THE CHEAP GIGS OF THE ROMANIAN WRITERS

 The cheap gigs of the Romanian writers
– they write exclusively trashy shows –
stink strongly of shit.
From so much pestilence
the perfidious readers flee
and hide underground.

COME TO US, JESUS CHRIST

 Come to us, Jesus Christ,
we who are faltering with wickedness
and hatred, break our bones so we may see
with our own eyes how we can weep,
perhaps we will be transfigured
in a dream, in angular years like approaching
rocks. Come, heal our bread,
our greed. Are we destined to be
only beginnings of chimpanzees?

THE SYSTEM

 In Moldovlahia the system (Providence)
has completed the process of zombification
each individual carries the providential plague
yet always enveloped in his own shroud
he carries back all the accumulated evil
like in the binary system 0 1 negative positive,
the officials protected as if in a bowl of unbreakable
glass study the roads to the grave,
armed with a GPS. If these people disappear
from history it is nothing. The system 
is one and the same with a slaughterhouse. 
Providence suggests that this is man's fatum.

REFLECTION (Cioran's solution...)

 At Emil Cioran's solution to the existence — that it would be advisable to resolve it through suicide, and the sooner the better — the Romanians wrinkled up their noses saying, "If they want this, let the gypsies and other foreigners do it. We don't commit suicide for the sake of an opinion.” 

REFLECTION (Nietzsche's idea...)

 Friedrich Nietzsche’s idea of will and power, issued by a weak-minded cripple, holds true only until the possessor of that will catches a cold or some more serious illness. What the hell are you supposed to do with your will then?

THE RACES

 The races, a noise lost 
behind some obscure doors
the races shove shit and atomic
bombs into each other’s
mouths and kiss on the shore
of fatigue, a seashell. The races
do not forgive, they refine the sand
the hatred of this mind-blowing love
the races appeal to reason
and never on their knees
do they kiss each other's penises. 
The concrete hears them 
with their emaciated gods.

WHAT GLORY, MR. DIRECTOR ?

 Genital pride –, to hell with the rays
of art. Artists are just snotty brats who
are no longer needed. Primitive nature
reprocesses itself. What glory,
Mr. Director? The poor, helpless,
paralyzed poet, and his merchandise
is not selling.