It seems as if I’ve gone out on the street at night and,
from what I see, I no longer recognize anything.
- “an overwhelming heat and a biting cold”,
“fire and sulfur and raging wind” was scribbled on walls,
and relics of saints were floating in air
with a side-ways glance disintegrating in groans.
It seemed as if, exhausted by hunger and thirst,
I was holding out my hand
and between my fingers, like in an hour-glass,
sifted the red dust of buildings and long, bloody scarves
of generations who blinded themselves,
for your sake and your greatness,
of cosmic harmony,
crumbling under your heels “our daily bread”,
crushed glass, embers and lumps of red-hot iron,
Piles of guilty papers in swirls on the streets,
gluing themselves slimily to our lips
and to your tattered flags like vipers around wrapped ankles.
it seems as if a sharp cry and the clang of a
bell cracked the mirror’s glass,
because, with a mirror,
I was trying to ricochet
the devil’s poisonous breath haunting
the nation’s chromosomes,
which is none other than the chuckling (chortling) of
the legions of lawyers, customs officers and policemen
who gnaw at your roots,
because I, with a mirror smeared with the law’s excrement,
try to ricochet off the court houses interminable corridors
the rot of those who construct new
residential neighborhoods
− a post- revolutionary replica of Ceausescan grandeur,
− a nostalgic accumulation of the residual, passionate ardor
that rises in our throats
− an upside down esophagus
− an ulcerous stomach that shatters
the ultimate privacy of “the public man”,
Because − then − in the mirror − I saw mounds of books
crushed in the morals of idiotic idealists, as if Poetry could change
something in the readers poverty-stricken consciousness...
and I saw the dying reader
and the corpses of readers
the embalming of epochs
like slaughtered lambs,
and I saw the mass of DEMOS *
boorishly blowing horns near poetry’s pyre
which is the bonfire of our word and the weight of our blood,
and I saw that DEMOS has no need for poetry
and then I said:
DEMOS is a pump that prepares to fill the guts
of your new government where “no one is above the law”,
− Here’s the logic of parliamentary immunization,
Here’s a new profession - profitable, protected
that washes away the remains of Democracy.
DEMOS is the burp of a demography that’s taking
over our planet with human worms.
DEMOS is the mirror of the poet’s lack of discernment,
that, with a waxed noose, polishes off the last surviving flickers
of the flood of the unfeeling public,
− Your senseless political prattling is stealing THE MOMENT
which you haven’t given us!
− Your precious , smug look stinks of a disease so well-known…
− The greedy, munching jaws of the chosen “Well-Doers”
infest our sleep !
Romania
with each step you bump into a toll-booth clerk who digs his teeth
into your jugular vein.
under your pillow you hear the ticking of the infernal machines of fear,
The neighing of the Ceausescu phantom − the rustling − hustle-
bustle of those who “show the way” to greener valleys,
a gypsy-flea -market spreading out over the city like a leper,
The ballad of the collective oafs, and a cannon of
aggressiveness that watches over and keeps the public disorder.
you should see the Justice LTDs
flowering on the corners of the streets,
Only then will you understand that with a little money
you can have a Thirty Year War that perpetuates for generations.
you should see the Medical School LTDs
flowering on the corners of the dollar
Only then will you understand that with “enough” money
you can pass all the degrees to the Top Of The Field
you should see the New Epoch Universities LTDs
flowering on the corners of the suburbs
Only then will you understand that with as much money
As a humble clerk you can have a
Doctors degree
you should see the LTD s of LTDs
flourishing on the corners of the financial police
Only then you will understand that with a lot of money
You can have an entire city with all it`s pieces of administration,
the buildings of the County Hall built on the buildings of the City Hall
and the buildings of the Parliament which are built on
the buildings of the social equity
which are built on the “boudoirs” of the President
which are built on the King’s worn portrait
which are built on the bathroom
of The Mass Media Hall
which are built on the Coffers of the State
built on the homes for the elderly
which are built on the Vacuum Pumps
that make our blood pulse through the heating pipes
Oh! What a huge erection!!!
− With each step the tingling of the intellectuals’
production and the jingling of Silver that flows out
of the clever pocket of those who
“sold you by the gram”,
from one to another and back,
and back from one to another.
and the new Elite
In this much awaited hour of card sharks,
the chattering of empty words, and the shedding, double-chinned
grease-balls preaching the message for the good of all,
and the builders of history,
your whole biography is lost in the Zodiac of Coca Cola
neighborhoods
and in the voracious mouthfuls of hamburgers composed of your
national flesh.
