DRAWING "A GOD" IS FOR SALE

 

Drawing A GOD is for sale. Who wants to buy it, please email me at the address vladneagoe52@gmail.com 

DRAWING "THE NATIONAL COSSACK" IS FOR SALE

 

Drawing THE NATIONAL COSSACK is for sale. Who wants to buy it, please email me at the address vladneagoe52@gmail.com 

I SHALL ATTAIN THE COMPLETE NIGHT

 

***

This night will die, too

and I shall fall asleep

under the whoosh of the waves

and I shall attain the complete

night wherein the dream no longer

flickers anywhere, maybe I shall

awake in your soul that modulates

like the voice of the nightingale

where the waves finish their rolling.  

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THE BINGE-EATING BOLSHEVIK

 

***

Starvation, war

and quickly the binge-eating Bolshevik

kicks the bucket as does a stranded whale

after a storm ‒ he has no desire to sink,

the tiredness in his paunch makes

him lie flat and he remains in a forgotten

corner, decomposing.

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AM VĂZUT-O ȘI EU PE CURVA ASTA DE VALAHIE

 

***

Am văzut-o și eu ca pe un soi de Calvăr

pe curva asta de Valahie cu tichie șleampătă

molfăindu-și neîncetat nenorocirea, grăuntele

funebru întinsă ca o Sahară de-a lungul

a mii de ani ‒ după îndată te duci la specialist

organele nu-ți mai funcționează, ai impresia

că ești ultimul între oameni, rebutul Creațiunii,

un gunoi nu știi anume de ce suferi și mai puțin

din ce cauză mori, moartea adăpostește cu grijă

acel grăunte de mister, pe care viața vrea

să-l strivească între dinți. Durerea ne ticsește

într-o seră, în timpul cât ne macină, ne sporește

orgoliul vrăjmașa noastră își ia îndatorirea

să ne apere și noi suntem mândri o rugăciune

iradiind sfârșitul se usucă pe buze.  

ACESTE MAȚE GROASE RÂGÂIE, PÂRȚÂIE ȘI RÂD

 

***

Aceste mațe groase

ce spânzură greu

deasupra noastră

râgâie, pârțâie și râd

și ne-arată dincotro

bate vântul. În ele răsună

fatidice telefoane

care anunță iminente

dezastre lipite unul de altul

se mișcă înainte-înapoi

și mănâncă pe de rost

carne de om în sânge de câine.  

HALEALA CANIBALULUI RUMÎN

 

Canibalul stă la masă, mârîie

dă din mâini, un picior tremură

și saltă într-un ritm uluitor

încât înfometează lăcomia,

pare că-n el se răspândește frica,

femela timorată îi pune în față

mici, ceafă de porc, degete

de copil rătăcit, sarmale, curmale.

Brusc intră în transă și prinde

a băga în maț cu maximă celeritate

ațâțat de instinctul ancestral

și bagă în maț cu pasiunea erosului

nostru deșănțat, se aude doar

clefăiala. După ce a ras tot

se scobește între dinți ‒ nici în amintire

n-a rămas activitatea de ingurgitare.

Toarnă câteva pahare de vin și rachiu

în gură și cu mâna neputincioasă

își apasă mațul gros. Pare că s-a umplut

mârîie: ”Tu femeie roabă, tu cugetă,

acuș acilea se dezumflă. Așteaptă,

se-adună mânie și iar fur ceva...”

Canibalul vede pene-nsângerate

albe pe zăpadă. ”Pe noi ne devoră

foamea, muiere...”

YOU JACKASS OF MINE

 

***

You jackass of mine, you despise me

intensively and you are on the watch

so you hit me with your hoof you bray

horrifically and you enrage my neighbours

how should I be so that I become like you

and you become individual and you be a man?

You want everyone to be a kind, decent man

you want the animals themselves to be humans

but especially the reptiles and the dogs

even the fly, the spirit of the Devil

you want her to be a honest man.

