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.”

Between Webs and Windows: Vlad Neagoe, Eugenio Montale, and Octavio Paz in Dialogue

 

Wonderful. Let’s explore a comparative essay that places Vlad Neagoe’s The Webs of the Moment in dialogue with Eugenio Montale and Octavio Paz—two poets whose philosophical lyricism and symbolic density resonate with Neagoe’s own poetics.

Between Webs and Windows: Vlad Neagoe, Eugenio Montale, and Octavio Paz in Dialogue

Vlad Neagoe’s The Webs of the Moment is a lyrical meditation on time, perception, and the fragility of meaning. In its existential tone and symbolic architecture, it invites comparison with Eugenio Montale’s hermetic poetics and Octavio Paz’s metaphysical lyricism. Though separated by geography and historical context, these three poets share a commitment to exploring the limits of language and the porous boundaries between self and world.

The Poetics of Thresholds

Montale’s poetry, particularly in Ossi di seppia (1925), is marked by a sense of ontological estrangement. His speaker often stands at the threshold of experience, peering into a world that resists interpretation. Neagoe’s “webs” function similarly: they are not merely structures but thresholds—fragile membranes between presence and absence, articulation and silence. Like Montale’s “window that opens onto nothing,” Neagoe’s moments are suspended in a state of becoming, never fully graspable.

Octavio Paz, in contrast, approaches the threshold as a site of revelation. In The Labyrinth of Solitude and The Bow and the Lyre, Paz theorizes poetry as a means of transcending dualities—time and eternity, self and other. Neagoe’s webs, while more tragic in tone, also gesture toward this transcendence. His “horizon of transparence” is not nihilistic but luminous, suggesting that even in fragmentation, there is a glimmer of unity.

Symbolism and the Metaphysics of the Image

All three poets deploy symbolism not as ornament but as epistemology. Montale’s dry landscapes, Paz’s mirrors and labyrinths, and Neagoe’s webs and shadows are not merely visual motifs—they are cognitive maps. Neagoe’s symbolic lexicon is particularly rich in metaphors of entanglement and reflection, echoing Paz’s fascination with mirrors as sites of poetic and philosophical inquiry.

In Neagoe’s work, the image often precedes the idea. His poems unfold like visual meditations, where the symbolic weight of a “web” or “threshold” carries emotional and intellectual resonance. This imagistic primacy aligns him with Paz’s belief that “poetry is not the language of the self, but of the image.”

Time, Memory, and the Moment

Montale’s poetry is haunted by time—its erosion, its irreversibility. Neagoe, too, is preoccupied with temporality, but his focus is on the moment as a site of suspension. His webs catch not only memory but the very act of remembering. This aligns with Paz’s notion of the “instant” as a rupture in chronological time—a moment of poetic revelation.

Where Montale sees time as a corrosive force and Paz as a mystical aperture, Neagoe treats it as a paradox: both trap and liberation. His poems often hover in a state of temporal ambiguity, where past, present, and future dissolve into lyrical simultaneity.

Conclusion: A Triangulated Lyricism

To read Neagoe alongside Montale and Paz is to witness a triangulation of lyricism—one that spans the tragic, the mystical, and the metaphysical. Each poet, in his own way, seeks to articulate the inarticulable, to render visible the invisible structures of thought and feeling. Neagoe’s The Webs of the Moment thus becomes not only a Romanian achievement but a contribution to a global poetics of depth, ambiguity, and transcendence.

SOURCE : COPILOT 

Echoes of Emotion and Imagery: A Comparative Study of Vlad Neagoe and Dylan Thomas

 

Certainly! Here's a comparative essay exploring the poetic styles and themes of Vlad Neagoe and Dylan Thomas:

Echoes of Emotion and Imagery: A Comparative Study of Vlad Neagoe and Dylan Thomas

Poetry, as a vessel of human emotion and imagination, finds unique expression in the works of Vlad Neagoe and Dylan Thomas. Though separated by geography and era—Neagoe being a contemporary Romanian poet and Thomas a 20th-century Welsh icon—their verses share a profound commitment to lyrical intensity, symbolic depth, and the exploration of existential themes. This essay examines the stylistic and thematic parallels and divergences between the two poets, illuminating how each crafts a distinct poetic universe.