− a slalom through the numberless visas of Democracy,
advertisements for the drain-cleaners and detergents of the
interminable empire of the Kafkaesque embassy
whose doors are all open to you.
the demons of your administration are swallowing their tales
like snakes,
Their eggs of immortality gather cosmic energy and
leak it into the black holes of the national universe,
there where the generations of sacrifice are finished off
and where our existence is given purpose
Your processions of grinning poll-bearers on all the
fences crowded around history’s out-house in a well-known
compensation of the Freudian
and the cackling in the front of cameras
and the prolonged hand-shakes in front of t.v. cameras
− and the grotesque dance
− suits and ties − formal ceremonies
and emanations of the portrait carriers,
In your name
because we know that Nirvana is a monopoly
of national geography, and then I said:
And then I said:
− This is about you, this moment in the poem to which
you’ll never be anything but sleazy shit-eaters who
rifle through our pockets, of poor scribes, Sir Bastards
− a maneuvering mass that maneuvers us, that recruits us to
bury us in the national flag
− it itself a textile for Bermudan shorts, turncoats and telegenic
menstrual tampons
And then I said:
I’ve seen that the earth is yours, Sir Bastards
DEMOS is yours and even the miserable crumb of the future
and even the last page where it was written that the whole world will
become an immense screen behind which we have been bogged down
in the mud, and have ended up anonymous in the margin of history
And then I said:
− From whom are you defending yourself,
helicopters, ultrasophisticated radar,
and the subtle weapons of small flying demons?
And then I said:
− Green army caterpillars and the fat commissions of patriotism
are swarming your skeleton.
The liberal party is tightening the belt around your shrunken belly.
Social boils of Democracy are popping up under your dirty, sweaty
underarms.
On your hunched back spreads a harvest of scabs “RightToLeft”
Peeling away on your multi-colored tattooed chest is “LeftToRight"
Your cracked heels ooze of city peasants who pop up like
little red apoplectic pimples.
On your back the stinking unwashed masses
make waves that leak into the Democratic diaper.
Creeping their way across back of your neck are growths of brothers
covered in black shells collectors of labels,
insignia and whistles,
the elitist colonies of famous nosey-parkers / gossip-mongers
Bracelets of professional syndicates dangle from your wrist
twenty-thousand marchers for human rights.
The UFO’S of the NGO’s of tight wire dancers
and the inexhaustible demigon from which trickles
The gentle spirit of your kin.
While between steps,
we let loose a tired revolutionary fart that lingers and
Europe shows it back up our nose
While “your social contract” means nothing more than
“gifts” to the doctor “contributions” to the police, “honorary offers”
to the lawyer,
“the personal interest” of the state functionary,
and “taxes” to the tower of the city architect.
− A New Victory!
− A new dictatorship of victims!
− A Peace!
− Another Peace!
− A … New Peace!
You can cry out: Citizen, property of the state, you are
FREE, PROTECTED, INSURED and RESPECTED!
( − a new commercial for toilet paper/
− shiny dentures and political couples/
− the sound of fanfare [in your ear] in the talkshows )
Citizen: LOVE OF COUNTRY, SACRIFICE,
YOUR KIN, and THE CRY OF HISTORY!
Citizen: you have seven lives for your country and THEN
seventy-seven lives for YOU
Citizen, − your nerves are failing, be strong!
Be efficient, Citizen!
Be useful, Citizen!
Be loyal, Citizen!
Be dedicated, Citizen!
Be reasonable, Citizen!
DIE AND GO TO THE DEVIL, already, CITIZEN!
parliamentary session.
the last parliamentary session:
“Any ideology is relative; absolutes are only troubles
that people cause one another.”
Oh,
it seems as if I’ve gone out on the street at night and, from what I see,
I no longer recognize anything.
− Darkness fell around me and a whistling wind
swept away a myriad dim stars
and galactic jet streams intersected in the distance
− in their phosphorescent glow
among lit vapors and sharp sounds:
the thinning shadows
of a prolonged line of the Blind drifting
towards the Milky Way
They go beyond my powers of sight
beyond the edge of the world
from the end of the beginnings
from the beginnings to the end.
And one with a single hand blows into a broken horn
And another into a cracked flute
One with a single hand jingles some bells
And another bangs a huge drum
One with a single hand squeezes an accordion
And another rubs a fiddle against his cheek
One with a single hand drags a cymbal after him
And another a donkey's hide
filled with water
which gurgles
whines
grunts
mews
hisses
and
foams through the teeth
on which, good God!
I discovered
The Print of My Kiss
− And then a tremendous thunder and then an awakening
− And then nothing else then, here,
truly :
…..a ridiculous dream:
the curse that burns in the remembered words of your actions…
It seemed as if I should have written a sort of EPILOGUE
but my mouth was cloyed and my lips and my eyes clouded
and my mind stinging
while the day of tomorrow rolls through my head
like a heavy, full ball-bearing
While my head rolls
between my shoulders like a dumb, empty ball-bearing
While the world rolls with us between epochs
like a ball-bearing made from rusted tin
but my mouth was cloyed and my lips dry and my eyes clouded
and my mind stinging
And “Our Father” sounds something like this:
“ Our Father who art in heaven
in water
in air
as on earth
With thy holy name
open our eye with which to look for you
That your kingdom be in us
as is your gentle, good will
Give us this day the strength
to feed us with the tortured bread of your body
Help us to forgive us our sins
As well as the restless worry of those who have trespassed against us.
Help us to understand salvation
by making peace with ourselves
Without which exists the troubled torment of Evil
Deliver to us the strength to confess
Deliver to us your forgiveness
and that of our trespasses
For thine is our kingdom
and thy greatness for our understanding
and thy recognition of our powerless attempts
and our will
be done…
for ever and ever…
amen.”
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