Gregory Corso

Bomb

                           BOMB by Gregory Corso
                           ---------------------

               Budger of history   Brake of time   You   Bomb
      Toy of universe   Grandest of all snatched sky   I cannot hate you
        Do I hate the mischievous thunderbolt   the jawbone of an ass
     The bumpy club of One Million B.C.   the mace   the flail    the axe
   Catapult Da Vinci   tomahawk Cochise   flintlock Kidd   dagger Rathbone
    Ah and the sad desparate gun of Verlaine   Pushkin   Dillinger   Bogart
 And hath not St. Michael a burning sword   St. George a lance   David a sling
 Bomb   you are as cruel as man makes you   and you're no crueller than cancer
  All Man hates you   they'd rather die by car-crash   lightning   drowning
Falling off a roof   electric-chair  heart-attack   old age   old age   O Bomb
     They'd rather die by anything but you   Death's finger is free-lance
  Not up to man whether you boom or not   Death has long since distributed its
  categorical blue   I sing thee Bomb   Death's extravagance   Death's jubilee
   Gem of Death's supremest blue   The flyer will crash   his death will differ
    with the climbor who'll fall   to die by cobra is not to die by bad pork
Some die by swamp   some by sea  and some by the bushy-haired man in the night
   O there are deaths like witches of Arc   Scarey deaths like Boris Karloff
    No-feeling deaths like birth-death   sadless deaths like old pain Bowery
  Abandoned deaths   like Capital Punishment   stately deaths like senators
   And unthinkable deaths like Harpo Marx   girls on Vogue covers   my own
     I do not know just how horrible Bombdeath is   I can only imagine
      Yet no other death I know has so laughable a preview   I scope
      a city   New York City   streaming   starkeyed   subway shelter 
        Scores and scores   A fumble of humanity   High heels bend
            Hats whelming away   Youth forgetting their combs
          Ladies not knowing what to do   with their shopping bags
            Unperturbed gum machines   Yet dangerous 3rd rail
          Ritz Brothers   from the Bronx   caught in the A train
                The smiling Schenley poster will always smile
                   Impish death   Satyr Bomb   Bombdeath
                     Turtles exploding over Istanbul
                         The jaguar's flying foot
                        soon to sink in arctic snow
                     Penguins plunged against the Sphinx
                        The top of the Empire state
                    arrowed in a broccoli field in Sicily
                 Eiffel shaped like a C in Magnolia Gardens
                       St. Sophia peeling over Sudan
                     O athletic Death   Sportive Bomb
                       the temples of ancient times
                         their grand ruin ceased
                      Electrons   Protons   Neutrons 
                         gathering Hersperean hair
                    walking the dolorous gulf of Arcady
                          joining marble helmsmen
                       entering the final ampitheater
                     with a hymnody feeling of all Troys
                        heralding cypressean torches
                         racing plumes and banners
                 and yet knowing Homer with a step of grace
                       Lo the visiting team of Present
                           the home team of Past
                       Lyre and tube together joined
                     Hark the hotdog soda olive grape
                      gala galaxy robed and uniformed 
                      commissary   O the happy stands
                      Ethereal root and cheer and boo
                     The billioned all-time attendance
                          The Zeusian pandemonium
                            Hermes racing Owens
                          The Spitball of Buddha
                            Christ striking out
                           Luther stealing third
                      Planeterium Death   Hosannah Bomb
                     Gush the final rose   O Spring Bomb
                     Come with thy gown of dynamite green
                       unmenace Nature's inviolate eye
                         Before you the wimpled Past
                   behind you the hallooing Future   O Bomb
                        Bound in the grassy clarion air
                         like the fox of the tally-ho
                  thy field the universe thy hedge the geo
                 Leap Bomb   bound Bomb   frolic zig and zag
                The stars a swarm of bees in thy binging bag
                      Stick angels on your jubilee feet
                    wheels of rainlight on your bunky seat
                     You are due and behold you are due
                       and the heavens are with you
                   hosanna incalescent glorious liaison
                 BOMB O havoc antiphony molten cleft BOOM
                    Bomb mark infinity a sudden furnace
                 spread thy multitudinous encompassed Sweep
                         set forth awful agenda
              Carrion stars   charnel planets   carcass elements
             Corpse the universe   tee-hee finger-in-the-mouth hop
                       over its long long dead Nor
                    From thy nimbled matted spastic eye
                    exhaust deluges of celestial ghouls
                      From thy appellational womb
                   spew birth-gusts of of great worms
