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God has fire for the sins
and let them disappear
in the inferno He gave
everlasting rapture to Paolo
and to Francesca flying
under rhythms of Chopin
they make love flying
through the spaces of the inferno
as in an eternal empire of love
fuck in flight. Their absence
on earth filled the house
with mourning. Oh, Lord,
make me suffer for them.
Cleanse my inside of all
that remained evil of them,
but take me into the blaze
along with them.
***
Thou grass everlastingly lying down
thou pullest me into the spirit
of the depths on the sand whereon
the infinity often reposeth thou grass
thou attractest me to the transparent
tempests wherein I ha‘ cast my heart
where there’s neither melancholy
nor sadness.
Purple air, the Thracian spring
the wide yard with rustling trees
the wedding was in full swing ‒
the bridegroom happy the bride
happy between the echoes of joyous
laughter and the sound of dulcimer
and the squeaking of violins
and the flowery girls of the mountain
the dancing no longer ended the bride
was taken to dance in competition
four bulky guys were spinning her
more often, the hunks had been invited
from the company where she was employee
they unleashed themselves under the quick
Thracian wind across all this wooded place.
The bridegroom’s dance incited jubilant
shouts he kissed the trodden earth
and was spinning on and on happily
four bulky guys grabbed him and threw
him to the sky and let him fall like the black
lightening he fell and broke his spine.
The bulky guys were laughing. The busy bride
said, “You’ve escaped me: I wasn’t sure, either
that he’s my man.” He returned from the hospital
in a wheelchair. She was changing her love partners.
***
Nothing exists any longer
or this nothing exists
calm enthusiasm. Joy
of the annihilation, abolition
absolute form of joy
the vision of the burial
of illusions. Sacrifices
on the sepulchre of the last
wound breeze of mercy
from barren areas ‒ lives
are interrupted.
The cannibals throw the Roman purple mantle
over these long-tailed, scaly, mutant rats
that morphed into big, disgusting evil-doers,
they squeak haunted by sadness when they lose
it all, when it hurts them when their fangs fall down
they gather together silently under the altars
and they smile indifferently. They don’t like
this country without a god. This world is going
to be forsaken, devastated, gnawed on
and transformed into shit, in it they see only pride,
greed, wickedness, defiance, disdain, cannibalistic
crime, audacity of thieves. Soldiers are waiting
for them to catch them by the tail and to stick
them into the saucepan to cook the soup.
Night by night they counsel one another
under the altar. The priests quake and shout scared,
“Vade retro, Satana!” (Begone, Satan!) and the fire
of the prayer goes out. These are the Romanians
with their bare face.
***
We must say it to the whole world
what the cannibals have done to this
country they’ve sat at the table of the poor
and they hit them repeatedly on the naked
ass with the spoon it’s raining and there’s
mud on the bodies of the slaves they all
have an itch in the throat and in the ass
a smarting, but in the stomach a big
bottomless boil and on the tables
has remained only the garlic sauce.
***
The Karavlakh, the Cuman, the cannibal
a face of ash, the Turkish banner, a tail
of horse, gnashing flint teeth. He is a cloaca
whereon I have to collapse. The Fate has left
much time behind the days and the seasons
of the incompletely conceived beings.
***
Nomads, thieves, madmen, Tirtans
gypsies the rejected and the hounded-out
of the peoples come crashing down on this
country as do the locusts in times of drought
they embed themselves like viruses in all
the holes of the man in innumerable humble
forms inside yearning to substitute the victim
and they secrete the strongest poison
that melts all the metals, the alloys
weaving around some kind of probable religion
that eats our language, our soul, our respiration
the fountain of our conscience and demolishes
the architecture of our heart and they swell
so they thrive outside the order and outside the law
hideousness and faults all kinds of madness
inherited from the Huns, from the KhanTatars,
Slavs, Greeks, Turks, Jews, Hungarians
gypsies and more recently from the Arabs
the Moldo-Karavlach people hasn’t existed
they are a herd of these leftovers of apish
hordes that see humans as through the haze
and they have no shadow of thought
about what a human is. What was a human
here formerly melted away in the strongest
poisons and in crimes now over here there is
a herd of cannibals drunk as shit crammed
by the empires into a sheepfold.
My saint with supple waist
the Lord as a groom thou seeest
wasp like a swollen sail
you soar to hear what he speaks to you, female
his beauty incomparable
his mouth harsh divine
uttered words so they grow in you like vine
his stature of cypress tall
with eyes of a thousand colours
eyes twinkling with no more seen flowers
your lips are bleeding all
reddening your wounds
and you adore him for hours
come into the dizzy grove
let the music intertwine us
let her stop no more thus
I, being the first father, you the first mother
there’s levitation in the Orphic ecstasy
tranquillity of seabed.
