There are books that speak, and books that breathe. Between Life and Wind does both— with the poise of a classical instrument and the urgency of a gathering storm. Vlad Neagoe composes a luminous, wind‑struck meditation on the thresholds of being: where the body meets the invisible, where memory meets its own echo, where language becomes a current of revelation. A work of rare refinement and elemental force.
This book doesn’t “breeze” through your life. It storms in. Between Life and Wind by Vlad Neagoe is poetry with voltage— lines that slice, images that detonate, truths that refuse to stay quiet. If you want soft, scroll on. If you want a book that rearranges your internal weather, tap in.
In Between Life and Wind, Vlad Neagoe delivers a collection of poems created at the threshold between the intimate and the elemental. His voice moves with the force of a rising front—precise, restless, and charged with a fierce clarity. These poems confront the fragile architecture of the self, the shifting landscapes of memory, and the invisible pressures that shape human destiny. A book of intensity and resonance, Between Life and Wind invites readers into a world where every breath is a negotiation and every gust carries revelation.
In Between Life and Wind, Vlad Neagoe writes as if wrestling an invisible titan — and winning.
These poems are forged in the clash between the mortal body and the immortal hunger for meaning. They move like ancient forces: wind, fire, shadow, ascent. Neagoe’s voice is both priest and warrior, both witness and challenger of the world’s hidden architecture.
This is poetry that refuses to kneel. Poetry that tears open the sky. Poetry that demands you stand in the open and face whatever you truly are.
Between Life and Wind Not for the timid. For those who still believe the soul is a battlefield.
The wind in these poems does not blow.
It summons.
In Between Life and Wind, Vlad Neagoe turns poetry into a seismic instrument, registering the tremors of a world cracking under its own myths. These poems burn with lucidity, rage, tenderness, and a strange, luminous fatalism — the kind that belongs to prophets, not poets.
This is not a book. It’s a pressure wave. A warning. A revelation.
Open it, and you enter a landscape where the soul is stripped to its last essential spark — and forced to decide whether it will extinguish or ignite.
Between Life and Wind The storm is already here. Read before it reaches you.
BETWEEN LIFE AND WIND
This book does not whisper. It cuts.
Vlad Neagoe writes like someone who has stood in the center of a storm and come back with the storm’s own voice. These poems are not “reflections” — they are collisions: between breath and destiny, between the fragile human pulse and the violence of the world that shapes it.
Every page is a pressure front. Every line is a blade of air. Every poem is a confrontation with the forces that refuse to let you remain the same.
If you want comfort, look elsewhere. If you want truth — raw, unfiltered, wind‑burned — open the book.
Between Life and Wind: Read it only if you’re ready to feel the weather inside you change.
***
You
plunge equally into the interior
and
into the boundary of your being
you
wouldn’t wish the life to fade away
simultaneously
you feel as if you are
as
null as a dead water that exhausts
the
barren stone and only god on a rock
non-dispersed
neither by the shadows
nor
by the world, believing yourself to be necessary.
***
You
scrawny man, you skinny man
push
me from the heart the vortex
whereunto
you run is silhouetted
in
the window as in the full moon
within
the curly, quarrelsome light
the
cruel mass of the death the Dacian
dukes
drink their poison, laughing
the
woods leap up, the mud intensifies
the
orgasm I grow, I fall out of you,
scrawny
man. You devour me
from
you shall I live until distracted
your
name upon mine the already
extinguished
sense with the arms
crossed
upon the chest until you
regenerate
in other terrors
you
regenerate in other tricks
and
other nullifications, annihilations.
The
demon of the sycophants has eaten
too
many flowers of gypsy woman’s cunt
and
of pig’s fart and in a moment, he slit
his
own throat and left his whole horde
of
ratfinks deaf, dumb, blind and
in
the evening, they stroll crippled, limping
in
the paradise of the sadness. Unspeakably
moved,
they work together on the burial
of
the demon’s enemies how weird they seem
to
them those happenings through which
they
passed when they held their hands
on
the bloody throat of the demon. Now
the
sycophants stuff themselves with triple
indemnity
and so that they live like the sleepwalkers
they
grasp little by little some of the gypsy
woman’s
cunt flowers and of the pig’s fart blooms
in
homeopathic doses because in the aftermath
of
the demon’s death some are born, others grow,
others
die but most of them assemble in the same
sarcophagus
and they are neither born nor do they
die,
the despondency is enough for them to write
cancerous
poems.
