REFLECTION

 I, Vlad Neagoe, am the only poet in Moldo-Wallachia. The rest are mere troublemakers. M. Eminovici is pathetic.

ON THIS EARTH PACKED WITH CANNIBALS

 On this earth packed with cannibals
one stays far underneath, the table
at which they sat has cracked, 

in the glasses have remained the eyes 

needed to kill, nothing moves the killers, 

they swallow all that awaits our death
and all that remains foreign, 

they lead us to death to the new
resurrection, the joy of living shakes me
like thunder – I hear the golden voice 

of the aurora who does not let her mystery escape.

Step into the beautifully raw, melancholic world of The Load Of Despondency

 Are you tired of superficial answers to life's heaviest questions?

Step into the beautifully raw, melancholic world of The Load Of Despondency, the gripping new poetry collection by Vlad Neagoe.

This isn't a book of comforting clichés. It is a fearless exploration of the human shadow—an intimate journey through grief, isolation, and the quiet weight we carry when the world grows too loud. Neagoe’s sharp, evocative verses give a powerful voice to the unspoken aches of modern existence, transforming personal despair into universal art.

Why readers are turning these pages:

• Unfiltered Emotion: Verses that capture the exact anatomy of heartbreak and existential longing.
• Haunting Imagery: Vivid, atmospheric poetry that lingers in your mind long after you close the cover.
• A Companion in the Dark: A deeply comforting reminder that you are never truly alone in your quietest struggles.

Perfect for fans of introspective, contemporary literature and anyone who finds solace in the deeper, darker corners of written art.

Find your solace in the shadows.

🛒 Get your copy of The Load Of Despondency today on Amazon and select bookstores.

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SIBERIA, GIGANTIC LACHRYMATORY

 Siberia, gigantic lachrymatory 
gigantic ossuary
of a starved age
dreams of stretching out
all the way to the beginning
of some enchanting years
upon the soil of Europe
over our sarcophagi
so that she find a drop 
of diaphanous time
a presence without reverse,
so that she put an end
to the dialogue of one —,
her lips shrivelled from frost
and thirst upon a red spot.

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.