***
Se zice că este a noastră această
mutră pocită în această oglindă
această moacă care ești tu, canibalule
cu mine și fiindul meu, este cert
că ea conține această privire
sașie, piezișă ca o ploaie cu vânt
cu săgeți care trădează compromisurile
și trădările și ele spurcă iremediabil,
ne prind și ne afundă adânc
în porcăria generalizată, primejdioasă
spurcat în veci nu vei fi în stare
să faci un lucru curat la care
să poată privi cereștii. E la fel
ca pentru animale: o iapă ori
o cățea de rasă care s-a spurcat
nicicând nu va mai da un mânz
pursânge ori un câine de rasă
măcar că după se împerechează
cu un animal de un soi mai bun.
Tot așa SIDA ne învață că ne culcăm
nu numai cu persoana cu care avem
raportul sexual, ci cu toți partenerii
clienții acesteia cu care s-a drăgălit.
Dracii ne prind în curenții ticăloșiei
de unde nu mai încape scăpare
***
Ceva de respirat nu-i
mediocritatea e sălbatică
înot în memoria nu știu cui.
***
Acești barbari canibali
au fost borîți pe plajă
pe o insulă pustie
aceste resturi de hoarde
ale lui DUPĂ
păsările dorinței
le ciugulesc picioarele
pe insula moartă
așteaptă să fie ridicați
la ceruri prin negură
fantasmele sub nisip
fac un zgomot devastator.
***
Câinii târtanilor
primesc tain de tarabostes
se ling la pulă și se jidovesc
au scris tone de denunțuri
și poezii din două silabe ‒
ham-ham.
***
I’ve sat at the table of the poor
I lack a sigh and a look I move
my arms like mortal wings
I get the feeling back in my memory
a humming rises up to the ceiling
and in the throat an itch in the hand
of the gentle unknown woman
a letter without response circulated
through the stagnation of the public
offices, the woman got the news
about the punished one, she was
soaking in the lie and in the terrifying
look. The destination am I, I’m just
searching for a place, a door, a shelter, a bell.
***
Nirvana ‒ self-extinction,
self-annihilation
while you’re destroying
your own bones you also
see people laughing
in the theatres or in orgies
with a stage or a screen
that’s visible no more
and in the cemetery
asymmetric hearts
you see remains of kings
of such impregnable ferocity.
***
The decadence, the nausea
all your kinsfolk forsook you
you endure the solitude ‒ Golgotha.
***
The birds have ceased
to peck at shit ‒, they fly away
and the leaves are falling alone.
Bacovia din Bacău
lipovanul gâștelor bete
dă cu tulumba pe poezie
și-aruncă plumb în ploaie
să sperie țăranca ce cară
pe umăr un clavir
și nu se duce la fund în noroi.
***
Neghiobul Bleaga
s-a născut un Olisbos
din lemn de carpen, neted
din disprețul pentru haos
s-a apucat și-a dat cu scrisul
pe toate treptele, stâncile
apele, într-adevăr, chiar dacă
nimic nu se-ntâmpla doar
că ilumina acel crepuscul
cu un munte de deșeuri
ce ne intra în sânge ca o poșircă
cuvintele tonul acele neghiobii
uscate ca oasele pe acoperiș
care acum te fac să întorci capul
indiferent și el sta ca un olisbos
pe o stâncă în ploaie, crăpat
iar târtanii râd ca oile capii.
***
Ben Nokia filosof bont
e un bomfaier crâncen
scârțîitor taie cuie ruginite,
taie paie și veninul lipit
de dinți se scutură
peste cel ce-l ating.
Acest zgomot sordid
se retrage în casele de bani
ale samsarilor. Acest samsarlîc
Nokia va fi refăcut în eprubetă
la aceasta se osândesc târtanii.
Nicio ființă morală nu și-a petrecut zilele, nici nu a călcat pe aceste
pământuri zise românești. Toate personajele notate ca deosebite, inclusiv
sfinții numele cărora popii le cetără în biserici, sau altele istorice nu au
chipuri de om al lui Dumnezeu au mutre de cele mai multe ori bestiale, nici
urmă de evlavie, au moace de bestii și năpârci smintite, anarhiste și șmechere.
Mutre care mimează chipul omului. Ce i-a făcut pe aștia să fugă atât de departe
de Om? Sau Dumnezeu a trimis aici ipochimeni-drac cu o poftă nesățioasă de rău,
de crimă și de distrugere? Deficiența de inteligență e uriașă. Chiar și M.
