ORGANIZATION

 

The rabid swarthy man and the rabid

freckled woman stay rigid in the commission

with the smile of a hacksaw to receive new

members into the terrorist organization.

On a red carpet, they install the naked

neophyte as if he has freshly fallen from heaven

he’s tied hand and foot and they hit him

with the rod on the bollocks until the newcomer

faints throwing the seminal fluid on the red

carpet. Rabid, they both humidify their face,

their mouth with the secretions of the fresh

terrorist with their hacksaw’s lips they crunch

on his toes. “From now on, you’ll evolve

without deviating.” 

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THE FIRST DREAM

 

I know if the last non-truncated

umbilical cord were abjured

I’d cut it off with the same hands:

the same hands of mine that I’d try

to love, feeling the walls of a maiden’s

womb in love. Three drops of blood

would fall drop by drop from my finger

on the open vagina that weeps to swallow

me. She touches me incessantly, I sense

her hand incessantly and again I discover her

and again she discovers me as does

the sea troubled by an underwater gong.

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THE MEMORIES WERE SOLDERED

 

***

The memories were soldered

as was the trunk of cherry tree to the sky

emptied by a bird.

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THEREFORE YOU WERE BORN UNHAPPY

 

***

Confutatis maledictis

and you fuck-boy emperor

maledictus licker of cunts

therefore you were born unhappy

and that one sees from afar

unhappy and silent, you endure

the whip of the boredom

as do the jailbirds ‒ the music

doesn’t pierce you and you live on

ye children as in a pit. 

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BURIED BY LONGING

 

***

You should die buried by longing

when the sea line lines up

in the same thought heavy with tranquility.

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MIȘU EMINOVICI (CÂINELE DE SERVICIU)

 

Iar și iar, și iar, și iar

aceasta să vă spun măcar:

iubirea de câine e un zid

și nu te mușcă pe tine Baiazid ‒,

acum și în vecii vecilor.

CANAAN AND HIROSHIMA

Canaan and Hiroshima
two carnivorous flowers
that love us don't abandon us.
Confutatis maledictis.

THE CRIMINAL

 

***

The criminal who tries to die ‒ he was

close, nonetheless he changed his mind,

he felt sorry for the dead ‒ he felt them

throbbing in the iron, copper, in crude oil,

in the ears of wheat, in the grass and

he was seized with great sorrow

over the woods, they clasped him by the throat

under his goose skin, lice were running

and he was always listening to the silence

ground by windmills and the Bolshevik

comrades were coming to kiss him

with bloody mouths although he’s

a remainder, lint ‒ he can’t snuff it

his huge pension is left for a long time.

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PEOPLE WALK ARM-IN-ARM

 

***

People walk arm-in-arm

holding hands

having a quarrel, good-tempered.

On the wall, a Bolshevik executioner

drawn in red paint with an arrow

passing through his head.

Outside, people just write

a dark fairy tale with superhuman

heroes and with fanatics with dark

faces who don’t remember if they

went to school. Pictures from comic books.  

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A GIRL’S GOODBYE LETTER

 

Wrathful dusk, blasé basalt

you’re snoring on the iron bed

while I was looking how the street

light from a pole is reflected

in the chrome faucets of the sink.

I got up, I walked on the corridor

to the bathroom with iron radiators

with iron bathtub, with spiders

full of gall in the corners. All is

made of iron and of gall. I sat

on the toilet bowl in the dark.

I decided ‒ I leave you so I disappear,

without ever coming back. Go to your

mom’s cunt and snore!   

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LETTER

 

Go to your mom’s cunt!

I’m fed up with your face

sometimes I get to believe

that you’re there and that

I’m beside you in the same

place, in your mom’s cunt

nonetheless as maddening

and impossible as this doghouse  

wherein we live as this city

full of dog shit, that can be

visited only holding death’s

hand. Go to your mom’s cunt

and snore.

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THE UNCLEAN SPIRIT

 

***

Look! The unclean spirit is emerging

from the man, from the fat man and

from the scrawny man he walks

on the rooftops and through the loos

he’s looking for barren realms

he’s looking for rest within the man

he’s only had his share of mishaps

and he won’t find his place at all

and gets entangled with the feet

of the politicians and thieves

so that he have fun a bit. The true

hope smites the earthly hope mortally.

And that’s what he does, the unclean spirit

thirsty for unity ‒ he smites. This is irreparable.

In other words, God is so slow like a wild

rose full of firm and mild will.  

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VIVANT DANS UN MONDE DE DÉRISION

 

Vivant dans un monde de dérision étant entrés sous un fragment

d’horizon désert aucune couleur ne te donne la certitude

que tu es, que tu peux dire ainsi ce fut et la douceur fétide

apporte aux vitres un nouveau monde pétrifié dans l’abysse

inhumain. Que devrions-nous faire vraiment afin que nous

arrêtions  l’invasions des torrents de signes menaçants ?

Devrions-nous colorer la mémoire avec les encres de Chine

abruptes ? Devrions-nous retourner les nourrissons en arrière

dans le ventre ? Devrions-nous mettre normes dures

à la douleur et devrions-nous appliquer la grammaire osseuse

sur les images ? Devrions-nous éventuellement extraire le petit

Moi comme un ver minuscule mis avec soin en crochet le jetant

avec mépris dans les eaux troubles ? « Mauvais signe » tu dis,

le silence est bestial: l’impuissance des yeux polaires nous enterre

profondément sous les feuilles pourries car chaque jour croît

la blessure près d’une étoile jaune et elle nous jette dans la nuit

railleuse de la conscience qui nous induira en erreur au dernier moment.

THE GODS ARE FED UP WITH THIS STRIFE

 

***

A livid sky hangs

like a pang of remorse

over the deserted streets.

The beauteous songs

and the flowers

have been abandoned;

we must abandon

the blood, too: these gods

are dead and seem to say,

“Have mercy on us

we who are fed up

with this long strife

between the inquisition

and society.”

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A BUTTERFLY

 

***

A butterfly sips

the nectar of a flower

and fades away in the dazzling sun.

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THE BLACK PANTHER

 

***

The Black Panther lay down

under the yellow weeping willow.

”... I had mercy on others ‒ enough!

Enough for my nothing. I stay here

five metres underground, but a child

goes peacefully to his church there

where the light is almost solid.

He wants to announce the news

in the cemeteries, but he romps

playfully on the surface of the earth

holy is the earthquake, the palace

will soon collapse, shaken from the depth.

I’ll get out from under the tree and

again I’ll have mercy even on the demons.”

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N. ST.

 

Chiombălău drâmbulind

cu limba grasă în delirium

tremens, asasini comuniști

aleargă să-l pupe-n cur

ca pe o pasăre cum zboară

așa desface el mâinile

ca aripile unui rățoi

îl pupă de zor în fund

fiindcă e târtan frumos

de-al lora și le scrie ode

betege în fiecare dimineață

iar politrucii clamează:

”Pizdoaico!” Aici drâmbulindul

și-a găsit Canaanul.