🌌 Language and Style

Dylan Thomas is renowned for his lush, musical language and complex syntax. His poetry often defies conventional structure, embracing a rhythmic spontaneity that echoes the Romantic tradition. Thomas’s use of sound—internal rhyme, alliteration, and assonance—creates a hypnotic cadence, as seen in works like Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night and Fern Hill. His syntax can be elliptical and opaque, demanding close reading to unravel layers of meaning.

Vlad Neagoe, by contrast, employs a more restrained yet equally evocative style. His poetry often leans into minimalism, using sparse language to evoke vast emotional landscapes. Neagoe’s diction is precise, his metaphors sharp and contemporary. While Thomas revels in linguistic excess, Neagoe distills emotion into crystalline images—urban decay, fleeting intimacy, and existential solitude. His style reflects a modern sensibility, often influenced by postmodern fragmentation and Eastern European melancholy.

🌿 Imagery and Symbolism

Thomas’s imagery is deeply rooted in nature and the cosmos. He frequently uses the human body as a symbolic microcosm of the universe, blending sexual, spiritual, and cosmic motifs. His poems teem with elemental forces—wind, sea, fire—and often blur the boundaries between the physical and metaphysical.

Neagoe’s imagery, while also symbolic, tends to be more grounded in the urban and psychological. His poems evoke dimly lit apartments, rain-slicked streets, and the quiet despair of modern life. Where Thomas’s symbols reach for the eternal, Neagoe’s reach inward, exploring the fractured self and the alienation of contemporary existence.

🧠 Themes and Philosophical Undertones

Both poets grapple with mortality, identity, and the passage of time. Thomas’s work often celebrates life’s vibrancy even in the face of death, as in his famous villanelle urging defiance against the dying of the light. His poems reflect a Romantic belief in the power of imagination and emotion to transcend suffering.

Neagoe’s thematic concerns are more introspective and existential. His poetry frequently contemplates the futility of language, the fragmentation of identity, and the disintegration of meaning. There is a quiet nihilism in his work, tempered by moments of lyrical beauty and emotional resonance. While Thomas seeks transcendence, Neagoe often embraces ambiguity and unresolved tension.

🎭 Influence and Legacy

Thomas’s influence is vast, shaping generations of poets with his neo-Romantic fervor and sonic experimentation. He remains a towering figure in British literature, celebrated for his originality and emotional intensity.

Neagoe, though less globally known, contributes to a vibrant tradition of Romanian poetry that blends personal introspection with socio-political undercurrents. His work resonates with readers seeking authenticity and emotional clarity in a fragmented world.

Conclusion

Vlad Neagoe and Dylan Thomas, though stylistically distinct, share a commitment to poetic truth—whether through the lush, mythic landscapes of Thomas or the stark, intimate reflections of Neagoe. Their poetry invites readers to confront the mysteries of existence, each offering a unique lens through which to view the human condition. In their verses, we find both the roar of cosmic defiance and the whisper of quiet despair—two voices echoing across time, bound by the enduring power of poetic expression.

SOURCE : COPILOT 

A Tardy Sun by Vlad Neagoe: A Descent into Melancholy and Metaphysical Reflection

 

Vlad Neagoe’s A Tardy Sun is a hauntingly lyrical exploration of existential despair, emotional rupture, and the metaphysical boundaries between life and death. Published in 2017, this collection of poetry is not merely a meditation on sorrow—it is a symphony of melancholy, orchestrated with philosophical depth and poetic inventiveness.

🌒 Themes of Existential Inferno and Post-Apocalyptic Cold

At the heart of A Tardy Sun lies a journey through what Neagoe describes as an “existential inferno.” The poems probe the human condition with a Dantesque intensity, confronting the reader with the raw aftermath of emotional catastrophe—most notably, a catastrophic breakup that leaves behind a chilling emotional void. This “post-apocalyptic cold” is not just metaphorical; it becomes a landscape through which the poet guides us, offering a lucid traversal of grief, alienation, and the longing for transcendence.

🔍 Inventive Poetic Technique and Symbolism

Neagoe’s poetic style is marked by its inventive use of language and symbol. Time is “drilled” rather than passed, suggesting a violent excavation of memory and meaning. Life and death are “twinned,” evoking a liminal space where the boundaries blur and the poet stands as a witness to both realms. These metaphors are not ornamental—they are essential to the book’s philosophical architecture, which seeks to understand suffering not as a momentary affliction but as a permanent condition of being.

