MARAT

 

Marat was lying in the bathtub at home

tormented by the itch caused by his

skin disease prurigo, with his head

wrapped in a turban of compresses

with vinegar, black because of dirt;

he was proofreading the columns

of the number 242 of the newspaper

“Publiciste français” sporadically

thinking about the origin of the light;

towards evening a young woman

citizen came to the courageous

and cowardly man and demanded

to speak to him in relation to

a Girondin plot. “Plot? Tell me

immediately the names of the enemies

of the country. Who are they?”

The young woman, without hesitating,

enumerated the names of her friends

knowing the monster would be

dead in a moment. Abruptly she

produced a long knife from under

the rosy scarf and thrust it into him

as far as the handle cutting his carotid

he cried, “Help!” to his life companion

Catherine Evrard, the water turned red

he received other swift stabs accompanied

by accusations: this one because you

cheated as a doctor, this one because

you pretended to be a journalist, this

one because you cheated believing

yourself to be a scientist this one

because you turned into an assassin

without being a revolutionary, now

hoax the death, you rogue – without

becoming confused the hit woman

took the knife from his corpse, put

it on the edge of the bathtub and got

unhurriedly out of the room in the hallway

she got grabbed hold of by Catherine Ervard.

The name of the hit woman was Charlotte

Corday, the niece of Corneille. With great

pomp his human remains were transferred

to Pantheon five months later Marat was

taken out of there like the last man. His

corpse was burnt and thrown into the sewer

with shouts of “Marat, here is your Pantheon!”

Throughout his life he had been dreaming

about a great tomb.    

MY SOUL IS A GYRATING FIRE

 

***

But my soul is a gyrating fire

that suffers when he doesn’t burn

with the flame within you.

Yeah, I’ve got closed eyes

within your light. I was

in your soul as in a palace

that was emptied slowly moving

this thigh of gold.  

THE CONFESSION OF THE CRIMINAL BOLSHEVIK

 

I’m a wrong-headed being

all that’s human terrifies me

I dream about nothing but Terror

and Justice. I can tell no one,

“I love you.” The history stays

in the place of God and the saintliness

is a revolt you take the unhappiness

of the world upon yourself.

The things as they are stay upside down.

Therefore Terror!  

THE FEAR

 

The fear of you being what you are

is made up of innumerable fears

that make you run like a bat out of hell

out of this crooked world leaving

the mishap up to the fire. You see

without any hesitation how a fear

and another one grab you by the throat

by the testicles, heat up your innards

and you invoke the mercy from barren

regions, inhaling the stench of the lives

that break off. Towards evening you’ll

go away you’ll weep with the fears

convoy after you with bleatings of sheep

that annoy: the fear of not losing

your job, your money, your food

your prestige, the fear of pain and

of illness the fear that you won’t be loved

that you’ll lose your children, the fear

of you living in a world that is similar to death

the fear of dying and other innumerable

fears stir up the dust with their steps

and you run away but you still want gold

you want to make gold.   

THE TAPEWORM WRITERESS

 

***

The tapeworm writeress, the Securitate snitch

stretches out from one shithole to the other

for food and she’s fed by the old and the new

masters on milk and honey, she has an enviable

situation, her actions at the newspapers,

at the publishing houses, at the departments,

at the ministries and TV stations traverse

and split the human being and split her

from one side to the other until she abandons

these things full of venomous yellow slobber

like diarrhoea or as black as the crude oil,

the free tapeworm in the multitude swings

with her human resemblance she comes back

and flings the shadows of the victims one by one.

And I depart from the mud that she throws

from this worm brought in from the Dead Sea

with the scroll of sulphur.        

THE CURSE SMITES OVER AGAIN

 

***

The curse smites over again

with the same red paw from the Dead Sea,

the curse hums like a wasp that entered

the ear as did a sharp spear. It’s time

for me to submit myself to this fate,

he tells me the red jackass with his eyes

in the mist with black ash in his dirty

eyes. The plans of the fate don’t let you

escape. The red jackasses stand under all

the walls in the inferno underneath.

The inferno is underneath and from him

the Securitate fellows suck the sow’s teat.      

The alleviation offers a place to the existence,

condemns to death. The nail boiling up

in Christ’s blood falls rusty under the level

of the soul, beyond the smoke of the respiration.

Thus smites the curse, exhaling fateful lusts.

Such is the death, such is woven the existence

among the cannibals. The nanny goat virgin

climbs the stairs of the inferno aiming to get out

with her provocative air and her muffled laughter.

CONFIDE YE NOT IN SISTERS

 

***

Confide ye not in sisters

she always holds a hidden

thread of tarantula ‒

hang yourselves from it,

the sister wants to perish

enshrouding you in her labyrinth.       

AMURG VIOLET !

 

Vîjîie vântu-n codri

și-ntunecă lumea-n Bacău

un cer una cu pământul

de spaimă mă-mbăt și cânt

aleluia! Nimicnicia, minciuna

și-amărăciunea m-au prins

pe stradă și mi-au tras brăcinarul

în jurul gâtului. Am adormit

parc-am murit, în vis vals

funebru, depărtat. Moartea

mă ține-n stradă. O văd pe Maricica,

Scufița Roșie din Bacău, fâțâind.

