Waiting for an Old Woman

There was once one story…
kept on going further…
as I laid no weeping
and bawdy tryouts
and bowdy cryouts
(howdy bowdy…)

I strove to take no offered chairs
or a griffon on the sill
by my fatigue-gripped hand…
I wiped off cloud from off the Oak
to be made with the streak of mahogany
to give away coffins
to age that comes
to stainless steelsimmortali
to Maple pies.

I still hear the sullen bells,
the bells which rings
disguised as a tumbling man,
I heard how they in their deafening ring,
besides the vigils and the funerals
should form another slow somber hour
waiting for an Old Woman.
Where is it the echo of an Old Woman?
There under the Yew tree.

There was once one story…
kept on going further
and my body within
waiting for an Old Woman.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

THE END, Inspired by inimitable insipid individuals, infinitely inconsequential

THE END, Inspired by inimitable insipid individuals, infinitely inconsequential

The word is dead.
One day
Nothing left to fear.
There is no Logos.
There is no Nature.
No, there is neither.
I saw how my twenty-first-century poems,
Or at least what I think they once were,
Now turned into
An unrecitable torment
Of making
A testimony of sorts… For what?!
The unseen, the unspoken,
It is enough to vanish,
But I am in the know
Of how much it would please
My talented adversaries.

So I will remain a stone
That writes
there is no poet here.
there is no poetry there.
general paralysis
There is no poet, there is no poetry, there is no poet, no poetry, no style,
no language, no music, the word is dead, rest assured.
Please, rest assured, please, please rest!

…. and that would be it.
I AM the verse
Without fresh air
prostrate –
beside the river of Babylon
where everything is seated
some amigos,
a friendly barbecue,
Dyed bodies of cannibals
And a cheerful toast.
my irritated imagination
my symbolism
my twinkling lights
Resplendent to be sniffed
The intermittency of appalling scenes…

Vigilance interrupts
The idyllic life in a nightmare
I am a cosmopolitan, widespread disease
My hair stands
The table’s edge.
My tears after awakening
Are crocodile dung
Tears drowned in a bathtub
The smelly bath
In the embrace of blindness
She delivers the Thor to the nails
I buoy to the ceiling
all manuscripts
planks of ink…
Serbia’s camp
Prison hospital.
I’m a polite woman without any hustle
I have performed hundreds of poetry experiments,
If I merely wanted it, I could easily die during one
Now I’m off to the lab
to disinfect Myself.
Sorry, Pater Noster – Aunt, with your fluttering cassock,
Sorry Pater Noster – Uncle, who holds the keys to the Heavens and the Ferraris
I did not know how to bounce along the national rustic jig
Cumbersome I kept stumbling over
I am not a good believer
I, neither pretty nor young enough for the title of Holy
Forgive me, for I am not a good Serb
Sorry, Mater Noster, forgive, forgive!
My cheeks are hollowed out from verse pimping
Goodness, lovers and girlfriends for dinner, it is a lavish part
of the poetic end, isn’t it?
But they do not serve me as a poetess
Nor do they moisten my stanzas with fragrances
As I write my last public address (Do give us a hand, please) I am clenching my breasts in my palms
I recall my early youth
Sometimes the light is born within me
Very noticeable
More fervent than the dawn of time, priests would say
Mostly I feel the night inside me
riddled with bullets and bloody wolf hunts,
I adore the deos until after their ouster
They aim for my life, appear to me with claws and marks
Through dubious astrological trials
I am watching the sea that I will never see
In this accursed hamlet,
I describe the sluggish steps of Kings
sneaking by palaces at Samarra
Which will never whisper
I recognize the images of distant landscapes
in the verse that does not unveil itself to me
There is no nature in poetry
she is sick of the three pens and mangled alphabet.
Her belly is swollen
There is no promised land to continue towards
on one’s pilgrimage
I am dust, bloated and greedy
With this departure from the country of poetry, with a smile of a crying child
answer me, chimera that glides between my rows and my trenches
Be honest, the deep illusion with elephant diphtheria and malignant disease
three lines before the end of.. this, before your affluence rots
and your garments are devoured by moths, INTER NOS,
is it possible for anything to be minisculeto dust?
Veni at me… sed wicked… Climax non-est!