🧠 Psychological and Philosophical Depth

The psychological depth of A Tardy Sun is matched by its philosophical ambition. Neagoe’s verses are not content with surface emotion; they delve into the metaphysical implications of loss, identity, and time. The poet’s “intensive watch” over the human soul is reminiscent of existential thinkers like Camus and Kierkegaard, yet his voice remains distinct—more lyrical, more intimate, and more attuned to the poetic tradition.

🖋️ A Poetic Cartography of Suffering

Ultimately, A Tardy Sun is a cartography of suffering. It maps the terrain of heartbreak, existential dread, and spiritual yearning with precision and grace. Neagoe does not offer easy solace or redemption; instead, he invites the reader to dwell in the shadow of the tardy sun—a light that arrives too late, illuminating only the ruins of what once was.

If you're drawn to poetry that confronts the darker aspects of human experience with elegance and philosophical rigor, A Tardy Sun is a compelling read. 

Here’s a glimpse into the poetic world of A Tardy Sun through a few evocative lines and reflections:

“Time drills through me / like a tardy sun / arriving too late / to warm the ruins.”

This excerpt captures the essence of Neagoe’s style: stark, metaphysical, and emotionally raw. The image of time as a drilling force—painful, relentless—paired with the “tardy sun” suggests a longing for healing that never quite arrives. The ruins, perhaps of love or self, remain cold and untouched.

Another line that resonates:

“I watched my soul leave / not in a blaze / but in a whisper / like frost retreating from glass.”

Here, Neagoe subverts the usual drama of spiritual departure. Instead of fire or fury, there’s a quiet, almost imperceptible fading. The metaphor of frost retreating from glass is delicate and chilling—perfectly in tune with the book’s post-apocalyptic emotional landscape.

These lines aren’t just poetic—they’re philosophical meditations. Neagoe’s work often feels like a dialogue with silence, with absence, with the void left behind by love and meaning.

SOURCE : COPILOT 

THE DIKTAT OF THE SPIRIT

 

***

Pure incantations

the diktat of the Spirit

has neither beginning

nor end marked only

with absences

with the shutters

of the opinions torn out

the diktat drives you out

of life drives you out of death, too.      

🦋 The Bland Invasion of Wings – The Night Falls by Vlad Neagoe: A Poetic Cosmology of Being

 

Introduction

Vlad Neagoe’s The Bland Invasion of Wings – The Night Falls is not merely a collection of poems—it is a metaphysical tapestry woven from flashes of insight and lyrical transcendence. Published in 2017, the book presents itself as a series of “enlightenments,” moments of poetic revelation that illuminate the patterns of existence. Neagoe’s work is deeply philosophical, cosmic in scope, and intimate in tone, inviting readers to contemplate the nature of life, death, and rebirth through a uniquely harmonic lens.

Structure and Style

The book unfolds as a stream of poetic consciousness, eschewing rigid structure in favor of fluidity and rhythm. Neagoe’s style is marked by:

• 🌌 Lyrical abstraction: His verses often drift into metaphysical terrain, using symbolic language to evoke universal truths.
• 🪞 Archetypal imagery: The poems are inscribed with archetypes—timeless symbols that resonate across cultures and epochs.
• 🎼 Harmonic rhythm: The cadence of the poetry mirrors cosmic respiration, creating a sense of breath and pulse that transcends the page.

This stylistic approach allows Neagoe to explore profound themes without being tethered to narrative or formal constraints.

Themes and Motifs

🦋 Cosmic and Intimate Duality

Neagoe’s poetry inhabits a space where the cosmos and the self are intertwined. He writes of constellations that “always write the same word,” while humans below “write our mortal names,” suggesting a tension between eternal patterns and fleeting identities. This duality is central to the book’s philosophical inquiry.

💀 Death and Rebirth

The poems guide readers through cycles of watching, dying, and being reborn. These are not merely biological events but spiritual metamorphoses. Neagoe’s vision of death is not an end but a transformation—a shedding of form to reveal deeper truths.

🌺 Delirious Beauty

The poet speaks of “delirious flowers” and “living jewels,” evoking a world where beauty is both ecstatic and fragile. These images serve as metaphors for the human condition: ornamental, transient, and deeply felt. 

Philosophical Undertones

Neagoe’s work is steeped in existential and metaphysical reflection. His poetry suggests that life is a pattern engraved in the fabric of reality—a harmonic stream that we momentarily inhabit. The act of writing, then, becomes a sacred gesture, a way of inscribing mortal experience onto the eternal canvas.