”Fii rezonabilă, Scufiță Roșie, fii

atentă la câini, ai urechile mici,

ai urechile mele, strecoară-le o vorbă

dulce sfârîitoare, trebuie să ne coțăim,

iubito, asta am venit să-ți spun

pe catafalc, încet să ne iubim,

să nu ne descompunem asudați

cu miros de cadavre parcă-s în delir

parcă-s în coșmar dar până îmi revin

dă din cur cățelușă până ajungem

la poluri să pierim în noian de alb.

Ai observat? Trec corbii

și se găinățează pe clavir.”  

AUZI O TUSE SEACĂ AMARĂ

 

***

E o noapte ploioasă

care tușește, auzi o tuse seacă

amară ‒ e românul futut în cur

iubita mea doarme pe flăcări

eu stau într-o crâșmă umedă

puturoasă, beau până mă cac

pe mine și peste acest oraș

în dărâmare: mereu sunt mai

afară, curând am să mă împleticesc

pe traverse în neagra noapte

și-atunci șobolanii vor avea ce mânca.

TREC CANIBALI RAR

 

***

Trec corbii solemn

trec canibali rar, umflați

pe trepte, pe-noptat ‒ se duc

pe pustii, par de cărbune

se-ntoarce același diavol

tăind turma diametral

curva plânge, e cernită,

îi e frică, urlă: nu suntem

pe lumea aceasta! Bietul

suflet, o, Demonul!

E un Demon crud, știți,

nu e un om, omul se ține

după corbi și eu am numai

o singură găurică disponibilă

și n-am o situație sigură.   

THEREFORE I'M A HOBO

 

***

The tongue hangs me from this country

without idols, without gods, without God

I perfectly hear her sluttish speaking,

her respiration succumbing doubling herself

in the form of moans and hanging colouring

the evil shadow of the Devil. Therefore

I’m a hobo, the gendarmes see me in a tree

or on the edge of the roof of a tower building

I move and I knock at the doors there’s no one

by me but from each door whereat I knock

gushes a Hun who springs at me and grabs

me by the throat. I’m just like the prayer

in the deep forest.  

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OVER HERE AMONG THE CANNIBALS

 

***

Over here among the cannibals

you are predestined to endure

only torture, patience, torment

invaded is the life and you leave her

among vamps of colophony the naked

soul runs to many houses, chooses

pleasant company then he shuts

the door and there he rejoices

at the death as at an old borough

there he’s given the entire eternity

as a present. To whom?  

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PEDICURISTS POETESSES

 

***

Pedicurists writeresses card the words

while they are sucking the toes of the old

and influential clients everyone speaks

well of them because they drive them crazy

with their carded words, an actor shouts

that they are immense poetesses more immense

than the most immense ones ‒ nonetheless

they feel unhappy ‒ they want to be just

like the angels but they stutter as do the devils

in order for them to fuel the anxiety they cause it

with various sex toys they swallow all that can

cause, stimulate, intensify it and they talk

grimacing touching the tip of their tongue

to the roof of their mouth in a shrill voice

or hiccupping as does a broody hen and they

tell everybody that the belch, the defecation,

the urination, the farting, the licking of the lips,

the stomach rumbling and other sounds

from the belly cause them poetry and pleasure.

The Tuvans adopted them.

A MOTIONLESS SPIDER

***

A motionless gigantic spider

chaotic melancholy, under him

we deepen things that oughtn’t

to be deepened. And thus he carries

the burden further at least until our time. 

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THE CANNIBALS HARBORED ILL WILL AGAINST ME

***

The cannibals told me to go out and away:

I feel it as clearly as possible they’ve harboured

ill will against me: to kill me by starvation

to death so that I disappear slowly into an elastic

mist. The cannibals are panting above and

from here onwards and nearby, under the bed

and in the slippers with a fateful accent.

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THERE ARE SUDDEN BLOWS IN LIFE

 

***

There are sudden blows in life, they are

the deep fall of the souls but life turns

the mad eyes to the maidservants and servants

as wrong-headed as they are, they crawl on all

fours the leaven of guilt goes stale in their

mouth, in their servile look ‒ the appearance

of love reveals herself with divine tenderness

that despises and loves, that transforms

and elevates all that she loves; the heart

must be mastered and transfigured.

The sea and the sky attract young and vigorous

virgins on the summits, on the rocks. 

