The Securitate boor with epaulettes of a big scribe
constantly
put in the showcase set himself confessing,
“Sometimes
it occurs to you, and you want to say
occasionally
that not much time is left so that you
become
equal to a god in full swing or at least equal
to
a great führer who controls a miserable planet
but
lower knowing the unhappiness about being
born
he wants to escape from this poisoned gift
an
act of revenge of the Providence and the snarling
finicky
boor chatters on about the fact that he lived
all
his luxury life in the company of the suicide
day
by day, hour by hour and it would be unjust
on
his behalf to slander her because she is dear
to
him because unsatiable is the fierce desire to exist,
the
meanest vice by which a mortal can be affected
his
specific vice that helps him generate thousands
of
pages of viscous literature that he produces
out
of consciousness to have a body that should
amble
along through the world to gather money
and
to go to the secret militia to rat on, to chat
with
the officers and they should praise him
in
the name of the fatherland – you can’t live
and
you can’t know that you live you have
to
live without your knowing it and you have
to
destroy your adversaries without your knowing
it,
you have to just write what crosses your mind
about
them and to do it in such a way that they
disappear
in this regard the more illusions you have
the
more courage you have and the Sigourantsa
appreciates
you, especially my buttocks of a widow
mama
wanted me to be born a little girl, she said
and
was awaiting me when I grow, I play the spoilt
child,
“I’m mama’s stupid little girl and I’m yearning
for
the dick" and she should rebuke me jokingly,
“Shame!”
and the Securitate guys noticed that I have
the
buttocks of a little girl and they slapped them
delicately,
licked them, shook them and made it
longer
with the pecker inside me, they were dancing
me
and they made me as great as Kafka. And then
without
me knowing how I managed to enter
into
the flow of time to be universal and to re-find
them
intact my desires and the fits of anger
of
the brilliant, ratfink little girl. The Securitate,
those
big-dicked, fiery Gyppo jail guards
cured
me of melancholy and taught me the grammar
of
the success. Without the Sigourantsa of the Gyppo
jail
guards, success wouldn’t have existed, the love
of
the dick-headed mob for me wouldn’t have existed.
They
alleviate my manias and my working lips
as
hard as some nail files suck their untiring dicks.
That’s
why they fight for me and on a day of Shabbat
I
will receive the Shnobel prize, huge success.
I
can’t fight for anything but the unflinching purpose
of
having conquered. That’s why I live day by day
with
the beloved suicide on my skin of a hen.
I
exceeded the stage where it doesn’t matter
any
longer whether I commit suicide or not.
“You
prolonged it enough it’s time for you
to
take French leave,” I tell it to the Gyppo
Securitate
guy but he tells me, “Take it easy
your
large intestine resists more than the skin
of
the sausage “Prichepoutul””. “Ah my thirst
for
life is morbid.“ “Shut up, you mare,”
shouts
the
warrant officer, “all the nation is reading you
and
the Jews are dying of love because you are
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