Zoon Poetikon, GEORGE G. ASZTALOS [best ebook reader for ubuntu .TXT] 📗
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- Author: GEORGE G. ASZTALOS
Book online «Zoon Poetikon, GEORGE G. ASZTALOS [best ebook reader for ubuntu .TXT] 📗». Author GEORGE G. ASZTALOS
awakening to (i)reality
"WAKE UP to (i)reality! we are small in a huge universe. we live in a horror of death. flyes conquering empires of dust. how the hell shouldn’t we be afraid? fear is the second nature. and the first is the courage to accept them all. as they really are." - George Asztalos - The Second Infrarealist Manifesto, Romania, 2010
she was a shy one whenever I saw her
something grabed me so that suddenly
I was putting my finger in her eye
pour a glass of water behind her neck
or hell knows what fierce animal
in her backpack
"life is pain baby!" - I cried out
showing her
my last scratches still bleeding
and she loved me
with all its little-girl fury
unfairly fought
twenty years after I wake up with a lady
suddenly on the street
puts her finger in my eye
while pours water behind my neck
"life is funny old man" -she whispered
then she invited me to her place
and from one word to another
we got fierce little animals
wich couldn't take anymore
of that shy reality
tough retrieval what can I say
with all my calmness of praised man
maybe rightly
I never saw her again
and I hate her guts
The Famous Poem With The Neighbours
You never came to my house
Maybe
You went to the neighbours
I was here
Please come in and sit down
Wish I could give you something sweet
But I such finished it all
That my teeth hurts
I ask you red like this
Although
I'm painfully blue
Can you give me a pain-killer?
Can you?
Mottography with Spy-Dee
I had a spider which I called Spy-Dee although
he seemed like a tough guy in himself he was one and half of a creature
he was weaving away at his web all day long he wouldn’t eat or drink what else could he do
hoo-ha he was almost not even breathing and most of all
he was not chasing women
you could say he was kind of sitting in vain so to speak
although he was good at something, I was keeping him close to the household
he was great he wasn’t drinking he was weaving away and most of all
he wasn’t chasing I was stroking his head
giving him hope
this new principle – how can I tell you
was to pardon my say
pull the shit out of fire
with someone else’s hand
some heated firemen didn’t get a chance
to cool off as it was burning away
I was nothing I wasn’t sure if I should
take care or remember
the thing is I had
my spider Spy-Dee
although a tough guy weaving poems on the wall
he was a Down-player I used to stroke him
I still have a photo of him while still old
My Transsylvania from the sky
(the grapes of wrath.neo-patriotic poem)
from where I come my dear traveler
it’s the stage
of a vineyard form of amphitheater
digged by my father among the others when
he was still experiencing
his vital states of mind
when he was drunckly adorable
beyond mountains and forests
beyond those noctambular draculities
and argues on the nationality
of dear mother of God
from where I come there are people not landscapes
of plastic with mannequins
nor freaky castles with touristical news
it’s me and you and all wich still believe
in that dubious rest of humanity
from where I come the single noble family tree
that makes us true is the bread
and the salt of the land
it’s everything that keeps us free
and madly together
from there I mounted on my eyes
a kind of wasting
and alcohol of vanity
because the vineyard is gone for good
and above all even above my dad
the forest is growing high
thus my joy is a kind of dream on the edge
kind of resentment
and tears swalloved again and again
by the rage
The Extra Poem with Aunt Haby
„fountains are drying by Habitude
” – Sixtus Acvarius
in the common acception
in the heart of small capacity of aunt Haby
there are still surviving reserves
and I quote:
“what poetry mister Gee?
dreams and illusions which go off on one
to humbug us for good”
aunt Haby sticks her hand
illustratively in the ground and says man
I know for a fact:
what’s in my hand
is no ‘green planes on the wall’!
yet
the thing is
that there is no way of knowing
how much poetry is there in the ground
at World's End
so the Poeth-dog is coming it sniffs
her demonstrative hand
and then the beast raises its foot
some ms Habies are even stroking him
on this matter
arguing that it’s ordinary but they know better
for most often is driven away
from heaven
and everything is reduced to a few solemn
and sexymenthal cry-barkings
this is where I come in
friendly like a racing horse
a flyer swimmin’ on the ground
and aunt Haby jumps on me
she just found out I’m transporting poems
internally and internationally
and reality is that o-kaaay
what can I say?
aunt Haby is sad
her hand hurts like hell
I walk airborne underground like the gadfly
I save her urgently to the worlds end
right there where the land is resurrecting us
after the glaciations
where the entire world is wrenching in tears
of laughter
The Theory of Communicating Silence
I wish the celebration never ends
like any poem in this world
silence
or maybe
a new day has come
never mind
wake me up
when it's gone
To Gee or not to Gee?
I doo, I doo
wonder what else
rather than give my word of honour that I exist?
I’m building my afterlife before
two warm grains in the eyes of the titmouse
we stretch our hands and flap-flap: is gone
the branch shivers
in its place
that is for shure why
I’m building my afterlife before
my branch shivers too
but I am home I am always here
dressed just in myself like the sword of Toledo
although it’s almost september with fruits
gone to warmer countries
I think I’ll take autumn and throw it to the ground
and then I’ll pretend to vegetate
of course
I’ll be watching
Text: all texts and photos are copyrighted to George Asztalos. all rights reserved.
Publication Date: 03-13-2010
All Rights Reserved
Dedication:
To my daughter, Asztalos Iulia, which is my best poem i ever have wrote and read, my inspiration and never-ending love.
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