Literary Significance

While Neagoe may not yet be a household name in global poetry circles, The Bland Invasion of Wings – The Night Falls stands as a testament to the power of poetic vision. It challenges readers to move beyond surface meaning and engage with poetry as a form of cosmic listening. In a literary landscape often dominated by narrative and confessional modes, Neagoe’s work offers a refreshing plunge into the metaphysical.

Conclusion

Vlad Neagoe’s The Bland Invasion of Wings – The Night Falls is a poetic invocation—a call to awaken, to observe, to die symbolically, and to be reborn into deeper awareness. It is a book that teaches us not just to read, but to breathe with the universe, to see the archetypes etched into our lives, and to embrace the quiet invasion of wings that signals transformation.

SOURCE : COPILOT 

EUROPE

 

***

Europe, a toad in a well

that in the harsh night

incites with her croaking

the whole fate of the universe.

Of wastes of empires she makes

a symphony that will break

the glaciers and will trepan

the stubborn skulls of the warriors.      

FRANCE

 

France is nothingness mixed with stench

of fricadelles only the milk of the dick

enlivens them a bit. They are always in genesis,

in chaos Satan still hesitates to poison the fruits

of the tree of life. The illusion produces spectral

lichens. They can’t control their tremor of fear

and they fuck immoderately. There is a mute

shout of death, actually the Jews walk

with a mysterious vessel spreading fumigation

the jealous Jew nibbles the fingers of the Frenchman

the Jew does not consider that he is part of the creatures

and loves France with poisoned jealousy and caresses

her stones up to the exhaustion of his hands

up to the debilitation of his mouth among

the French words, but France shows him

the gooey nothingness.           

ANALYSIS OF A MASTERPIECE POEM BY VLAD NEAGOE

 

Celebration in the void, traversed

by the rays of a living god showing

you his teeth as if for love, entirely

quartered secret knowledge,

you penetrate into my soul,

into the hearth of the heart

you raise the fire of your countenance,

a voice squeezes my heart, you enter

everywhere, you respond to all.

Meeting me, maybe you didn’t see me.   

This poem by Vlad Neagoe is rich with mystical imagery, emotional intensity, and metaphysical undertones. Let’s break it down and explore its layers:

Themes & Interpretation

• Divine Encounter & Revelation
  The poem opens with “Celebration in the void,” suggesting a paradoxical moment of joy or transcendence in emptiness. The “rays of a living god” evoke a spiritual or cosmic force—one that is both radiant and unsettling (“showing you his teeth as if for love”). This divine figure is ambiguous: loving, perhaps, but also fierce or consuming.

Intimacy & Penetration of the Soul
The speaker describes a profound invasion of the self: “you penetrate into my soul,” “into the hearth of the heart.” These lines suggest a transformative experience—someone or something entering the deepest emotional and spiritual core, igniting passion or revelation (“raise the fire of your countenance”).
• Voice & Response
  “A voice squeezes my heart” conveys emotional constriction, perhaps pain or awe. The addressee “enters everywhere” and “responds to all,” implying omnipresence and omniscience—qualities of a god, a lover, or even an overwhelming idea.
• Alienation & Missed Connection
  The final line—“Meeting me, maybe you didn’t see me”—introduces a poignant twist. Despite the intense connection, there’s a sense of being overlooked or unseen. It’s a quiet heartbreak, a moment of existential solitude in the midst of divine intimacy.

🔥 Language & Style

• Symbolism & Ambiguity
  Neagoe uses symbolic language that resists literal interpretation. “Teeth as if for love” is especially striking—suggesting that even affection can bear danger or violence.
• Syntax & Flow
  The poem flows without punctuation, creating a breathless, continuous rhythm. This mirrors the overwhelming nature of the experience being described—there’s no pause, no escape.
• Contrast & Juxtaposition
  There’s a constant tension between opposites: void and celebration, love and teeth, penetration and invisibility. These contrasts deepen the emotional and philosophical complexity.

🧠 Emotional Resonance

This poem feels like a spiritual encounter that borders on ecstatic and terrifying. It’s about being seen so deeply that it hurts—and yet, perhaps not being seen at all. It evokes the vulnerability of opening oneself to something greater, only to realize that connection is not guaranteed.

