I’m paty to the present, friends (caught in a leather strip I keep walking)
I’m the superb uselessness reared and allured:
I’ve been promised seasons of gold (o, Gethsemane)
but I can hardly guess the spring’s explosions -
this woman with much tired flesh (my look holds her by the hip)
tired tired tired (just like your sex, you, human being)

I have historical sense, this has been said already:
I stay in the prophet’s ear and I hear how the rotten apples fall down in Europe
I the drowned man hidden in Sunday clothes
I’ve closed my days (nought gives birth to noughts):
I carve the sign of each day on the body of an salon executioner
and I ask him whether it is not late for me to descend into himself
to smoke my last fear

tamed and printed with cheers in a first edition
the joy and the holiness of the fools keep the balance
beneath the cross where I keep an eye on my own being
whence I’ll fall under the sword of my own conscience
over and over again... ladies and gentlemen, for thousands of hours
for thousands of times I’ve been on the watch in these sentences...

And over and over again happy and scared we’ll come back to our homes
scared as the maidens whose threat is growing ripe in their nipples
 

ASCULTAREA PIETRELOR / Listening To The Stones

Another day paint mould
the clay of emotions just as Our Lord wrote the BOOK
with his finger

light, sift the corpse of the Fair through the sieve -
were singing those who kept wasting away the holy light
kissing the mouth of the lunch time at the canteen of the poor
then they all were advancing enveloped in a fiery ghost
as an unknown procession of hearts

the light I seize with the knives and like a fool I burst into laughing
I’m cursed to feed this beast
called suffering
I’ve tied its umbilical cord to the heart
of an obscene word

hungry passion I’m running through your body
of heroine  I wish to tell you:
I’m the wilderness and tonight
we begin listening to the stones
 

TENTATIA NEGATIEI / The Temptation Of Negation

Between Demon and Lord
my tired flesh
 kisses
 the holiness
 of the fools

between faith and blasphemy
my flesh much tired
 speaks
 the language
 of the beasts
under the sign of the deified cross

between prayer and oath
 the ruin
 keeps building me up

before being born
a bit of eucharist
lights its blood
watches through the skin of fright
 the horizon
 of another time
lying between reality and utopia
thinking of not being a man

thinking of not being a man
 

ORB MÃ PLIMBAM ÎN LÃUNTRUL LOR / Blind I Was Walking Within Them

I am the man with no man
within me I’m hunting the lonely beast

You are the man with no man
out of silences you are born by celestial eroticism

he is the man with no man
to him life is equivalent to death

she is their spreaking flesh
she is the naked noon the free water
within her breasts two angels are left there

we are the men with no biography
idlers townspeople day people neon people, paper people

you are the emperors hidden
in the autumn of the nuns
and you are the butchers the debauchery late in the night

they are the cold of the abysmal revelation
their shadow footprints leave behind

they are the maids the questions of the flesh
they are the breath that puts out the light
of mist, of call, of hazard

(Traduceri de Olimpia IACOB)