Actually, the entire Universe is a manikin

deafer than a brain. You jackass, give

the go-ahead to your executioners.

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I SINK INTO THIS SERENE SKY

 

***

The dawn showers the hearth

with ardour, I sink into this

serene sky of suffering, child’s eyes.  

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YOU CANNIBAL, DON'T LIE TO ME

 

***

“You cannibal, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m thinking about the sow.”

“I’d like to die somewhere else,”

the sow responds. The kindness

dries her red hands with her grunt.

THE JUNGLE WITHIN THE MAN

 

***

The laws and all the adjacent theories

are made for the dogs and for the hens

the jungle within the man is running over

and is swallowing the world, there’s rarely

a bird that senses her and escapes

from the invasion we have nothing else

to borrow from the Greeks because

the misfortune has bitten too deep

and awakens a predisposition towards

the misfortune that forces you to throw

yourself into her as into the mouth

of the big snake Anaconda and

to throw your fellow man, too.

LETHAL BANANAS

 Lethal bananas 

appearing on a silhouette 

the whores in motion flash 

with all the lights 

you shall think in transparency 

you shall not die humiliated 

by so fragrant a pack of nasty little dogs.  

WE MUST MEET THE LOVE

 ***

Every soul keeps a sharp lookout

in a way for the way this life cossets

you this life showing that we must

meet the love prior to meeting the death ‒

or else the heartbreak ‒ overtly the man

doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to be laid

in his soul ‒ extreme philosopher

thus, I seem not to exist, either I fall

from the poplar wherein I save my soul ‒

I’m on the point of glorifying myself.     

A SPARKLING MORNING

 

***

A sparkling morning

a taste of gold flies into the air

a fragrance of cuckoo’s song

softens the flowers and the incense.

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LET ME PASS

 ***

Mountain with imploring stairs

let me pass with the woman

clasping her in my arms

beyond the precipice to my

entreaties you bring torrential rains

you move the haze between the dusk

and the night’s alcohol you hide us

in a hollow as some lukewarm,

complementary donkeys, filtering

veins of auriferous sand

adorning the river with floral veils ‒

the outer madness shakes this century.   

YOU SHOULD KNOW HER

 

***

To live means to verify

whether you are whole.

You should know her,

you should understand her,

the anxiety craftily

the hard, rapacious life,

she wants and she doesn’t want,

sky and bird flight of the only

chance with quickness

you feel your way blindly.  

SCRUTIN

 

Bande de-anarhiști compacte

își numără bombele, gloanțele

granatele 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 maimuțe

care cred că au un spațiu

de supraviețuire. Ar fura și ei ceva,

dar nu au puterință și clămpănesc.  

INEDIT M. EMINOVICI

 

Vino-n codru‘ cu verdeață

să ne futem cu dulceață

hai! Hai! Hai! Că te tai!

Alba ei făptură venea spre mine

că eu nu-s un fitecine

eu sunt dacă-ți este pe plac

eu te urc în iatac și-ți fac

futac. Bucură-te de prilej

căci sunt aicea desfătări cioclej.

ROMÂNIA E-O GĂINĂ SPURLICHETĂ

 

***

România e-o găină spurlichetă

cotcodăcitul ei înnebunește lumea

perturbă zborul avioanelor

o labă păroasă îi fură ouăle

de aur ‒ mârșav șovăielnică

povestește, povestește, povestește

nelegiuit, apropiindu-se de moarte

ofensată, jumulită cu pielea

ei de găină cotcodăcioasă

târtanii o magnetizează

femeiește și ea își bagă ciocul

sub aripă, râde participând

la al ei sfârșit.

