ArchivesSite MapSubmitOur GangContact UsHot Sites
1983-2015
tearing the rag off the bush again
A Young Monster from Transylvania! The Poetry of Marius Conkan! PDF E-mail
the son shouts and death reluctantly undresses

Poems by Marius Conkan
translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Aura Ţeudan

mother’s T-shirt

1.
the train entered my village with its perversion
scenes of hunger and game-playing scenes of frustration and disgust
then I’d see mother’s T-shirt aglow on a ragdoll
after she’d become a scarecrow at this harsh merciless return
mother’s T-shirt her nipples sticking out and phantoms of children frolicking inside
mother’s T-shirt good for wiping your nose like a shipwreck in the process of disintegration
after I’d become a monkey with piercings and irrational hair
desensitized by the world’s wars by failures and consequences
mother’s T-shirt which we’d sink into
when other children pulled our hair cursed us spat
I promise I’ll kill my obsessions I promise I’ll no longer smoke or drink
I’ll  be diligent and conscientious
mother’s T-shirt watching me furtively like a devil steeped in alcohol and rolled in tobacco
mother’s T-shirt drowning me like a devil in a cup of coffee
that I drink after long tremors
you must know that I was born only through you
that my crying smashed father’s image
that I’m no longer a little girl that I’ve turned into a man
mother’s shirt stained with oil and menstrual blood is the cleanest clothing in the house
it purifies me of any woman it strokes my bones and unknown virility
it makes me feel my ground warmer and my brain plunged deep in the ground
yes, you must know my death’s become a sort of a feminine way of living
and all the toys are buried somewhere in the wardrobe
2.
I drink a glass of juice smoke a pall mall write a poem
and my sister’s asleep with her teddy bear under her head
I drink wearing mother’s T-shirt smoke wearing mother’s T-shirt
write wearing mother’s T-shirt and I’m full of toys
in mother’s T-shirt I feel pregnant
in mother’s T-shirt I have breasts
in mother’s T-shirt I have velvety skin
I don’t believe I’ll ever grow up grow old be loved
while I wear mother’s T-shirt

the first letter from soporia


slightly lunatic apprentice I’m writing to you with death in feathers and whales dwelling in my womb
my voice has gone dead and we can’t talk on the phone
my nails lie hidden in my flesh like the kittens of a poisonous cat
I wear glasses and my beard flows to the ground
our marriage was too earthly and not at all crazy
I’ve started to grow human whiskers and lost the gnome’s earring
you’ll say that the bogeyman’s to blame but you’re wrong
he merely tenderized my skin in salt and bathed me in strong water
he kindled my love for women and my belief in the gods
here in soporia it’s cold and I often sleep curled up like a pretzel
people smoke and drink they’ve built brothels and cafes
some lost their breasts others their manhood and procreate unceasingly
in soporia I’m sort of a symbolic king retired to an island in a hotel room
together with my brother caliban who picks up cigarette butts
his right arm was cut short and he has a single adicolor eye
he watches TV about children all day long
and often dresses as a cook or as a maternity nurse
slightly lunatic apprentice remember me
as a devil with long nails and a bald spot
mention me at funeral services and honor me by going on a spree
that’s all caliban’s waiting for me with a lamb steak
and by tonight I hope to find the much searched-for earring

the second letter from soporia. caliban


I’m caliban the cannibal my pockets full of virgins
long have I dwelt alone on this strange island
I used to hunt only amerindian women with nipples like coconuts and sleep in pouches
I’m caliban the cannibal and I’m writing to you slow-witted as I am and my eye sometimes dead
other times rough as a cow’s tongue I pray only to blood I pay homage only
to an enchanted clitoris I’m my own ancestor and progeny god and devil
once I loved but only with my lust I hated but only with my teeth
my island’s populated by nooses and stuffed children
my right hand was cut off while I was digging out a virgin
my left arm’s both my fan and axe delicate touch and beast
since I’ve been staying with sopor in the hotel room I seem less savage
but in fact I’ve got the same little devil’s ears and the same sticky fur
I heard you’re a vamp’s apprentice and you’re driving yourself crazy as if your death weren’t just another
well our twinned brains are wombs for mothers and brothers
come to the island lunatic apprentice I’ll be your lover and your amerindian gal

the third letter from soporia


slightly lunatic apprentice last night my brother caliban died of gout and
I buried him in a roe deer. he could only pack in his suitcase
a pair of stockings and a divine prosthesis. I wept for a while and kept logged on
to the internet till morning. well if the suitcase remains alive I think I’ll
go back down to earth again. I’m no use here. I found
my gnome’s earring in the drain trap of the sink so I’ll  be safe from lusts
both earthly and not at all insane. still I want you to know I’m no longer the same sopor
hallucinating. I use a crutch and snore like an old man I’m diabetic and eat only dill . . .

the son

a.
I take cover under a tinfoil skin
so that you can’t get through to me (I take another drag on my cigarette
and they look daggers at me)
I’m the son the only son of a sorrowful mother
who gets beatings instead of happiness
I’m the extravagant neurotic
no one can fathom me
(another drag on my cigarette and their daggers gleam red)
from who knows where a woman’s hand rips away the foil
I’m an abandoned children’s home

b.
I need your suicide just as I need cigarettes since no one can transform plastic into flesh
c.
I draw smoke into my lungs as if I plucked out your nails with pliers I’m not a sadist nor a masochist I’m only looking for the certitude that my obsessions will utterly baffle you
d.
the son doesn’t know the black cat’s tongue
the son shouts and death reluctantly undresses
the son makes love to death
nothing’s more satisfying than sinking your teeth in death’s fat ass.