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DUBLU POPÂNDĂU

 

Într-o amiază senină a ieșit din borta lui

verticală un târtan‒popândău cu dublu

fund, cu dublă coadă, s-a ridicat în două

picioare, frecându-și labele și a glăsuit

cu dublă voce dintre pasăre și rozătoare:

”Suma voievozilor lirici a emanat maxima

genialitate a poporului român care acum

se târâie în coate și-n gerunchi și umblă

să sugă cu gura uscată ceva din aer din acest

aer scârbos, din acest pământ otrăvit încărcat

de nanochipuri băgate și-n apă și-n mâncare

de cruzii exploatatori. Pe brânci nu sunteți voi

aici stăpâni vă târâiți ca năpârcile-n țărână

pentru că voi orbi și proști v-ați uitat eroii

neamului care vorbeau cu Dumnezeu,

vorbeau cu îngerii, cu extratereștrii comunicau

printr-o rețea te tuneluri tainice  

cu energiile piramidelor și Dumnezeu turna

aici lapte și miere. Acum sunteți pe cale

de dispariție și eu târtanul popândău

am să vă învăț să mergeți vertical de rând

cu rasa noastră aleasă ‒ dar trebuie ca voi

să mă alegeți căpitan al vostru și atunci suma

lirică geniul poporului va fi vertical, suveran

unii vor spune ordinar voi ați acumulat

într-unul din ochi multă durere, în rărunchi

multă oboseală și-n amândoi multă suferință.

Atunci... Desigur... Rusul nu va zice niciun

cuvânt, iar Apusul va scrâșni din dinți.   

Eu nu-l voi lăsa să vă mai jefuiască.”

Și-atunci trecu peste el căruța unui țigan

cu fier vechi și târtanul popândău se ascunse

în borta lui verticală.

THE MORALITY KILLS

 

The morality kills the inferno is a special

favour reserved for those who solicited it

insistently he verifies what he lived

the non-action ‒ a philosophy of a dead man

in inferno they all seem to be happy

the ones who remained outside it seems

to them that they were betrayed even by the dead.  

ON THE AUGUST NIGHT

 

Then on the August night the jolly death

played the ocarina on and on and the Lord

was lachrymose, then one celebrated my

second fall into the double pit, my beloved

we die together, one next to the other much

a deep sleep carries us weeping in the fragrant

wind we’re melting on a rosy hill like two

twin brothers forgotten to be born.  

NIGHTS I HEAR HER VOICE

 

The air of the days of yore was slowly

invading my soul like a breath of wind;

everything was coming alive the girlfriend

whom you love is dying with necessity

and is leaving you alone. Since the night

she died and my heart moved into another

dimension and wanted no more to come back.

Nights I hear her voice.  

I'D DESIRE THE SNOW TO FALL

 

The days pass from one into another

the famines pass from one into another

I’d desire my love to die and I’d desire

the snow to fall on the streets that I roam

mourning the one who believed that she

was loving me and whom I believed

to be crucified tonight gradually dying

away like smoke in the shadow trumpets

a bird. Beyond the wall was frolicking

an only delicate girl.     

WEEP YOU NO MORE, AUTUMN

 

Without any hope I go on spending my days

like a litany she passes through the soul:

it’s good, it’s good sooner or later it’s gonna

be over if it isn’t finished yet. And weep you

no more, Autumn.  

LOVE E‒MAIL

 

My dear doe, here I am, too outside!

My prison was cruellest but monumental,

I move like a monument of flesh. Now

I wanna fuck you deeply and heavily.

And that we’re gonna do together chained

and that’s gonna take me out of the black

melancholy wherein I fell after we broke up.

They speak about the first love like ours

was none. “Shut up!” you’d tell me

but I’m not quiet because I’m jealous

of your panties. Therefore, my pulchritude

we’re gonna fuck soon and that morning

will remain like a rose on the sky, eternally.   

IN THE LIMPID AIR

In the limpid air

in the middle

of the deserted landscape

was suspended a Truth

an olive tree next to me

the smiling face of a woman. 

THERE WAS NO ONE AROUND

 

***

There was no one around

the tranquility so unreal ‒

I thought that I died.

THE FUNEREAL PROVIDENCE

 

The funereal Providence

gathers butterflies

with black eyes together

on the rocks, stars twinkle

chirping with the cicadas ‒

we live too much.  

THE MADNESS SHAKES THIS CENTURY

 

Plum tree adorned

with mauve flowery veils ‒,

the madness shakes this century.

THE LAUGHTER AND THE OBLIVION

 

The laughter and the oblivion

gather together on a page ‒,

there’s a huge immovable scorpion.  

THE COURAGE OF WHAT WE KNOW

 

On the last day, late

comes the courage of what we know:

the impossibility to be.   

SENTINȚĂ

 

Poeții români cu rare excepții sunt niște găinațuri care păstrează palide cârâituri ale paserii aparținătoare, un cârâit uscat, pietrificat.

FALSIFIERS OF SCRIPTURES

 ***

Corrected creation, religion as ancient

as the man the god is banished

from everywhere. The matter with the man

is just like with the ancient text claimed

to be sacred, the word of God that attracts

a multitude of farceurs who interpret it

and insert into it with satisfaction

intercalations, blasphemies, destructions,

corrections, corruptions, erasure.

This holy text, the Holy Scripture looks like

a holey sack with many patches and falsifiers

with faces of old foxes carry it into the councils,

synods, congregations, but the sack cracks

at all the patches and produces apparitions

produces hallucinations. The end of the novel,

“The man is a religious animal and over him

the merciless god sends inexorable rain.”