                        Rip open your belly Bomb
               from your belly outflock vulturic salutations
               Battle forth your spangled hyena finger stumps
                       along the brink of Paradise
                         O Bomb   O final Pied Piper
                both sun and firefly behind your shock waltz
                          God abandoned mock-nude
                 beneath His thin false-talc's apocalypse
                        He cannot hear thy flute's
                        happy-the-day profanations
               He is spilled deaf into the Silencer's warty ear
                    His Kingdom an eternity of crude wax
                      Clogged clarions untrumpet Him
                        Sealed angels unsing Him
                      A thunderless God   A dead God
                       O Bomb   thy BOOM His tomb
                 That I lean forward on a desk of science
                  an astrologer dabbling in dragon prose
               half-smart about wars   bombs   especially bombs
              That I am unable to hate what is necessary to love 
                That I can't exist in a world that consents
            a child in a park   a man dying in an electric-chair
                    That I am able to laugh at all things
          all that I know and do not know   thus to conceal my pain
              That I say I am a poet and therefore love all man
           knowing my words to be the acquainted prophecy of all men
                and my unwords no less an acquaintanceship
                           That I am manifold
                     a man pursuing the big lies of gold
                      or a poet roaming in bright ashes
                    or that which I imagine myself to be 
                a shark-toothed sleep   a man-eater of dreams
                   I need not then be all-smart about bombs
              Happily so   for if I felt bombs were caterpillars
                   I'd doubt not they'd become butterflies
                         There is a hell for bombs
                      They're there   I see them there
                       They sit in bits and sing songs
                        mostly German songs
                      And two very long American songs
                    and they wish there were more songs
                   especially Russian and Chinese songs
                  and some more very long American songs
                    Poor little Bomb that'll never be 
                       an Eskimo song   I love thee 
                        I want to put a lollipop
                            in thy furcal mouth
                     A wig of Goldilocks on thy baldy bean
                  and have you skip with me Hansel and Gretel
                        along the Hollywoodian screen
                      O Bomb in which all lovely things
                   moral and physical anxiously participate
                    O fairylike plucked from the 
                          grandest universe tree 
                      O piece of heaven which gives
                     both mountain and anthill a sun
                I am standing before your fantastic lily door
                I bring you Midgardian roses   Arcadian musk
                 Reputed cosmetics from the girls of heaven
                   Welcome me   fear not thy opened door
                     nor thy cold ghost's grey memory
                   nor the pimps of indefinite weather
                       their cruel terrestial thaw
                          Oppenheimer is seated
                       in the dark pocket of Light
                    Fermi is dry in Death's Mozambique
                         Einstein his mythmouth
                 a barnacled wreath on the moon-squid's head
             Let me in   Bomb   rise from that pregnant-rat corner
                nor fear the raised-broom nations of the world
                           O Bomb I love you
                 I want to kiss your clank   eat your boom
                    You are a paean   an acme of scream
                      a lyric hat of Mister Thunder
                        O resound thy tanky knees
                     BOOM   BOOM   BOOM   BOOM   BOOM
                      BOOM ye skies and BOOM ye suns
                    BOOM BOOM ye moons   ye stars BOOM
                     nights ye BOOM   ye days ye BOOM
                 BOOM BOOM ye winds   ye clouds ye rains
                    go BANG ye lakes   ye oceans BING
                     Barracuda BOOM and cougar BOOM
                       Ubangi BOOM   orangutang 
                 BING BANG BONG BOOM   bee bear baboon
                        ye BANG ye BONG ye BING
                       the tail the fin the wing
                 Yes   Yes   into our midst a bomb will fall
                 Flowers will leap in joy their roots aching
          Fields will kneel proud beneath the halleluyahs of the wind
            Pinkbombs will blossom   Elkbombs will perk their ears
           Ah many a bomb that day will awe the bird a gentle look
                 Yet   not enough to say a bomb will fall
                  or even contend celestial fire goes out
                Know that the earth will madonna the Bomb
         that in the hearts of men to come more bombs will be born
            magisterial bombs wrapped in ermine   all beautiful
               and they'll sit plunk on earth's grumpy empires
                     fierce with moustaches of gold

