Bande de anarhiști compacte
își numără bombele, gloanțele
grenadele și s-aruncă la vot
cu bugetul furat până la fund
pulimea bașibuzucă îi votează
și cu asta își votează lichidarea,
nimicirea, mizeria, evadarea
și după ce se așează pe scaune
din nou canibalii încep să strângă
garoul la gât acestor mamuțe
care cred că au un spațiu
de supraviețuire. Ar fura și ei
ceva, dar nu au puterință
și clămpănesc.
Compact gangs of anarchists count
their bombs, their bullets, their grenades
and they fling themselves into the vote
with the budget stolen as far as the bottom
the stupid populace corrupted heads vote
for them and with this they vote for their
own liquidation, for their own annihilation,
for their own extreme poverty, for their own escape
and after they sit in their chairs again
the cannibals begin to tighten the garrotte
around the neck of these monkeys that believe
that they have a space of survival. They’d
steal something too, but are unable
and clap their jaws.
***
In this country without hinges
as prior to the deluge occurs
a strange constant phenomenon
as if one gave a bone to a hungry
dog, “Don’t stick it into your gut!”
They all hurry to kiss the ass
of a literary brilliant bedbug
with flabby phiz, newcomer
from Dead Sea with tiny step
of a louse with lousy writing
he tries to bite the humans.
He crawls, looking preoccupied.
The specialists in literature
claim all the other scribes
are doomed to failure since he
appeared. They translated him
into almost all the languages
except for Tuvan language
and Mordvin, they awarded
him prizes, they gave him money
they put him into school textbooks
they pulled his strings at the book fairs
the foreigners were judging him
by their own experience, by the psychology
of the people who live in tranquil countries.
Nonetheless there comes one and says,
“From so much kissing of this bedbug
remained a pile of wood shavings
that asphyxiate all that’s alive
It ought to have been annihilated
annihilated, annihilated this priceless
chalice you shall break the bare countenance.
I’m a solitary and wild Scythian
among my archdevils Tatars.
I have a single feeling: revenge.
Forgive me, Lord, for being born
a Scythian Wallachian whom
they all ride and rob. From everywhere
they took away my residence permit.
I’m going to do something so the world
quake. What? I don’t know. What shall I do?
The past is full and convulsed,
everything dark triumphs
and lies prostrate with the dust.
In the night I hear the guttural
metallic voice, “I’ve been Bolshevik
and I’ll die a Bolshevik.” Then one
comes and says, “Who wants to build
the socialism here you are, let him go
voluntarily to kolkhoz, who doesn’t
want to, here you are, he has the whole
right. Except that I’ll tell you plainly
and unreservedly: to this kind of guys
we have a single way of talking: the soul
out, the guts on the branches of the trees.
It’s hard to understand. Then came
the famine. The beasts gave in, the horses
were panting heavily and were falling,
the dogs were dying and were eaten
and the people dead from starvation
were eaten nor did the rats withstand
only the insects didn’t betray the man:
the typhus, the lice were moving
in compact hordes as were the Mongols
as were the communists, the fleas were
leaping vivaciously, the bedbugs
were sneaking in looking preoccupied
as were The Party Tirtans, the ticks
were biting the back of the peasants’
neck. The survivors seem to be none
the happier. Someone within the Party
suggested that the reproductive system
be extirpated and they should let them
produce no more than one amplified orgasm.
This is where we got to.”
***
The void is growing, the devastation
is expanding, from the mouth
of a mountain grotto the cannibal
utters, “With fear and shock
you’ll eat each other’s innards
you’ll choke with the historic
options. How do you still bear
to be gods!? Wherever you exist
you’ll kindle the immaculate sun
and the beneficial fusing
with the allusive, subtle, matutinal light”.
***
All is full and convulsed
everything dark triumphs
and lies prostrate ‒ the Poet
has committed suicide
even for you, language of mine
ash and strong wind
for the disconsolate slumber.
The ancient trees, the death
and the nightingales, the frogs,
the sunbeams lament him
for errors and swoons
for deep and inaccessible longings
even you truncated cleanliness of mine
you weep truncated by the shouts
of the teenagers’ naivety, halo
of calm and warm metals.