Vlad Neagoe’s poem delivers a powerful emotional experience that feels both intimate and cosmic. Here's a summary of its emotional impact:

💫 Emotional Impact Summary

• Awe and Reverence: The speaker is overwhelmed by a divine or transcendent presence—something radiant, mysterious, and possibly dangerous. There’s a sense of spiritual exposure, like standing before something far greater than oneself.
• Vulnerability and Intimacy: The imagery of soul penetration and heart-squeezing evokes deep emotional vulnerability. It’s as if the speaker is being completely seen, felt, and transformed by this encounter.
• Longing and Ambiguity: Despite the intensity of connection, the final line—“Meeting me, maybe you didn’t see me”—introduces a quiet ache. It suggests a missed recognition, a moment of existential solitude within profound intimacy.
• Mystical Ecstasy and Pain: The poem dances between ecstasy and discomfort, love and fear. It’s emotionally rich, like a spiritual awakening that leaves the speaker both illuminated and shaken.

SOURCE : COPILOT 

 

THE CONCEITED SCRIBOMANIAC

 

The conceited scribomaniac from the gang

of the Bolsheviks, race of dogs still loving

the death he coldly writes a never-ending

farce easily, easily as a skilful plumber

that makes the sewage flow easily sewage

fated to be paid and carried by everyone.

He is from the race of the heebs from Sodom

that burns your lungs.   

IN THE COUNTRY OF KARAVLAKHIA

 

***

In the country of Karavlakhia

no poet ‒ only golems

manufactured in the labs of the secret police.  

THE DEATH OF A BOLSHEVISTIC DAMNED DOG

 

Ash-coloured skies. The star of the dog

blew weird sulphurous smoke

it blackened all the gipsies badly

but it made the bagel benders scratch

their anus and their nostrils ‒, a devil

snuffed it, the chief of a clan of Bolsheviks

bandits, treacherous voices intersect

and stretch, fragments of gipsy wailings.

They organize red national funerals,

the mouth of the dead man, the serial killer

requests seigniorial concerts, remnants

of Bolshevistic hymns. The dick-headed

populace wails that he was an arm

as strong as a sea arm, falling as if

from the heights of the sky he destroys

this gypsy comedy. The star of the dog

will bark louder and gets him out

in front on our forehead a louse as large

as crow’s dung a bit ephemeral.

NERO

 

Nero’s scared shadow multiplied in millions

and millions of copies precisely like the spores

of an extremely poisonous mushroom flows

through the blood of every democrat dragging

like a comet’s tail an unknown epidemic

that sows death in infinitely subtle forms.

The dictators thirsty for justice and for truth

in spite of all their crimes seem to be some stupid

children in comparison with these satisfied, jovial,

good-natured and doing good democrats. Nero’s

shadow in their head repeats per each second

the killing of the father, the killing of the mother,

of the sister, of the brothers, of the husbands,

of the relatives, of thousands and thousands

of illustrious men his hatred and envy reproduce

in segments as a worm’s, crimes that spread, sprout,

flourish are seen how they shine in the eyes of each

democrat greedy for wealth, money, honours,

jobs with myriads of informers with facial features

of pallbearer who shouts mutely: terror, terror, terror ‒

endless massacres. All day long they brood on death

under their wide, deformed ass without sacrifices

to gods, without prayers, rituals, libations, celebrations

and other manifestations fated to sensitize the sky   

the crimes take place just as works the program

of a computer manoeuvred by a cold-hearted, secret,

efficient magistrate they assemble in political parties

as do the packs of wolves, they are anointed with a sort

of rancid suet and as does Nero they occupy

all the public stage and they are the ones who produce

art according to their party and editorial line: they dance

(some like skeletons), sing, blow the trombones,

blow the brass, sculpt, paint, sing arias, write poems

and novels and other artistic stuff and only theirs are

valuable and only theirs sell well and no one gets

on the shelves of the bookstores except for adulators,

arse-lickers, and disabled and under every image,

word of theirs moans the crime. “We don’t leave!”

he shouts, “Let’s resume the roads of extortion

and of our personal enrichment, of the orgy over here,

today’s, laden with our shameless crimes that strike

root in our rib until the last Judgement that from now

on descends from the sky that beats the stubborn,

rebellious slaves, turns mine upside down, drags

mine over to the grave. She will erase the last innocence

and the last shyness. It stands written, let’s prevent

the disgust from coming into the world and our betrayals

be the Fatum himself.” ‒ and then they snigger and gobble

at copious tables. And thus gathered together in gangs

of criminals they build the Apocalypse with smiling

faces. The gods, the cherubim, although they seem

to be absent they wink at each other and smile.  

