(I) Not a man, merely a warning to others.
Rider in eternity
In a holy day of the paunch
The trample of the horse on trail leads the reprobate to the gates of the Black Castle
In the entourage of the greedy, debauchee, gamblers
(steeped are all of his pockets)
the lock clicks and closes like a roomette of the sarcophagus
I am not a man, merely a warning to others.
Blood of the rider on the sorrel horse decants down the eyes of the sword.
Draw your courage.
Skeleton leaks from the paunch
Down valves of thirsty purple, cold sun
For madman who surfeit gnawed naked trees.
„Provision of wheat for a groat, three provisions of barley for a groat, and oil and wine there won’t be.”
I am not a man, merely a warning to others,
Swollen from anger and cry,
With eyes the colour of swamp
Inflamed are the furies
(Heracles, here is fire!)
minds are fed with hunger
(death with no hurry)
image found here
The word lost power, but the power lost not the word.
From weary mouths rests in diction
In the age of apocalyptic, wonderful miracles.
The Grand Idiot will be fed by Earth
And the meek will be buried under it.
Miracles prevail over Courteous Miracles
From the cliff of eyes
Into the imaginary house
Under the dead tongue
Acrimony wants to plot.
I – MESSALINE
Cynical yellow thunder tears with rays
The parching earth – dry and infertile
I – Messaline!
Declare war to all the barren blacks
Who do not birth!
I summon Poseidon to impregnate
My mortal body with immortal progeny!
I summon the Heavens to bow down to my tentacles
Folded into a clenched fist!
I curse all the virgins racked by my woe
Fall to your knees before the filthy breed!
Beg to be fertilized by their pagan ritual!
Kiss their wounded feet
Like you will kiss your children!
Beg for one more drop of life
Which will violate your dishonorable body!
I – Messaline!
I am fire above all fire!
An untouched flower of the Sultan’s garden
The scepter in the hand of the powerless king
Cleopatra’s pyramid sank into mud
The carnival of appetence without masque
Twilight that dawns on an intact hip
The lust of Eve in the boring Eden
The forest unbathed by an ocean of blood
An unhealed wound beneath the hot navel
The unpierced rib in the deciding battle
A lonely nest devoid of it’s eagle.
Translated Into English: Mirjana M. Inalman
With wincing voids and dismayed mornings
The leisured stones ring.
Does Fire not yearn to burn the garden
To transfuse your body into light
Does rain not hurry to sodden the sky
Or oceans? Do they not strive to find
The galleys of ANCESTOR wrath
With yearn to sail it around by violence?
All of them yearn
Your delicate wishes
Your shadow to please.
A joyful play