***
Acești târtovani afurisiți
sunt o calamitate, e cel
de-al zecelea trib al evreilor
pierduți în pustiu de Moise –
robii rumâni ce-i ling la fund
și le suflă borta vor sucomba
plini de putoarea lor. Ei fac
ca aici să fie un pustiu
și să pută tot a găină moartă.
Pe-acilea nu va fi nicio țară,
nicio nație, nicio cultură
vor fi numai câini care mănâncă
cufureala proaspătă aburindă
a târtovanilor.
Over
here the name himself of this
country
hurts
your soul the bellicose arrogance
of
those who populate her, of the guests
and
of the citizens of a different chosen race
hurts
you too. As if from underground is
audible
the weeping of the rascals,
of
the petty thieves the wailing
of
the slandered women beaten
to
death: the love of the Devil is burning
inside
the women, only the wind knows
the
bitterness of this damned region
that still doesn’t let any bud of love arise
in
the soul. Look, ye bandits everything
drowns
in the mud, howls a Gyppo manele songster.
***
The
stomach of the paranoid leader
demands
that the soup be hot
but
the tongue of the corpses be tender
the
blood on the wound be like the salt.
The
criminal tyrants make plans
for
their stomach, too a despicable
interference
in the nature’s matters.
For
us, coming into life doesn’t exist.
***
Petrified
time
the
man believes no more in his destiny
will
he disappear?
The
man, what novelty!
Day
and night they din it into your ears:
what
Droula does, what Poula does,
what
Soula does what Bolvan, Bolovan does
what
Shoushara Shoushera does what Sodom
does
what Gomorrah does what Nitsa does
what
Poutsa does what Sarah does what Pizdarah
does
– endlessly what he/she does what he/she does
and
they are all straining while pooping
and
they are all moaning and they throw
huge
diarrheal faeces over the country
and
the country is getting buried in a swamp
of
diarrheal faeces.
***
The
dog-hearted Securitate bard
smelling
of pig’s fart flower
feels
a strong pain in his guts.
“Poesy,”
he says to himself, “lives
on
perpetual barbecues, I have
to
stick them into the brine,
to
rat on as many people as possible:
certainly,
I have the last word,
but
I utter it in such a whispering voice
that
nor can I hear it only the warrant
officer
hears it and he lays his hand
on
the throat of the traitor gypsyish
patience
supports me and I forgive no one
I
always listen to a song of lark
of
my innards.”
***
Sleep,
ye hopeless, soon it will be day
a
day whereon the seed of Christ
will
ignite within you; some will be killed
only
for a night, but others for all eternity.
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
The
lazy-minded, disappointed aborigines
suck
straw, eat all that is good from the trash
cans
at the extreme end of Europe, kicking
the
pain with the hoof from behind, praising
themselves
until they drive the dogs, too crazy
and
they cause the rats, too peals of laughter
at
the hour of the starvation, at the hour
of
the lamentation without any scream,
the
aborigines catch them and crucify them
on
the iPhones, knock them down off the cross
on
the warm beds and they could pray
to
the smiling decaying carcasses because
it’s
very serious for the rats and the lazy-minded
guys
to suffer together because they are the same
mammals
and they are born and die in the same
way,
they make love in the same way
and
in the same way they eat leftovers
from
the trash cans but they suck straw
differently,
they see the bread covered in blood
whereas
the Tirtans crammed into the state’s
offices
binge eaters eat 12 times a day
and
rake up all the money from the budget
with
all their relatives and whores with all the traitors
they
deal with the looting, with the flaying and
with
the annihilation and for mercy they make
the
onion lachrymose, they make the salt fleeting.
Our
savage who clatters his jaw “da-da-da”
and
cossets himself as do the Slavs
with
amazing ng-ng diminutives hot-headed
considering
that the man is sad and to be human
is
damaging depressing and he always hides
in
his red chest but when he became aware
of
all his deplorable state he filled with pride
in
being sombre mammal and he had a good
scratch,
he felt a joy almost up to the pain
considering
that the man harshly originates
from
the labour and his voice sounds obsequious
and
then he sees himself as an apostle: the waiter
who
poured soup with the ladle for a foreign guest
whom
they begin to love as soon as the steam
touches
the nostrils of that one and then
it
seems to him that he regains his attention for himself.