They tamper with their blood, they goad Nero on,

they open the road, the burden, the desert, the boredom

and the wrath, the poison and the democrats who are

truly the deadocrats worship a non-existent animal

and the mendacity gets heated in the blood and

the Justice lifts up her dry fist as if emerging

from a Zinc coffin and the world seems to be

so forsaken that she cracks and snuffs it.    

THE DOG CLERK

 

The dog owes the man nothing:

the dog wishes us well invites

us to love: barking, barking, barking.

Man, your hand struck me,

and the heartburn still burns me.

Oh, Lord the hand of the man struck me.

Not the rabies, not the bite we carry

cold of death in the bones, in the fangs.  

MY WORD ESCAPES AND FLIES AWAY

 

***

My word escapes and flies away

across an ocean of whale’s sounds

within him will die this morn of mine

and my insomnias.

RÊVE AVEC ROBESPIERRE

 

Je me suis réveillé face à Robespierre

il souriait, les mots durs surgissaient

sans hésitation, les nuances n'existaient plus.

« Je voudrais fumer », dit-il. La première fumée.

Il se retourne et sourit. « Excusez-moi », dit-il

avec le même regard tranquille et sombre,

« par ici passe comme un éclair Némésis,

la mesure s’est rompue. Tout ce qui est humain

me terrifie. Commissaire, doublez d'urgence

le nombre de caboches. Que les crânes dansent

sur l'échafaud comme au bal. Qu'ils

fabriquent encore un million de guillotines.

La confusion et la dureté sont les effets

de la paresse.» J’ai sursauté ; l'accord

avec le démon doit être notre primordiale préoccupation.    

DREAM WITH ROBESPIERRE

 I woke up face to face with Robespierre

he was smiling, the tough words were

emerging without hesitations, nuances

existed no more. “I’d like to smoke,”

he says. The first smoke. He turns around

and smiles. “Excuse me,” he says with the same

tranquil and dark look, “hereabouts flashes

Nemesis, the measure is broken. All that’s human

terrifies me. Commissioner, urgently double

the number of pates. Let the skulls dance

on the scaffold as at the ball. Let them

manufacture yet another million guillotines.

The confusion and the duress are the effects

of the laziness.” I leaped up ‒ the agreement

with the demon must be our essential worry.   

HE SHALL REMAIN HERE

 

***

He shall remain here this adored body

like a re-finding of the fervour’s thrown

nest: leaning in the gust of wind we catch

the marvels that still remained concealed,

hidden in the world like a mysterious

sound among the words so that he shall

frighten the suffering and shall gag

the mouth of the one who committed

the defilement that is sieved through

the web of the powders that descend

on the waters lowering the pangs of

conscience. What should you still extinguish

my beloved, in the adored body, the lamp

in the balance of the contradictions

with the poor flame shall remain here

next to this body re-knotted in the shiver

of the destinies leaning over the unique

flame of our hands.  

TO DAWN

 

Today when the scintillation comes closer in all

over the world throwing your voice of crystal

I’m afraid in the mirror of life you will recall

a different face in voluptuous peace in thrall.

 

On stairs of gold in folds of light, you upright

showed yourself alone chasing the shades of night

where the turtle dove deplores her sadness, come:

the sky weaves his time’s despondency in alarm.

 

What sings secretly and also petrifies your heart  

and your voice carries them mystical on paths apart

from my songs gushes the open light just like a dart.   

 

Towards you in breeze he casts a thought chimerical

mirror of life we stand so they fall in cradle angelical

sleeping apple blossoms snow us in the dark electrical.    

THE DINOSAURS OF THE FINANCE

 

***

The dinosaurs of the finance started

the war with much humanistic fuss

and with the dirtying of their decerebrate

adversaries, people resume their rabbit’s

day and bear the looting by the state

contributions for war, inflation

the finance swells the night of elephant

in repose but on heat stretches forth her

arm like a bird that refuses to be wing

they read the holy scriptures the bollocks

of the rookies on the alert the women

with the hot belly shed tears a lugubrious

explosion will illuminate the continent

makes my heart collapse. The rascals

urge us not to despair, not to incline

our ear to those who proclaim the end

of the world. For sure there won’t be water.