***
America has come like a deluge
into this space full of dogs
and of flabbergasted chimpanzees ‒
American movies, American architecture
American shops, American songs
even Christ in a cubist stained glass
window reminds us of a component
in a complicated machine. You ask
yourself from whence this huge wave
has come over this wasteland.
Now the monkeys are afraid of the daybreak.
Where the Devil is sweating
in the kingdom of the closed
mountains the wings of a cherub
are flapping over the trembling
orchids the resurrected refugee god
is preaching about the new order
the degenerate man in front of the desert
where the children began reading porn
novels next to undressed Scheherazade.
Her aroma is barely sensed in the light
summer breeze, she’s smiling with wide
open breasts and with her fine hand
between her thighs ears of wheat
and herbs from all over the world are
tickling her and the god is laughing happily.
And here the forms of starvation
and here the crimes, the tresses
floating across the belly and the eyes
in white tears churning comets
oh you delights, oh you tongues
lapping splashing on the arse buried
in money. The arctic grottoes
draw you into their belly. The roof
of the gendarmes collapses.
***
A bitter void
like a burning boulder
a pierced big boil
fire oozes out like a horse’s
eye full of sorrow.
***
And in the billow I talk to you
my only mermaid me thy only food
but today on whom have you
supervened among dahlias and lilies
and behind you from the pupae
and landscapes emerge bees
that make honey and today
I frenetically watch the valley
that I’ll always love, I’ll always
sleep to your bosom anointed
with honey but your body
lengthens out inside the North
between the blue trees
as far as the blue snows.
***
Now the sign has returned from serenity
the bells are ringing out for the evening
about art, about love, about nothing
and she’s preyed on you like a serpent
with the flat head, she’s come back
with her mother and she’s listening
to them with great gentleness, but the birds
are singing in celebration in the sky
glorifying an era.
***
We are under the masters
be sensible ye the ones
with the broken backbone ‒
the being is selection, a series,
a farandole, a parade of falsifiers.
The false with the false breaks
the back of your neck the most
disgusting man and the shadow
the splendid song of the soul
there remains a lamentation
let the ones taller than you
pass over you, you are stairs.
You are no more an ugly memory.
***
A void exists in the air of my soul
monk along the seashore as frightened
as a ghost, he himself has decided
that his laughter is holy, dancer
counter to space, counter to time.
Nonetheless this soul ought also
to have sung but he doesn’t want
to surrender to the mermaid voices
seeing “The Being”, a strange thing
he shouts, “All is false” and treads
on the toys of a child who’s been playing
in the sand: a whirligig, a rhombus,
knucklebones, mirror. The short wakefulness
of holy beatitude! For today’s mask
that the god granted us showing his mercy
attracted by ogres with toys.
M. Eminovici e idiotul de serviciu de râsul țiganilor și tîrtanilor dintre
noi. Nu are nicio realitate e mincinos și fals poet extrem de sforăitor, fără
simțire. Mort și rece.
Tovarășa mea cerșetoare
vrăjitoare țigancă cară în cîrcă
toate nenorocirile, toate șiretlicurile
toate harnelele țării mele. Se ține
de noi cu vocea ei răgușită
fără noimă, bate-ntr-un lighean
vocea ta! Unic mângâietor
al acestei mârșave disperări
e copilul ei schilod care se uită
cu ochii rotunzi negri ‒ vede
lumea pentru întâia oară.
Totul începe prin râsul lui
și pune în mișcare veninul
ăsta stătut care rămâne în venele
noastre chiar când suntem morți
o unică bătaie a inimii, ritm
singular în lighean: tu, Doamne.
The Time, the Suffering, the Death
God asked me for a glass of water.
You want to carry the sin, look,
he’s coming darting to the sky
out of the heavy darkness the grain
of the doubts bursts and the horror
that has no voice wants you, they want
to see you dead from suffering.
“Lord, have mercy on us.” But the Lord
answers me, “Where is the glass of water
that I asked you for?” The concoction
of the future was the favourite game
of my escapes.