LUCEAFĂRUL REDIVIVUS

 

Hiperion în ceruri se pustia

în coaie un uriaș tsunami se-nvârtea

își lasă cheile, pălăria, aruncă

un cuvântișor pentru toți

în broasca cheii văzu metalul

din care ochiul i s-a desprins

să dezaurească aurul, acest biet

creier pieptănat într-aiurea

pentru a intra într-un rol dramatic,

își trimise visul practic al sufletului

către pupila lui Micle, boier bătrân,

muierea lui curvișoară își dădea

pizda pe bani. ”Dragă, te iubesc,

coaiele-s jăratic în vânt Sfântu Petru

mi-e martor c-am să te călăresc cu foc,

te-am spionat, știu ce-ți place.”

”Tu ești din ploaie conținut,

dar eu mă fut pe bani, niciun gram

de sămânță nu zboară spre mine.”

Și Hiperion iute la labă luă ștromeleagul

și iute potoli tsunamiul în fine, în sfârșit,

la urma urmelor se răcea, se răcea

și se se...

FÜHRERUL TRĂDĂTOR

 

***

Führerul trădător

o pizdă pe clanță

țipând și gemând ‒ așa

se usucă, umil, zâmbitor

cu picioarele crăcănate

dominatoare, întorcând

spatele neștiutoare

rece, mai rece, cuprinsă

de flăcări ștergându-și

sudoarea convulsiv

linge orice mână ce se-apucă

de clanță, o înghite.  

"THE SAME VOICE ETERNALLY ISN'T SILENT" IS PUBLISHED

 HELLO EVERYONE, 

MY BOOK "THE SAME VOICE ETERNALLY ISN'T SILENT" IS PUBLISHED AND AVAILABLE ON AMAZON.COM AS AN E-BOOK AND AS PAPERBACK. THIS IS A BOOK FULL OF TRUE AND VIVID POETRY. TO ORDER IT PLEASE FOLLOW THIS LINK https://a.co/d/hXgT8HY

 

DRAWING "BUDDHA TEMPTED" IS FOR SALE

 

Drawing "Buddha tempted" is for sale. Who wants to buy it, please email me at the address vladneagoe52@gmail.com

DRAWING "OSIRIS" IS FOR SALE

 

Drawing "Osiris" is for sale. Who wants to buy it please email me at the address vladneagoe52@gmail.com

PLACE OF THE PAST

 

I feel as old as a coin that turned green

and is covered by the mould it has only

notches of doubt. I’ve been crushed.

The man and God are reconciled with each other

the heart shares the flower of the dolour

and defeats the death and the water

of the new limpid life flows; living waves

of eternity lead the heavy heart into heavy

vortices, melancholy, torments and fun

lost am I without any escape, without bitter

nostalgia even the gold stars that twinkled

for an instant were nothing but illusions

nonetheless the death engraved her cruel

name on every line, on every cog. The coin

me is like a drowned sun like a warm tear

in the Universe rolling flames make it collapse

dispersing all that was once united, place

of the inexhaustible past.     

THE NEW YEARS ARE PASSING

 

The new years are passing

into a cloud of innocent tears

reviving the atrocious mask

that maliciously covers the great

circle of her passions ‒ the overnight

compassions are visible, the shout

is visible, the stormy and strident

silences of the things are visible

through a luminous cloud of tears,

the years being resurrected with a new

air with the unread vision

from the purer dream with love’s

lighter step.     

CROSSING

 

