LESEN SIE MEIN BUCH "DIE ABGLEITUNG DES KOMETEN"

 Lesen Sie mein Gedichtbuch DIE ABGLEITUNG DES KOMETEN, das  bei United P.C. Verlag aus Deutschland erschienen ist. 

Vlad Neagoes „Die Abgleitung des Kometen“ ist ein monumentales Werk, ist  ein spirituelles Tagebuch des Leidens. Es liest sich wie eine Mischung aus: • Rimbauds visionärem Delirium, • Dantes Höllenkatalogen, • Ciorans metaphysischem Pessimismus.

UM MEIN BUCH ZU BESTELLEN, FOLGEN SIE BITTE DIESEM LINK ZUR BUCHHANDLUNG

https://www.united-pc.eu/buecher/belletristik/lyrik-dramatik/die-abgleitung-des-kometen.html  

SONOROUS TIME

 

***

Sonorous time, a fugue

a kind of immuring in fear

the life and I two parallel

rivers that meet in death.

Overexertion, compassion.

FOLCLORUL ROMÂNESC

 Hai fîs, hai fîs

haida, haida fîs 

hai fîs, hai fîs 

haida, haida fîs 

haida, haida, haida 

haida țup. 

COGITATION (MIHAI EMINESCU)

 If you strip M. Eminescu of his much-sought-after rhymes, he remains a dull-witted fool, miserably mouldy like any random passer-by. Everything in his work is rhymed prose, mere bluster. It isn't even a joke. Everything is a futile banality, quite far from the ancestors. This is the pure truth.

COGITATION (Arghezi, Barbu, Blaga, Bacovia)

 The likes of Arghezi, Barbu, Blaga, and maybe Bacovia played with rhymes as with the dick feverishly. They wrote poetry so hermetic that not even the devil understands it; in reality, they are just 'chiorts' (devils, unclean spirits) who want to be authors creators. But instead of a soul, these men had a stone that dripped venom.

LIBERATION

 

***

Liberation, liberation!

But do we have something

to liberate ourselves from?

The gods laugh at our naivety.

The hatred and the event are

synonyms. The kindness is

static. The world can’t be static.

The birds make their nest

in the head of the man.

This world is unreal

in any way we look at her  

even if she exists.

THE SONS OF SODOM

 

***

Among the multitudes

with their curly hair

paranoid, paraplegic

paralytic in their heads

the sons of Sodom, venomous

brood of vipers come and harvest

our vineyards stink the foul

coolness out and hide the harmless

sunlight, those perched

on top of the power give orders

to loot, orders to kill the children

to annihilate the aborigines

and they sell even their rags

and these paraplegic guys

sit at the banquets in the infirm

jubilation of the day and our

mountains become deserted.

The dark cemeteries – deluge

gathered the smells of the tempests,

of the debris where innumerable

vipers are celebrating the life

is getting thinner and is going

away to the paper skies

of the propellers that throw

excrement into the heads of the people.