Sunday, 29 June 2025
DRAWING ”TEMPTATION” IS FOR SALE
DRAWING ”THE BIRTH OF THE SONG” IS FOR SALE
DRAWING ”THE REMNANTS OF KINGS” IS FOR SALE
LIMBA ROMÂNĂ
Limba română e compusă
dintr-un singur cuvânt
ce pe mutele buze ale rumânului
tresare ‒ îîîîîîîîîîîîîîî ‒ întins
într-o vale adâncă cu curu-n
sus amețit unde niciodată
oameni umani n-au existat
îîîîîîîîîîî... și așa năpasta
crește mai promptă
ca un mecanism, mecanisme
care se puiesc odată cu bestia
ce șlefuiește noii monștri
și așa rău crește și rațiunea
lui de-a fi ne scapă.
THE ROMANIAN LANGUAGE
The Romanian language is made up
of a single word that leaps up
on the mute lips of the Rumanian ‒
îîîîîîîîîîîîî ‒ lying down in a deep
valley with his ass up dizzy
where humane people have never existed
îîîîîîîîîîîîî... and thus the misfortune grows
more promptly than a mechanism,
mechanisms that pullulate simultaneously
with the beast that polishes the new monsters
and she grows so badly and his raison d’être
escapes us.
Saturday, 28 June 2025
THE KARAVLAKH CANNIBAL
***
In his dirty thousand-year-old laziness
the Karavlakh cannibal interbred his blood
the payment for the existence has never been
postponed and nor has he thought about it
and when he tried to be human he woke up
in the underworld without any commission
and he pooped himself his corpse’s shit
that the Jews, the Khazars and the gypsies
collected so that they anoint their legs with it
so that they stink of musk and they sifted him
through the sieve to take the misfortunes
out of him and they struck him to change
his fate and they always sing the same
Turkish Gyppo songs to him and he jumps up
like the salt on the saucepan but he hasn’t yet
found a duty of his shitty, he docilely reads
on the internet messages that spoil his accelerated,
heinous blood.
MORDUVENII
Moldoveni, mordoveni, boldoveni
catâri mongoli corciți, sugători patentați
de puli de câine strică sfânta limbă
românească, spurcă crucea luminoasă
bâlbâie o limbă născocită de cioroi
înțeleasă doar de ei. Și acești catâri
se umflă cum ar trebui să fugă
și să zboare cu limba scoasă de-un cot
și trec scoțându-și limba de câine
gata-n orice clipă s-o bage-ntre picioare.
De marginea drumului o maică bătrână-i
blestemă – s-amuțiți cu cuvinte rusești
înghețate și bale la gură, fără gesturi
tăvălindu-vă doar cu un drângâit
din picioare și un clănțănit de dinți!...
Ce noimă are mordovanul?
THE MORDOUVANS
Moldovans, Mordovans, Boldovans
Mongolian crossbred mules, licensed
suckers of dog’s dicks mar the holy
Romanian language, dirty the luminous
cross babble a language invented
by the crows understood only by them.
And these mules get insolent just as
they should run and fly with their tongue
out as long as a cubit and they pass
sticking out their dog’s tongue ready
at any moment to shove it between the legs.
By the roadside an old mother curses them ‒
be ye struck dumb with Russian frozen
words and dung at your mouth,
without gestures, wallowing only
with a jerking of legs and your teeth
THE GALAXY OF THE ABSURD
***
The galaxy of the absurd
pushes the martyrs into suffering
generates acts that the man
accomplishes that he isn’t even
able to fancy, innumerable are
the modes wherein the fate
scoffs at people’s things, in all
that they do ‒ the ambition
and the violence like a tempest
of fire now she breaks out
now she squats down like a beggar
under a wall. Nonetheless all of them
are paid without any discount
as at the usurer. The crimes
are incessantly woven. The horns
and the trumpets of the destiny
are incessantly sounding
and all of them are done
as in a children’s game.
Friday, 27 June 2025
THE CANNIBAL OF THE FATHERLAND
The gluttonous cannibal full of larcenies’ cruelties,
the phallic pride of the fatherland, the portrait
of the bubonic plague from the depth of a poisoned
heart dried by his own revolts by his red phallic pride
embittered by others’ acts of violence he is tormented
by the suspicion that he is not like all the people
and he’s unjustly contemptuously spat on and
that everyone carries bubonic plagues in himself
because no one, no one in the world escapes
untouched, you must always seek to blow her
into someone’s face and to infect him. Natural
is the microbe, natural is the virus. I am an honest
man and I have honest ancestors ‒ the Thracians,
the Dacians, the Lacians, the Sarmatians.