“To you did I entrust my treasure, my legacy,

poverty, hatred, I succeeded in making every

human hope perish in your conscience

over every joy so that I throttle her I took

the muffled leap of the ferocious wild beast

I called the executioners so that they bite your

throats I called the Furies so that they stifle

your screams so that they cover your blood

with quicklime and I cast you into the cloaca

I fortified and dried your skin in the wind

of the crime in the detention camps and you

have the idiotic laughter of the hopeless

on your faces but I lured you anew to the banquet

for which I’d get lust again, maybe, so

with Christian steam ‒ you pull the death

by the tail with all your cravings, with your

egoism, with the cannibalism, with the socialism

and with all the capital sins without you believing

in the original sin so that you take possession

of all that is terrible, in retail, slowly, on a trial

basis, that’s what the mission of your cultural

cannibalism requests but until that gets into your

hands the terribleness, the revolt must be fought,

demolished, encircled, even cursed and annihilated

it must be understood on a theoretical and historical

level as a form of imperfection, of a stumbling block ‒,

the idea of passing across the earth without you leaving

any trace behind is per se as fascinating as she can be ‒

the life is the future all that belongs to the past seems

to be arbitrary, stupid, absolutely futile. In full anxiety

you idiot, you should remember that the thing you are

afraid of will lose its every reality sometime and its

every sense that the past looks out for all that supervenes,

that the past is eviler than the death. You man, you’ll

remain a jackal!” screams Satan, “Pull the blanket

over your head or the nuclear fire under your ass...”  

It was an endless dream and the phantom jittered

and held forth so that I write these hideous pages

more boring than those of much quoted Hegel.

Nonetheless this very moment no reproach coming

on the part of the people or of gods could touch me:

I have the conscience so reconciled that I feel

as if I had never existed.      

 

THE FINAL DISAPPOINTMENT

 

***

The final disappointment

has the taste of the jail

you shall fight a lifetime

so as to touch some spectral lichens at last.

MERCILESS RIVERS OF MY DOLOUR

 

These are the merciless rivers of my dolour

and they flow through my embittered heart

whispering to me, “Love on under the redness

of the cloud, we give you quietude

from the world of the ghosts.” This is my

nostalgia for the heart of the eternity

among all the limpid waters she lingers on

less in the reflection of a flash of lightning.

The merciless rivers are the oblivion

and rarely do they awaken the wind.  

A WHISPER

 

***

Sown field of wheat with ravens

tells us in a whisper of oasis,

“We must liberate ourselves from life

without detesting her ‒ there no longer

exists inferno whereinto we shouldn’t  

have descended, remorse without commencement.”

IT'S ONE O'CLOCK AT NIGHT

 

***

It’s one o’clock at night

this supernatural calmness

weaves a hope, her eyes are purple.

The hours flow into solitude.  

THIS COUNTRY LIKE A DUNG HEAP

 ***

One is sitting as on the thorns, as on live coals

in this country like a dung heap of the cannibals

of the Bolshevik Jewish pit bulls ‒ no fertility

of the spirit rises, with new violence your

body is quartered ‒ sonorous and moving sufferings

fill the chasm of the promiscuity. You dogs,

I’m listening to your whimper.   

THUS YOU CAN BE HAPPY

 

***

Sufferings everywhere and permanent despair

hurry, hurry to pass on your part of the wonderful

of positive, of beneficence, the leniency, the love,

the kindness, abandon ye the iniquity and show

your compassion ‒ only love and hope ‒ scream

these washed-out stupid blonds who have nothing

but the Bible on their lips so that they stultify us

the ineffable, only life, after all, with whom you

agree to unite that stultification that is denied

to you daily by beings and by things from which

you get so hard, here and there several defleshed

fragments, several crumbs at the end of some

merciless combats, you shall be ignored,

misunderstood, solitary ‒ thus you can be happy,

close the door.   

THE SCEPTIC

 

The sceptic on duty from Paris woke up

caught like a fly in the network of the spider

that was tickling him under the armpits  

with his long, agile legs and then he entered

the act so heart-rending and so serious of writing

then when the fear of death was rising up

in the eyes like the boiling milk on the stove

and a kind of happiness was gaining momentum

naked in the gust of wind for her trip to him

off the bridges and in the Luxembourg Gardens

and the Jews were having fun copiously, were

criticizing him and were praising him,

the amusement was surpassing the spider’s

lust for sucking the fly and the Jews were

recommending that he do an Art that be born

of dolour and lead to dolour and he was living

a life as in the siesta of the happy

and when he breathed his last in his coffin

the Jews stiffened his arm raised in the Nazi

salute in this way they stuck him into the grave

with the raised arm into the land at Montmartre

Job is saluting his dust even now in front

of the spider he spat out his heart

into the Old Testament.