Gregory Corso

Maya Angelou

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise. 

Maya Angelou

Boris Vian

Le Déserteur

Monsieur le Président je vous fais une lettre
Que vous lirez peut-être
Si vous avez le temps
Je viens de recevoir
Mes papiers militaires
Pour partir à la guerre
Avant mercredi soir
Monsieur le Président
je ne veux pas la faire
je ne suis pas sur terre
Pour tuer des pauvres gens
C’est pas pour vous fâcher
Il faut que je vous dise
Ma décision est prise
je m’en vais déserter

Depuis que je suis né
J’ai vu mourir mon père
J’ai vu partir mes frères
Et pleurer mes enfants
Ma mère a tant souffert
Qu’elle est dedans sa tombe
Et se moque des bombes
Et se moque des vers
Quand j’étais prisonnier
On m’a volé ma femme
On m’a volé mon âme
Et tout mon cher passé
Demain de bon matin
Je fermerai ma porte
Au nez des années mortes
J’irai sur les chemins

Je mendierai ma vie
Sur les routes de France
De Bretagne en Provence
Et je dirai aux gens
Refusez d’obéir
Refusez de la faire
N’allez pas à la guerre
Refusez de partir
S’il faut donner son sang
Allez donner le vôtre
Vous êtes bon apôtre
Monsieur le Président
Si vous me poursuivez
Prévenez vos gendarmes
Que je n’aurai pas d’armes
Et qu’ils pourront tirer.

Boris Vian

William Blake

Visions of the Daughters of Albion

The Argument

I loved Theotormon
And I was not ashamed
I trembled in my virgin fears
And I hid in Leutha's Vale!

I plucked Leutha's flower,
And I rose up from the vale;
But the terrible thunders tore
My virgin mantle in twain.

Visions

Enslav'd, the Daughters of Albion weep; a trembling lamentation
Upon their mountains; in their valleys, sighs towards America.
For the soft soul of America, Oothoon wanderd in woe,
Along the vales of Leutha seeking flowers to comfort her;
And thus she spoke to the bright Marygold of Leutha's vale

Art thou a flower! art though a nymph! I see thee now a flower;
Now a nymph! I dare not pluck thee from thy dewy bed!

The Golden nymph replied; pluck thou my flower Oothoon the mild
Another flower shall spring. because the soul of sweet delight
Can never pass away, she ceas'd & closed her golden shrine.

Then Oothoon pluck'd the flower saying, I pluck thee from thy bed
Sweet flower. and put thee here to glow between my breasts
And thus I turn to where my whole soul seeks.

Over the waves she went in wing'd exulting swift delight;
And over Theotormon's reign, took her impetuous course.

Bromion rent her with his thunders. on his stormy bed
Lay the faint maid, and soon her woes apalld his thunders hoarse

Bromion spoke. behold this harlot here on Bromions bed.
And let the jealous dolphins sport around the lovely maid:
Thy soft American plains are mine, and mine thy north & south:
Stampt with my signet are the swarthy children of the sun;
They are obedient, they resist not, they obey the scourge:
Their daughters worship terrors and obey the violent:
Now thou maist marry Bromions harlot, and protect the child
Of Bromions rage, that Oothoon shall put forth in nine moons time
Then storms rent Theotormons limbs; he rolld his waves around.
And folded his black jealous waters round the adulterate pair
Bound back to back in Bromions caves terror & meekness dwell

At entrance Theotormon sits wearing the threshold hard
With secret tears; beneath him sound like waves on a desart shore
The voice of slaves beneath the sun, and children bought with money,
That shiver in religious caves beneath the burning fores
Of lust, that belch incessant from the summits of the earth

Oothoon weeps not. she cannot weep! her tears are locked up;
But she can howl incessant writhing her soft snowy limbs.
And calling Theotormons Eagles to prey upon her flesh.

I call with holy voice! kings of the sounding air,
Rend away this defiled bosom that I may reflect,
The image of Theotormon on my pure transparent breast.

The Eagles at her call descend & rend their bleeding prey;
Theotormon severely smiles. Her soul reflects the smile;
As the clear spring muddled with feet of beasts grows pure & smiles

The Daughters of Albion hear her woes, & eccho back her sighs.