They didn’t infect anyone. Yeah, but they perished,
it’s tiring for you to be a wicked man, it’s tiring
for you to permanently be evil and my ancestors
got tired in regular combats they were put to flight,
decapitated or driven into slavery. Since ancient
Greece and Rome this nation of the Sarmatians
from whom the Moldovans and the Karavlakhians
are descended this nation was of too little trust
treacherous, traitorous, lazy and stinking, was
haunting the place between the empires
and when in danger falling immediately
with their ass up. They perished and we are
remnants of Hunnic-Tatar hordes that’s why
I defend my shit with the axe so that the dogs
not eat it hot. That’s why I became a cannibal
as are the Jews and I don’t forgive anyone
and anything. Today we are just like the cow’s
placenta that the cow chews choking to swallow it
neurasthenia in all of them and laziness.
Wednesday, 25 June 2025
I SEE THE SHADOW OF THE CANNIBAL
***
I see the shadow of the cannibal
getting longer on the road
in the courtyard of the church
under the willows and in the nave
over the icon with his saint’s
countenance with wry mouth
his black heart throws-throws
the huge drops of venom
now upon one hundred white,
idyllic and bigoted sheep
from the lectern he mingles
with them in red garments
in his eyes bathe pastures,
deserts and plains black shaggy
dogs, swarthy, blackish shepherds
with the wind in the quilted
homespun coat and with the wrath
in their paws when the shadow
and the brimstone show themselves
on the horizon the cannibals yell
on the pews and he flaps his arms
as if he took flight to the dyed red
vaults. “Who shall warm me!
Who shall love me!” he yells long
in a tremulous sharp voice.
THE CANNIBALS PROJECT THE GREAT TERROR
***
The terror! And they seem to have already forgotten.
Childish, poor country the day will come back,
the night will come back, the meteorites with flagella
are pursuing the weariness. The Parliament’s proud,
insolent jackals crammed with money measure the steps
of the horned sheep in centimetres, feeling the thigh
of the whores, they count the moans of those struck
by the sycophants, the butchers are thinking about all
kinds of taxes. During the Mass, they make high signs
of the cross and they fondle each other’s asses.
The cannibals project the Great Terror, the shameful
happiness, the fear, the lump in the throat, the pomposity,
they measure the void between the legs. Hallelujah!
THESE OGRES MAKE THE LAWS IN THE SHITHOLE COUNTRY
***
This cow pie is trodden on by monsters
the ones whose dick the local cannibals suck
passionately on all fours with legs as shaking
as the moribund men’s carried by the fate
and they lap their steaming just dropped faeces
and they lick their asshole till it reaches the acute
shine. These ogres make the laws in the shithole
country that gives them free hand to loot to plunder
the money the goods, the souls, even the breath
and the rancorous happiness, inflating the fear
like a rabbit cut for the despoliation with the clear
evidence that the butcher is thinking about you
the servile slaves with their tongue sticking out
praise the foreign ogres that seem to live on nothing
and on all the booty only to die let these emaciated
animals lead a joyous, merry, happy life as does
a mutant rat with enormously long tail guzzling
rats with short tail.
Saturday, 21 June 2025
DRAWING "EN ATTENDANT GODOT" IS FOR SALE
Friday, 20 June 2025
THIS PSYCHOLOGY OF BONDSMEN
***
This psychology of riding the slaves
and of driving the jackasses by the jackals
and incited she-jackals dancing their ass
for shekels, on their slobbery mouths
and let them foul the air ‒ this psychology
of bondsmen must not stop for a moment
at least let her defraud and betray they drive
her into you like a rusty nail, the knife
into the kidneys just like a long thorn
into your head so that they only skin you
like a crazy sheep, then they’ll cut you
piece by piece for their cryptic banquet
whereat the oversexed excessively fucked
bitch when she’s on the point of giving up
the ghost she yelps with hideous piousness,
“No more fault lines be made in my ass.”
Sunday, 15 June 2025
PROFEȚIE
Acest führer cât un găinaț
care a fost băgat pe sub hârtii
în Caravlahia creață rupe
cuvintele pe silabe ca un adevărat
autist și vrea o guvernare
cu un guvern de degenerați
să vândă tot până și măselele
milogilor să le dea țărilor prietene
în război să facă gloanțe din ele
se chircește, se scofâlcește
devine tot mai mult un segment
de scorpion în septembrie
va fi SUSPENDAT, ANULAT.