Pe lângă plopii fără soț
beat am tot trecut
cam șui și bine travestit
cu ochiul fix pe geam țintit
mă cunoșteau câinii toți (după miros)
tu nu m-ai cunoscut
Ce făceai? Găteai? Dansai?
Te tăvăleai? Râdeți?
Eu iar (gândiți-vă!) de mii de ori
număram plopii fără soț
ajuns pe câmp fără un reper
îmi plâng de jale, mă nărui, pier
pe când tu prea veselă te tăvăleai
eu ștromeleagului îi dădeam mălai
ce copil monstru!
Faci din mine un cerșetor.
Te voi lega, te vei înăbuși
Amorul meu nu mai tuși.
Eminovici îi tricoloru‘
el e pro-motoru‘
el e hegemonu hain
fără legende, fără chipuri
setea nu ți-o poate răpune
dor cu rîmuri, flori
pentru closet străvechi
se bucură de moarte
căci nărodu-i răbdător
și nepăsător foarte
steaua dimineții răscolește
valul pur. Rob al minciunii
se topește unde se topește
stingher un nor. El e idiotu‘
ce ține loc de gol, într-un singur
codru negru te va sălta, înăbuși
acolo. El acolo se va nărui
de ridicol. Când sunteți un norod
de canibali prea-păcătoși
ce-ar face un idol cu voi?
Vreți să vă căiți, să țopăiți
să vă stricați de rîs? Istoria
v-a aruncat pe fereastră
iar idolul e rece, de fier
ruginit, acoperit de tertipuri
și mârșave deznădejdi.
Eminovici scrie versuri cu rimă câcaturi
înspumate, Teodorescu scrie câcaturi
cu sunet de căcat, Blaga scrie căcaturi
văcsuite inodore, Barbilian scrie câcaturi
sfărâmate rimate și toți laolaltă așa-zișii
poeți scriu o grămadă de cîcaturi cu sunet
de câcat în afara minții și simțirii, cei de azi
gâdilă balamucul la coaie și-i mănâncă
schmuckul anarhic și toți se căinează:
”Balamuc, balamuc eu din tine mă duc...”
Și-n urma tuturor rămâne o grămadă
de câcaturi ca-n ele viermele lor să nu moară...
Și vor fi o pricină de groază pentru orice
făptură cu rima lor ca o friptură. Canibalii
culturii calmuci sadea vor câte un poet nou
în fiecare sabat să le sufle în trombon.
Infuzorie cu doi cili
mândră treci pe lângă bacili
iute printre terfe stătute
tu știi precis cui i-a fute.
What is a man? He seems to be
dematerialization in this life
you refused the destiny of man
and you transposed yourself
to the destiny of a harsh broom
that sweeps the money in
she’ll sweep billions in and she’ll be
a happy but indifferent broom
in your next reincarnation you’ll be
a wilted mop incarnate that wipes
the traces of the money. Only God
knows how your future mind
can go beyond this conflict.
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***
We are forsaken
forsaken by God
forsaken by the world, by barbarians
and the dung beetles are eating us.
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Go fuck your mother! Where do you want
to get to with your allusions? I made no plan
how I should attack you, red-haired boy.
I feel that my face has caught fire I’m disappointed,
disorganized, disordered and I’m not a dumb
blonde. You are a control freak and you’re terrifically
good at controlling me, your disgusting hardened
pecker doesn’t disappear right before my eyes ‒
it’s a rocket that enters with the flame into my womb.
I doubt that today you’ll grant me a voluptuous
audience and I feel that I have half the luck.
Frustrated, I frown at my image in the mirror.
Damn my hair ‒ it just won’t respond. I don’t
have to sleep with the wet hair. Look, what
I’m doing, I’m straining to convince my hair
to stay proper, humid, but with the finger
I caress on my lips the red flower that is crying.
I do it many a time, then I tame my hair
with the hairbrush that my flower absorbs.
Exasperated, I roll my eyes and I stare
at the pale face but in a corner your hanging
pecker I stare at it, but it’s a shadow I let out
a holler moving the hairbrush inside.
Do you like that? You gramophone!
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