The Rumanians, unwashed first-class
mankurts
reading isn’t really their thing
are slow
on the uptake and you have to give
them
the pre-chewed morsel in a huff,
tired, they
wrinkle up their nose when
someone is
heading for them with a gold book
where
they are shown that the enemy
comes to love
them: for you, cretin, she enshrouds
you
in a tepid sentiment, this book
is written
and they make grimaces as if they
have
got earrings put in and the
sadness hangs
them in disgust. “You are mad
there’s no
greater horror than the books.
All the writers
be hanged upside down in the
water closets!”
And they have blocked the
printing,
they have blocked the access to
the bookstores,
they chased away the writers who
don’t kiss
the Sodomites with Sodom’s
propaganda
on their ass they sent them to
rats’ catching,
the state appointed paid henchmen
to annihilate the ones who don’t
write
formal books. For you,
fatherland,
shit rains down on you from the
high
pleura. All the mankurts seem to
have
urinated but the Tirtans put
earrings
on them and count their steps
within funeral sounds.
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