Why does Theotormon sit weeping upon the threshold:
And Oothoon hovers by his side, perswading him in vain:
I cry arise O Theotormon for the village dog
Barks at the breaking day. the nightingale has done lamenting
The lark does rustle in the ripe corn, and the Eagle returns
From nightly prey, and lifts his golden beak to the pure east;
Shaking the dust from his immortal points to awake
The sun that sleeps too long. Arise my Theotormon I am pure.
Because the night is gone that closed me in its deadly black.
They told me that the night & day were all that I could see;
They told me that I had five senses to inclose me up.
And they inclos'd my infinite brain into a narrow circle,
And sunk my heart into the Abyss, a red round globe hot burning
Till all from life I was obliterated and erased.
Instead of morn arises a bright shadow, like an eye
In the eastern cloud: instead of night a sickly charnel house;
That Theotormon hears me not! to him the night and morn
Are both alike: A night of sighs, a morning of fresh tears;
And none but Bromion can hear my lamentations.

With what sense is it that the chicken shuns the ravenous hawk?
With what sense does the tame pigeon measure out the expanse?
With what sense does the bee form cells? have not the mouse & frog
Eyes and ears and sense of touch? yet are their habitations.
And their pursuits, as different as their forms and as their joys:
Ask the wild ass why he refuses burdens: and the meek camel
Why he loves man: is it because of eye ear mouth or skin
Or breathing nostrils? No, for these the wolf and tyger have.
Ask the blind worm the secrets of the grave, and why her spires
Love to curl round the bones of death! and ask the rav'nous snake
Where she gets poison: & the wing'd eagle why he loves the sun
And then tell me the thoughts of man, which have been hid of old.

Silent I hover all the night, and all day could be silent,
If Theotormon once would turn his loved eyes upon me;
How can I be defild when I reflect my image pure?
Sweetest the fruit that the worms feeds on. & the soul prey'd on by woe,
The new wash'd lamb ting'd with the village smoke & the bright swan
By the red earth of our immortal river: I bathe my wings,
And I am white and pure to hover round Theotormons breast.

Then Theotormon broke his silence, and he answered.
Tell me what is the night or day to one o'erflowd with woe?
Tell me what is a thought? & of what substance is it made?
Tell me what is a joy? & in what gardens do joys grow?
And in what rivers swim the sorrows? and upon what mountains
Wave shadows of discontent? and in what houses dwell the wretched
Drunken with a woe forgotten. and shut up from cold despair,

Tell me where dwell the thoughts forgotten till thou call them forth
Tell me where dwell the joys of old! & where the ancient loves?
And when will they renew again & the night of oblivion past?
That I might traverse times and spaces far remote and bring
Comforts into a pre[s]ent sorrow and a night of pain
Where goest thou O thought! to what remote land is thy flight?
If thou returnest to the present moment of affliction
Wilt thou bring comforts on thy wings, and dews and honey and balm;
Or poison from the desart wilds, from the eyes of the envier.

Then Bromion said: and shook the cavern with his lamentation

Thou knowest that the ancient trees seen by thy eyes have fruit;
But knowest thou that trees and fruit flourish upon the earth
To gratify senses unknown? trees beasts and birds unknown:
Unknown, not unperceived, spread in the infinite microscope,
In places yet unvisited by the voyager. and in worlds
Over another kind of seas, and in atmospheres unknown.
Ah! are there other wars, beside the wars of sword and fire!
And are there other sorrows, beside the sorrows of poverty?
And are there other joys, beside the joys of riches and ease?
And is there not one law for both the lion and the ox?
And is there not eternal fire, and eternal chains?
To bind the phantoms of existence from eternal life?

Then Oothoon waited silent all the day, and all the night,
But when the morn arose, her lamentation renewd,
The Daughters of Albion hear her woes, & eccho back her sighs.

O Urizen! Creator of men! mistaken Demon of heaven;
Thy joys are tears! thy labour vain, to form men to thine image.
How can one absorb another? are not different joys
Holy, eternal, infinite! and each joy is a Love.