DRAWING "THE OGRE FROM SODOM" IS FOR SALE
DRAWING "PRAYER" IS FOR SALE
DRAWING "BUTTERFLY MAN" IS FOR SALE
Saturday, 14 June 2025
THE SONG OF THE CUCKOO
***
The song of the cuckoo
enshrouded the walnut trees valley
in light tenderness the gentle moira
fairy of commencements, a young
fresh mother fearfully gives the smiling
shyness to the crazy lover.
THE BULLS OF THE SUN
***
The Bulls of the Sun
on an ocean of sounds of Mermaids
suddenly, out of bellow they give
birth to a new morning.
THE PATHETIC SNITCH
***
The wretch, this gluttonous old man
titled cannibal clasps his large intestine
and doesn’t cogitate prior to making
a dash for the Holy Host so that he stuff
himself with honours ‒ that’s appalling
he’s waiting for the misfortune to fall
upon him out of the blue ‒ he rendered
his enemies unfortunate by the hundreds
with the help of the secret police, he deposited
piles denouncement upon the denouncement.
Pathetic! He should eat. He comes up
to the lectern of the church and bleats.
The gendarmes sympathize with him
and drag him to the nave. Like a slut
he believes himself to be clean and howls
like a hungry wolf, “Ye dogs that ye are,
perish ye in shit!” The repentant man is a billionaire.
THE CRIME AND THE POESY
***
The crime and the poesy
make the salt of my fatherland
the songs that move to and fro.
A LONG CHIRPING OF CICADA
***
A long chirping of cicada
drills a hole in my heart
the ancient days and I see
myself made of wind.
MY LOVE, MY DESIRE
***
My love, my desire
a dream about death
and about pulchritudinous
consolation without any
resemblance ‒ mother,
torment, destiny, dolour
fate, gentle hand, heavy
eyes, black predestination
in them the soul of the soul
laments more and more alien.
Friday, 13 June 2025
THE COURAGE IS A SIMPLE VIRTUE OF RATS
The courage is a simple virtue of rats.
Now in Ukraine in trenches
soldiers with an important grin
hearing a sound they push a red
button, the flame spurts out
and idiotic laughter covers
the face of the shooter the rat
has no idea of the objective existence
of the things. These happy killers
eat their canned food tranquilly
and drink their spirits with the “ecstasy”
pill, twisted like the smoke.
Thursday, 12 June 2025
EUROPE
***
Europe like a shop ‒ exasperating,
vulgar spirit, stench, the pain disappears
from her despicable face, but doesn’t
remain in her, she’s terribly stingy
she prefers to destroy the others.
Love for her is impossible. She’s
the recent nation of the stomach
and she can practice nothing
but the lie and the adultery
she’s still snoring like a satisfied
sow. What universe this fangy snore brings!
THE FEAR
***
The fear ‒ the smelliest passion of the century
and the servitude will melt them into her
she was binding them in her with unbreakable
chains the fear of suffering makes all the scared
people be like worms and the cynical thieves
will trample them underfoot crushing them
into little, pale and flat worlds but the priests
will blow into their own bollocks as into satanic
bagpipes.
Sunday, 8 June 2025
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LANDS
***
In the middle of the lands
grows the high grass of the pride ‒
funereal Providence with fat butterflies.
I'M THINKING ABOUT THE WOMAN I LOVE
***
You stretch out your dick towards the pussy
the breathing of the woman is whistling
as if a fragmentation grenade fell in between
her legs, she grasps you by the bollocks
and I’m thinking about the woman I love.
Suddenly, the face has become covered in smoke.
BEAUTIFUL DRAWING IS FOR SALE
DRAWING "MELANCHOLY" IS FOR SALE
Saturday, 7 June 2025
SHE SHARES THE DRUG OF THE GODS
***
That this world is empty and the other one
withdrew into herself it is so that her time
pass by the bald death that caresses the pate
of the modest Satanism and when she cuts away
some of her strong herbs she shares the drug
of the gods ‒ I don’t love the humans but I pray
for them. The problem of the evil is a tragedy
and she shakes tobacco in my fist.
THE BLOOD IS PRESSED OUT BY SWEET BEATITUDE
***
I fade into calm ecstasy
I believe that we must be
enthusiastic ‒ in order
for a kind of thinking
to change the world
first, she must suspend
the life of the one who
defends her. Who shall
believe in the one whom
he doesn’t see? So fighting
you’ll be skeleton of cannon ‒
you’ll be blue flame returning
to the sky. Dream ye no more
about anything. The blood
is pressed out by sweet beatitude.
TÂRTANII, MASTURBANII
***
Târtanii, masturbanii
ies din toate crăpăturile
gheboșați, încovoiați
mobila toată se desface
aleargă să ocupe tot
spațiul. Ei caută febril
scheletul lor de la Sodoma.
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