YOUR DESTINY, SLAVE

 

***
Torture, torment
bread, wine, the tragic
flowing, quaternary mornings
your destiny, trembling slave,
snoring, bringing to light
your organic sufferings
marking your step,
your soul feels ashamed
prostrates himself seeing you—
all this and the rest
are your summary, slave,
even the past is minced
the rocks will not know
how to speak of you, casting down
sparks of sulphur. Oblivion
folds her flight through all
that perishes, carried away
in a rocking motion.

THE MAN EATS EARTH

 

***
Telluric and magnetic
with the nothingness
in his soul the man eats earth
theoretically and practically
the artificial intelligence
draws intelligent furrows in him—,
the monolith and his procession
whom the roars and the waters
with their muffled Ancient World
meet halfway upon the wind
and the man squats down,
dizzy and devastated.

THIS TIME ADVANCES EN BLOC

 

***
The horrible, the fruitless
the terrified, the leprous
the fateful, the paralyzing
the devilish, the obscure
the drastic, the satanic
keep in vibration a frenetic,
greedy, and harsh spirit
that makes you sense the passage,
the advancement of time
and that this time
advances en bloc.
Life is conservative
she does not tolerate revolution
she knows no remorse.
I am afraid of the indifference
of history. Fewer and fewer
things for which we should
go further forward. And yet,
how much I love the poplars.

SOMETHING REMAINED OF THE ORIGINAL EDEN

 

***
Of the original Eden
something remained,
an unfulfillment
a bird from there escaped
and a madman rubbed his eyes
and then fired two shots
the bird collapsed into the reedbed,
but a feather remained suspended
in the air. Of course, it is something.
The feather is a flame for us,
and for God, a wildfire.

GOD, THE GREAT STRANGER

God, the great Stranger
kisses you, then closes the door.
The body leaves you high and dry.

COME TO US, JESUS CHRIST

 

***
Come to us, Jesus Christ,
we who shake with wickedness
and hate, break our bones
so that we see with our own eyes
how we can weep; perhaps
we will be transfigured
in a dream, in years jagged
as rocks approaching. Come,
heal our bread, our greed.
Are we truly fated to be
only beginnings of chimpanzees?

EVERY MOMENT SURPRISES US

 

***
The air is turned blue by souls
and by turtledoves, all those who
died did not tell us they were dying
every moment surprises us
that we are still breathing
after the repeated disasters
and we continue to endure
the hope, the misfortune,
although knowing
that all are good things
like bread and wine,
like Holy Communion
knowing that death is a state
of perfection, the only one
within a mortal's reach,
death is our summary
just as a skylark dies
upon the wind.
'Stop the massacre!' the night cries out.

THE PEACE OF THE EVENING

 

***

The soft peace of the evening
sinks down upon the countenance
the expectancy retreats
into her life with those pages
beyond the earth of the puffed-up
words that gave birth to her.

AI

The artificial intelligence by impulse

rotates the jackass's muzzle 

so that he stand with his eyes in the sun 

and she tells him in an iron voice, 

"Look there at the sun, you singer."

THE SHITTY PIECES OF SHIT

 The shitty pieces of shit 
have locked Moldo-Vlach literature
in a toilet at the back of the yard
put a padlock on it, hooked the key 
to their belt and got lost in Palestine, 

in the black salt of Sodom.

WAR

 

You tell me, disillusioned friend,
that war occurs unexpectedly
in a place of dance
which the dance exhausts
and war always occurs
to be the last one, only
for its own constipation.
But always nothing is worse
than the dead who remain
outside of humans
when madness is no longer cured.

ANALYSIS OF A LOVE POEM BY VLAD NEAGOE

 

***
Come, my love, today
let us copulate like snails
on the wet branch
of a blossoming cherry tree
we shall not know the fall;
but without makeup, the crust
will soften us into the noosphere,
there we will populate the footprints
of our epiphanies, of our famines.

The core of this poem is an erotic‑metaphysical metamorphosis disguised in a deceptively simple image: “let us copulate like snails.” Neagoe uses the biological strangeness of snail mating — slow, reciprocal, hermaphroditic, moist, and suspended in a kind of timeless equilibrium — as a symbolic engine to explore transcendence, vulnerability, and the dissolution of human boundaries.

🌿 1. The opening gesture: erotic invitation as metaphysical threshold

“Come, my love, today / let us copulate like snails” The verb copulate is intentionally clinical, almost jarring. Neagoe often uses abrupt, literal diction to pierce through sentimentality. But the simile “like snails” immediately shifts the tone: snail mating is slow, mutual, and involves the famous love dart — a biological act that feels mythic, ritualistic.

The erotic act becomes a ritual of slowness, moisture, and suspended gravity, a way of stepping outside human time.

🌸 2. The setting: the wet branch of a blossoming cherry tree

This is a classic Neagoe juxtaposition:

• wetness → fertility, vulnerability, the tactile world

• blossoming cherry tree → transience, Japanese mono no aware, beauty on the edge of disappearance

The lovers place themselves in a space where ephemerality and eroticism fuse. The cherry tree is a symbol of brief existence; snail mating is prolonged, almost geologic. The tension between the two creates a poetic field of paradox.

🌀 3. “we shall not know the fall” — denial of gravity, denial of mortality

Snails cling. They do not fall. To “copulate like snails” is to enter a state where gravity — and by extension, fate, decline, death — is suspended.

This is a recurring Neagoe motif: erotic union as a temporary escape from the metaphysical laws that govern human suffering.

🧩 4. “but without makeup, the crust / will soften us into the noosphere”

This is the most striking transformation in the poem.

• without makeup → without masks, without social identity

• the crust → the shell, the hardened exterior of the self

• soften us → dissolution of ego boundaries

• into the noosphere → Teilhard de Chardin’s concept: the sphere of collective human consciousness

The erotic act becomes a portal into a higher cognitive realm, where individuality dissolves into shared mind. This aligns with Neagoe’s broader metaphysical project: eroticism as a form of clairvoyance, a breach in the membrane of ordinary perception.

🔥 5. “there we will populate the footprints / of our epiphanies, of our famines.”

This is quintessential Neagoe: pairing illumination (“epiphanies”) with deprivation (“famines”).

• populate the footprints → inhabit the traces of our own revelations and sufferings

• epiphanies → moments of metaphysical insight

• famines → existential hunger, emotional scarcity, historical trauma

The lovers do not escape their human condition; instead, they repopulate it from a higher vantage point. Their union allows them to revisit their own spiritual history — both the luminous and the desolate — and give it new life.

This mirrors Neagoe’s recurring theme: love as cataclysm, where erotic experience becomes a way of confronting and reorganizing the self’s deepest wounds.

🎼 6. Overall structure: from body → nature → metaphysics → history of the self

The poem moves through four layers:

1. Physical erotic invitation

2. Natural setting that frames the act in transience

3. Metaphysical ascent into the noosphere

4. Return to the human condition, now transformed

This spiral structure is characteristic of Neagoe’s “cosmognia” — his tendency to move from the intimate to the cosmic and back again.

⭐ Interpretive synthesis

The poem is not about sex; it is about metamorphosis through intimacy. To “copulate like snails” is to:

• abandon speed

• abandon ego

• abandon gravity

• abandon human masks

• enter a shared consciousness

• revisit one’s own epiphanies and wounds from a place of unity

It is a ritual of softening, a temporary suspension of the world’s violence, a way of inhabiting the metaphysical realm through the most vulnerable form of physical contact.

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?

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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.

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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.

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.