Does not the great mouth laugh at a gift? & the narrow eyelids mock
At the labour that is above payment, and wilt thou take the ape
For thy councellor? or the dog. for a schoolmaster to thy children?
Does he who contemns poverty, and he who turns with abhorrence
From usury: feel the same passion or are they moved alike?
How can the giver of gifts experience the delights of the merchant?
How the industrious citizen the pains of the husbandman.
How different far the fat fed hireling with hollow drum;
Who buys whole corn fields into wastes, and sings upon the heath:
How different their eye and ear! how different the world to them!
With what sense does the parson claim the labour of the farmer?
What are his nets & gins & traps, & how does he surround him
With cold floods of abstraction, and with forests of solitude,
To build him castles and high spires, where kings & priests may dwell.
Till she who burns with youth, and knows no fixed lot; is bound
In spells of law to one she loaths: and must she drag the chain
Of life, in weary lust! must chilling murderous thoughts, obscure
The clear heaven of her eternal spring! to bear the wintry rage
Of a harsh terror driv'n to madness, bound to hold a rod
Over her shrinking shoulders all the day; and all the night
To turn the wheel of false desire: and longings that wake her womb
To the abhorred birth of cherubs in the human form
That live a pestilence & die a meteor & are no more.
Till the child dwell with one he hates, and do all the deeds he loaths
And the impure scourge force his seed into its unripe birth
E'er yet his eyelids can behold the arrows of the day.
Does the whale worship at thy footsteps as the hungry dog?
Or does he scent the mountain prey, because his nostrils wide
Draw in the ocean? does his eye discern the flying cloud
As the ravens eye? or does he measure the expanse like the vulture?
Does the still spider view the cliffs where eagles hide their young?
Or does the fly rejoice, because the harvest is brought in?
Does not the eagle scorn the earth & despise the treasures beneath?
But the mole knoweth what is there, & the worm shall tell it thee.
Does not the worm erect a pillar in the mouldering church yard?
And a palace of eternity in the jaws of the hungry grave
Over his porch these words are written. Take thy bliss O Man!
And sweet shall be thy taste & sweet thy infant joys renew!

Infancy, fearless, lustful, happy! nestling for delight
In laps of pleasure; Innocence! honest, open, seeking
The vigorous joys of morning light; open to virgin bliss.
Who taught thee modesty, subtil modesty! child of night & sleep
When thou awakest. wilt thou dissemble all thy secret joys
Or wert thou not awake when all this mystery was disclos'd!
Then com'st thou forth a modest virgin knowing to dissemble
With nets found under thy night pillow, to catch virgin joy,
And brand it with the name of whore: & sell it in the night,
In silence, ev'n without a whisper, and in seeming sleep,
Religious dream and holy vespers, light thy smoky fires:
Once were thy fires lighted by the eyes of honest morn
And does my Theotormon seek this hypocrite modesty!
This knowing, artful, secret. fearful, cautious, trembling hypocrite.
Then is Oothoon a whore indeed! and all the virgin joys
Of life are harlots: and Theotormon is a sick mans dream
And Oothoon is the crafty slave of selfish holiness.

But Oothoon is not so, a virgin fill'd with virgin fancies
Open to joy and to delight where ever beauty appears
If in the morning sun I find it; there my eyes are fix'd
In happy copulation; if in evening mild, wearied with work;
Sit on a bank and draw the pleasures of this free born joy.

The moment of desire! the moment of desire! The virgin
That pines for man; shall awaken her womb to enormous joys
In the secret shadows of her chamber; the youth shut up from
The lustful joy, shall forget to generate, & create an amorous image
In the shadows of his curtains and in the folds of his silent pillow.
Are not these the places of religion? the rewards of continence!
The self enjoyings of self denial? Why dost thou seek religion?
Is it because acts are not lovely, that thou seekest solitude,
Where the horrible darkness is impressed with reflections of desire.

Father of Jealousy, be thou accursed from the earth!
Why hast thou taught my Theotormon this accursed thing?
Till beauty fades from off my shoulders darken'd and cast out,
A solitary shadow wailing on the margin of non-entity.

I cry, Love! Love! Love! happy happy Love! free as the mountain wind!
Can that be Love, that drinks another as a sponge drinks water?
That clouds with jealousy his nights, with weepings all the day:
To spin a web of age around him, grey and hoary! dark!
Till his eyes sicken at the fruit that hangs before his sight.
Such is self-love that envies all! a creeping skeleton
With lamplike eyes watching around the frozen marriage bed.

But silken nets and traps of adamant will Oothoon spread,
And catch for the girls of mild silver, or of furious gold;
I'll lie beside thee on a bank & view their wanton play
In lovely copulation bliss on bliss with Theotormon;
Red as the rosy morning, lustful as the first born beam,
Oothoon shall view his dear delight, nor e'er with jealous cloud
Come in the heavens of generous love; nor selfish blightings bring.

