GOD MOVES LIKE THE SNOWFALL

 

***

God moves like the snowfall

those who sold themselves to the Jews

and the Jews try hard with their tongue

sticking out to stop the phenomenon ‒

we blossom forth as long as the snowfall lasts.

SCRIBUL NAȚIONAL

 

Scribul cazac deșuchet osândește

cuvintele, le siluiește să rîmuiască

și să sune de-a surda fără înțeles

le stoarce chiar și neantul

ca el să pară a fi un altul

un ataman al poeziei și nebuniei.

Dar a rămas un cazac care

joacă hopacul canibalilor ‒

oribilă viață avu dar n-a putut

să și-o prindă-n cuvinte ‒

se îneca în ghinatură și impostură.   

UN ȚIGAN DIN HAMANGIA

 

***

Un țigan din Hamangia

face pula pălăria

și cuvintele-n lătrat

mai pe înserat

e ministru de căcat

face pula împărat.

THE RUMANIANS

 

Secret, slobbery dogs

no bit of the ancient man’s dignity ‒

their tongue sticks into all the clefts

no matter where you turn, accursed Jewry.

THE DESTINY

The destiny is in the cross 

in the wine and blood is Christ 

the new day is made of amethyst. 

HOW IS IT POSSIBLE ?

 

***

Intense schizophrenia like the furious

metastasis of a severed cancer takes

control of acid Karavlahia the body

morphs into flint in the sun. How is

it possible that you be a Rumanian

and that God not strike you?  

WICKED DESIRES

 

***

The wicked desires

the taste for luxury, the envy

the sinister emulation make

the society work like a sect

render the existence,

the interesting life possible  

produce residue, ferment

the yeast of the thinking.

The prayer is the result

of the despair, of the inability.

The foodstuffs that we get

from these acid passions

are nothing but mould.

Everywhere there’s general

hunger. We leave mountains

of waste behind. From certain

siestas of the stuffed gluttons

you emerge as from a tragedy.

Thou Almighty God!    

THE MAN DOESN'T HAVE LYRICISM

 

***

The man doesn’t have lyricism ‒ there’s a hum

in his head, a lie. Everywhere middlemen,

commentators, exegetes, sodomitical ties,

a spirit of family of homosexuals and transgenders,

and one doesn’t know who’s the father, the mother,

the son, the animals, the angels, the saints, the priests

no trace of intellectuality everything leans on atavistic

remnants of sex organs. Maybe a concept would at least

move them they are all running to the monkey

but no one shows himself desirous of understanding her.

Everywhere rewards, accounting and heebie-jeebies.

What the man will do to himself, nor does the young one

of viper desire for himself.   

YOU'RE SLEEPING

 

***

You’re sleeping, in the mouth

a blade of grass is moving

the dreaming forest is tempting you

with smell of pain with an ant

that is trickling down you.

THE ETERNAL ANARCHIST

 

Maybe my fall was the redemption

I don’t know that the same illusion

is world and conscience and in the mystery

of her own waves every earthly voice

is shipwrecked. I’m not reactionary

I admit all the regimes, all the reforms

and all the revolutions that you desire.

Nonetheless allow me to play my part.

Don’t request of me to believe

that the history makes sense

(a belch and nothing more...)

and that the man has a future.

The man full of abysses will pass

from difficulty to difficulty

and thus the things will take place

until he perishes because of this.

Only the syncopation in his reflections

assures him the freedom. This vacuum

doesn’t let him be an automaton.

As an anarchist, I’m enshrouded

in huge waters of indifference

under another order of stars.

The great truths are told on the threshold

of death’s door.  

A FIGURE IN THE SHADOW

 

***

A figure in the shadow

a random look targeting

the arrow, the beggar’s hands

are shaking in vain, become

extinct in the sordid noise of the cars.  

WHO NEEDS THE PROGRESS OF THE MAN ?

 

***

Who needs the progress of the man?

Who needs man’s hustle and bustle?

Who needs his music, his literature

if the dogs these sly animals can’t use them?

Man has inherited a piece of lava of volcano

that hasn’t yet gone out entirely ‒ everything

is fury, panting, farting, wicked hysteria ‒

the cows swell with laughter when they see

them and give them milk for pity’s sake.    

THE MAN AND THE LIFE

 

***

The Man and the Life have become a piece of trash

the blood colours the palaces of the Power and the WCs.

The individual a beetle that is looking for food.

The billionaires sacks filled with shit, hidden

in the bunkers. Lord, Thou hast given them

the H-bomb and other devastating bombs.

Soon the earth will breathe a sigh of relief

without this mad animal the man whom the devil

made in his worst mood as if he had been

on the point of committing suicide. Christ

didn’t come to lift their sins but to show them

how the Son of Man is no God wants to lift

the sins of these beasts that created the Myth of the blood.