YOU REVOLVE AROUND A SHIPWRECK

 ***

You revolve around a shipwreck you wake up

in front of a wall, you have to go back, you were

not fated to pierce it or to blow it up, therefore

retreat and defeat you say your prayers, God

doesn’t read and you don’t know what’s the use

of so much suffering, of the persecutions

that are administered to you by the cannibals.

The martyrs say that the suffering has only one

goal: that one to open eyes, to awake the spirit

to know: you suffered therefore you understood

for this you endured the illness or the iniquity

or any other form of misfortune. That it makes

you a kinder man? Nonsense. He is kind the one

who was already kind. The suffering is useful

only for the knowledge and, apart from this,

she does nothing but poison the life.

The tranquillity comes from the thought that,

being a man, you are born under an unlucky star

and that all that you undertook, and all that

you are going to undertake will be cradled

by the bad luck and anyhow someday it will

fail. Every victory, let her be apparent, too

brings spiritual obnubilation with her.

The oblivion is what you are. Let us at least hope.

The eyes that believe that they invent the light

awaken the wind.     

YOU WOULDN'T WISH THE LIFE TO FADE AWAY

 

***

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 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 SYCOPHANTS

 

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.

NOI CUIBURI DE LEGIONARI ARHINAZISTE

 

Simone Weil ne convinge că Moise biblicul

a fost primul Hitler al omenirii și cu asta

iudeii se mândresc. După tiparul lui jidanii

din România au făcut mii și mii de cuiburi

de legionari Jigheara supernațiste, superrasiste.

La Banca Națională cuib legionar jigheara e

la Ministerul de finanțe cuib de legionari  

jigheara e, la Ministerul de Externe cuib

de legionari jigheara e, la Institutul Cultural

Român cuib legionar jigheara e, 

la ministerul culturii cuib legionar

jigheara e, la Radioteleviziuni cuib legionar

jigheara e, în învățământ cuib legionar

jighgeara e, mai nou și la guvern cuib

legionar jigheara e. Și sunt nenumărate

cuiburi legionare pe la departamente,

agenții de asigurare și alte mii de agenții

și departamente care au un cuib de legionari

jigheara unde ei sunt stăpânul și ei sug tot

banul. Niciun ziar nu-i care să nu fie dirijat

de cuibul central de legionari hipernațiști jigheara.

Acestea sug și usucă tot bugetul țării,

pe când aborigenii s-au făcut slăbănogi,

slugile lor oropsite. Și acești jigheara

distrug cu brio țara și-i sug măduva.

Să nu aveți o țară, urlă acești șacali ieșiți

din dinozaurii Sodomei! Și aborigenii

sunt pe cale de dispariție. Deja aici e Jighearia.

ROMANIA

 

Over here the name himself of this

country panting, forcing herself to defecate

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

 

***

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.  

THE MAN BELIEVES NO MORE IN HIS DESTINY

 

***

Petrified time

the man believes no more in his destiny

will he disappear?

The man, what novelty!

EL E BOLVAN

 

***

El e bolvan

și e tare jidan

întărește bani-ciordiți.  

ABSOLUTE IDIOTS

 

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

 

***

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.”

THE CONFESSIONS OF THE CASTRATED BOOR

 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

a Mozart. They will erect a statue of salt for you in Sodom.””     

I AM NAUSEATED BY MY FATHERLAND

 

***

I am nauseated by my fatherland

with the contaminated blood

and the bitten tongue – she reeks

of gypsy woman’s cunt flower

in a cul-de-sac she has no place to set out.

THE ABORIGINES

 

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

 

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.       

WE SHALL STAY IN THE DARKNESS

 

***

We shall stay in the darkness

under the rustling of the leaves

expecting the cannibal to crunch

on us from whom we don’t have

any escape anywhere eternally –

my soul evades his look

with sleepless spirit he touched

your heart, benumbed you

at this midnight pouring it

into my ear drop by drop,

“Brother, no one lives everlastingly.”  

THE ERASURE OF BESSARABIA

 

Only when everything is silent within us

are we able to glimpse Him, the One

who fills our silence and the soul

of the one killed by the rabid barbarian

with a bullet fired into the nape of his neck

a bunch of grapes hovering in the void

pouring drop by drop a rainbow describing

him in the arms of the Lord above his house

occupied by the assassin the hands of Christ

full of bitterness and of mystery above him

and the Comforter full of dolour today too

above the killed houses wherein the happy

assassins pullulate. The silence and our

incapacity to pray are deeper and deeper

the cruelty of the barbarians acuter and acuter.

We must search for a house of ours in the skies.

We are as sad as Christ on Maundy Thursday

in the Passion Week. We must know how

to always be grateful to a terrible enemy

because he renders us to ourselves because

he liberates us from the dispersal and from

the dilution because however he works

for our good. The barbarians are just as

they themselves say our rescuers subjecting

us to trials to humiliations and to innumerable

sufferings hoping to destroy us. Yeah, that

always supervenes in reverse. That’s why

the killer is the true defeated man.       

JESUS CHRIST AT THE LAST SUPPER

 

***

Jesus Christ at the Last Supper

leans in consolation from too

far from here over the one to be consoled

as if He were to be consoled pushed

from the death into the death

outside His cloud of death

from outside He leans forward

and consoles. He rather comes

from our soul like an uninterrupted

inaudible rustling as in front

of a railway station in a borough.

THE LONG BLACK EYELASH

 

***

The long, black eyelash fallen

on the page of the one-century-old

holy book moves in front of the verse,

“Woe to you when all men speak well

of you.” The eyelash glides down

like some shorts like a mushroom of Satan.

FOR SALE IS THE CHEAP REVENGE

 

***

For sale is the forgiveness, for sale is the cheap

revenge, for sale is the soul and the dog

that bites his ass and the death that slaps

him on the nape of his back, the motion

that he makes is flawless. Therefore, we must

forgive for the simple reason that it’s an arduous

and almost impossible thing. All the people are

petty and don’t think about anything but revenge

and they do it with much liveliness almost

without thinking. The singularity of the forgiveness

is like God. We shall forgive even with the blood.

For sale is the candy on the koliva.