Eminovici care zic ei e rumân genial are moacă de prostănac de zilier belit. Dar
”oamenii mari” se înghesuie în drac pe la toate colțurile. Românii au cele mai
stupide mutre de pe pământ. Or fi hâtri cum se dau? Ciudat lucru cu patriarhii
care ar fi trebuit să aibă pe chip o patină de pioșenie dar au moacă dură de
director de pușcărie și glas de muiere șefă de bordel? Cum reușește dracul să-i
pocească în asemenea hal? Fudui, umflați, paiață, bazaconie, trufia neroadă. Pe
barbă le spânzură toate păcatele lăcomia cumplită și devoratoare. Ce
animalitate! Ce lumesc jalnic! Ce existență neagră! Ce fală în țară! Nimic nu
urcă. Ce animalic! Peste tot se surpă ruine omenești.
***
Celebration as rising as
the milk foam that ripened
for the virgins the light
and the garments dance
the total dance on the summits ‒
the evening bird unravels
the shores. The whole eternity
is brought back here. The forest
is a big flower fusing with the sun.
The evening wind suddenly harsher, colder.
By the unwrinkled foreheads and by the pursed
lips of the shepherds and by the gay step of their
dogs Avram Iancou could tell that he was sold
by his own compatriots, his heart was evaporating
with a whistle and a clew as black as the wool
replaced it, a clew that was gyrating maddeningly
and the clew melted too and a bitter void was
hiccupping in his chest he would have desired
to fill it with some seeds but a blizzard swept
them all away. The messenger boy shook him
and said, “The emperor wants to see you!”
“What’s the use of meeting each other?
‒ The emperor Franz Joseph ‒ and a madman
like me?” And he took to the road, a shepherd
hung a pipe on his throat through which he blew
like the wind. Exhausted and starving he lay down
on the veranda of an abandoned house and he was
blowing through the pipe more and more softly
until he gave up the ghost. It always happens
thus. “What sense do all these make?” he may
***
This continuous crime looks
as old as one thousand years
subservient with his fallen lips
with his bent knees, his bowed-down
head the criminal sinks creeps in
among embryos and zygotes
he thrusts himself into the genes
into their deep sea, into their
vast desert, into the test tube
of the geneticist of which the hand
of the Naturalness will take him out
so she can sprinkle all the grains
with blood, tossing and turning
in pleasures, with the heart
everlastingly charred and no one
is like the bread that the saint will break.
***
The Motherland has overturned,
her ass up, on all fours how she could do
without the great Poet and without his
splendid and perfect poems, by giving
him extreme poverty and starvation
and thirst, the motherland that gave him
as a female escort the slavery, the slander,
the blasphemy and the contempt, the black
cannibals barked at him one by one, the jealous
thrust a dagger deep into his back waiting
for him on the dark corners his sepulchre
are his true poems that won’t perish
even after this sky but his epitaph a blood-red
flagellar star. The weeping grew like a torrent
of light in the Milky Way towards which
the Motherland stays with her naked ass up.
***
With the soul packed
by expectancy
like the burning skeleton
of this tree in the seed
in the air passing
with furious step
this cannibal clings to us
dry phantasm blinks the eyes
sitting on a stone.
***
Când suntem prea nemernici
assoluto incapaci
cine zbiară
cel mai tare? Preaveseli jucăuși
cine seamănă mai mult cu niște
maimuțe nebune? Când suntem
ghiauri necredincioși bașibuzuci
prea-păcătoși ‒ ce-ar face dracul
cu noi? Scarahoțchi sare pe fereastră
urlând: ”Doamne iartă-mă că aici
m-am născut rumân! Nu mai pot
dansa, nu mai pot râde, nu mai pot
fute printre aceste animale lemnoase.
M-ai trimis să le fiu mântuitor, unic
mângâietor, dar ei m-au aruncat acestei
mârșave deznădejdi. Doamne, ajută
să-i dau în gât.”
Această îndrăzneață curvă deșănțată
rătăcitoare, perseverentă, importantă
perseverentă și claustrată ‒ Sclavania
Rumania rumenită, romulită spune
cu gura morișcă povești înspăimântătoare
despre trădări, jefuiri, tătari și tîrtani,
uitări milenare și reîntâlniri fastuoase
la ceasul cel din urmă ‒ bate ora exactă
la noua frontieră a reîmpărțirii Nimicului.
Acolo se adună zbiri vraiște, în final,
în sfârșit, la urma urmelor ‒ nici nu există
așa țară tearfă putrezind, a căzut mai jos
de maimuța lui Darwin cu toate miile
de abuzuri criminale.