Does the sun walk in glorious raiment, on the secret floor
Where the cold miser spreads his gold? or does the bright cloud drop
On his stone threshold? does his eye behold the beam that brings
Expansion to the eye of pity? or will he bind himself
Beside the ox to thy hard furrow? does not that mild beam blot
The bat, the owl, the glowing tyger, and the king of night.
The sea fowl takes the wintry blast. for a cov'ring to her limbs:
And the wild snake, the pestilence to adorn him with gems & gold.
And trees. & birds. & beasts, & men. behold their eternal joy.
Arise you little glancing wings, and sing your infant joy!
Arise and drink your bliss. For everything that lives is holy!

Thus every morning wails Oothoon. but Theotormon sits
Upon the margind ocean conversing with shadows dire,

The Daughters of Albion hear her woes, & eccho back her sighs.

The End

William Blake

Desenat și publicat de autor în 1793.

Charles Bukowski

so you want to be a writer?

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.


if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Charles Bukowski

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Conscientious Objector

I shall die, but
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,
business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle
while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself:
I will not give him a leg up.

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.

I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Poezia

Poezia poate să fie ceva deosebit (Maya Angelou). Poate să fie o poveste rimată pentru a o face mai ușor de reținut (Miorița). Sau poate să fie doar o succesiune tîmpă de rime (Adrian Păunescu). La fel cum poate să fie o succesiune tîmpă de rime cu intenție criminală (Radu Gyr).

Dacă vorbești româna cel mai probabil ai avut ghinionul școlii în România. Asta înseamnă reproducere după autodictare. Și apelare la gîndirea altora pentru că tu ești mic, ei (George Călinescu) este mare.

Roșia nenaturală și dumnezeul adevărat

Găsesc fascinantă dualitatea acestor mizeri, românii. Bineînțeles, fiecare, în sinea lui nu corespunde. Dă-te doi pași înapoi. Privește peisajul. Fundamentalismul ortodox și fascismul se țes în forme miraculoase pentru că tocmai toți participă la ridicarea lor, la această țesătorie statală.

Pe de-o parte vreau să mănînc natural. Orice o fi însemnînd acel natural. Căci balega e naturală și nu e acceptată, sașimi e făcut cu alge de cultură și mîna omului se face deja mai simțită decît mîna dumnezeului românilor, iar ciorba de burtă este un preparat inexistent în natură, transformat la temperatură înaltă și diverși potențiatori de gust, conservanți, pesticide, șamd. Urăsc potențiatorul de gust, dar gust e tot ce pot să spun despre roșiile mici și sîmboroase de calitate foarte proastă făcute în grădina lu bunicu, cu munca lu bunica și benzina angajatorului.

Și era frumoasă că la soare te puteai uita dar la ea ba!

Exprimarea în literatura română este o adunare de clișee. Și care face borșul moldovinesc să alunece mai bine pe gît cîștigă. Dar numai dacă e nevoie de departajare după ce s–au însumat înfloriturile. Ăsta e exemplul care m–a lovit cînd m–am trezit de dimineață.

Întîi de toate este complet irelevant cum arată femeia. E complet irelevant ce știe să facă. Pînă și dacă vorbești de o șurubelniță te aștepți la mai multă funcționalitate decît de la Ileana Cosînzeana. Adică, pardon, de la șurubelniță te aștepți la funcționalitate. Leana e doar acolo garant pentru contract: jumătate de împărăție.

Chiar și cînd Leana este săracă și tac–su nu dă nici jumate din titlul de proprietate al bordeiului, funcționalitatea este implicită. Orice femeie vine natural, o dată cu labii și clitoris și cu alte trăsături relevante: spală, calcă, instinct matern. Cum toate femeile sînt așa rămîne doar să le remarci pe cele atît de rele încît nu vor să moară cărînd rufele la rîu după a 14 naștere și încă vreo 10 sarcini pierdute. Și Leana e fată bună, deci tot ce trebuie să o faci este să o atașezi la portofoliu ca pe un atu la jocul de Wist.

Versuri

Aseară duhul sfînt mi-a făcut o vizită și mi-a tras o palmă peste cur. Întîmplător am scos un vinil din vitrină. Și am ascultat Cargo. Toate formațiile rock românești sînt de lăbari. Tricoaie cu Megadeth și sunet pe cît pot ei să imite van Halen. Dar Cargo reușește să țină pentru că vocalul are un timbru apare. Nu e Minculescu care și-a prins coaiele în fermoar și acum plinge că s-a pișat pe pantaloni ca ultimul bețiv.

Dar ziceam de duhul sfînt și fesele mele.