death’s brother

I’ve talked a lot about death
but said little about her brother
known as the asexual
he was born when a knife ripped open a virgin’s womb
he works as a singer you can see him on youtube
licking his nails like a famished dog
not long ago he paid me a visit
and explained how things have to be in his kingdom
it seems that women aren’t allowed to be dressed in there
they work side by wide with men and keep up drink for drink
he smoked a pack of cigarettes
and then the asexual cut out claiming he had to shoot a video
what sort of brother is that for death
if he won’t let himself be buried in either woman or man
if he fails to produce fear walking with his hair in his mouth
and doesn’t drink coca-cola but only strong ţuica
distilled out of plums brought from his grandmother’s village

entry for death (1)

death’s a plaster mask I put on when upset
I’ve amassed too much disgust inside
and can no longer save myself except by raving with a noose around my neck a blade biting my flesh
nothing’s better than this cigarette
I stab in phantasms’ eyes
crying:
forgive my blood only I’m to blame
I condemn lack of violence
I love lack of affection
I add myself only to a devoured womb
searching for a fetus
I’d sleep all day long dreaming that death’s like brushing your teeth
but no
come what may death clutches my tongue and face muscles
as if it forbade me to confess
mother won’t confront death mother’s naïve a believer
to humiliate death it’s necessary to know the touch of its blade
like a prostitute’s caress
to love death it’s necessary to hate yourself
so passionately
that you’re unable to kill yourself

flowers girls and boys songs and singers


strangled while you were with your lover I bathed and perfumed myself to caress like a man
I trimmed my cuticle put on mascara undressed I have a loser’s caress
I glide past your high heels like an animal in heat lift your skirt thrust the doll between your legs
I stick my tongue out mother scolds me oh stained your pants again there-there mother croons at the child
flowers girls and boys songs and singers
let’s play break our heads spit at each other kiss cheeks waiting for the buttered loaf of bread
that mother tosses us from the window let’s trick the gossipy old hags let’s molest young maidens
jet-powered plane fly with me today the bogeyman lands scissors in hand and cuts our
gasping throats blood spurts on mother’s face not father’s fathers have rough feet
and smell of alcohol
flowers girls and boys songs and singers
you’re kind of rambling little man made of corrugated paper don’t weep over mother drowned in blood she’s gone
to buy candy for the child bo peep my little bottom’s dancing I poke my eyes out with the colored marker mother’s laundry
was rotting bo peep stop banging your head against walls it’s better to try and oink like a pig to meow
bo peep let’s slurp the vegetable soup from the bowl so we’ll grow big the toys in the shop window were dying
flowers girls and boys songs and singers
she brings candy for the naughty who peep through the keyhole of the bathroom door
she comes feeling weak and angry she goes there-there to the child let’s make faces and when she enters the house
let’s beat her with the scald her as one does to hens I sprayed perfume on myself to caress like a
bogeyman I put on mascara undressed I have a loser’s caress

I still have one desire left

1.
I won’t make it past fifty I’ll melt chocolate-armored magpies
on the tongues of men fond of travesty
impotent lunatic and easy mark I’ll cuddle on big boobs
a broad who’ll get me drunk every day on cyanide and coffee
I’ll no longer be a stud I’ll no longer write poetry
she’ll stop feeding me I won’t have money for a coffin
the ideal woman will stay locked inside my hump
I’ll sleep in the tents of the shipwrecked I’ll be cobbler or beggar
I’ll be lazy and my bitchy mother will deny me
father will deny me my sister will cry in vain
I won’t make it past fifty.
2.
I’ll be majestic I’ll be sadistic I’ll be deliciously handsome
a little child in the corridors of the dark morbid asylum
I’ll be a lollipop stabbed in the skulls of femmes fatales
I’ll be ice-cream melting down hot bodies
a feather plume I’ll be in my mother’s mouth
ejected altogether with the first foul oath.
3.
don’t believe me when I die asphyxiated in sleep
or when I’m making love don’t believe me
to be a madman with eardrums on sizzling virgin vaginas
don’t dress me in baggy clothes don’t stuff cotton wool in my nostrils
don’t embalm me in oils and spices but only alcohol fumes and cigarette smoke
the service won’t take very long my eyes will be open.
4.
gracious whore for rocking children make me alive and docile
sweeten me with your licorice blow my mind
let’s dance until our brains spurt against the walls
let’s dance until we wear holes in the wood floor
until the neighbors come clutching forks and pans
gracious whore for rocking children make me your sprite
dress me in long skirts below my ankles
take me on bicycle rides down the asylum corridors
tell me stories about mothers and suicides
gracious whore for rocking children will you come?

I’m not sopor aeternus


I’m not sopor aeternus to write poems of genius just with my motions
in my sick mind lie raped virgins naughty children with their legs round their necks
malformed babies are born mothers couple with the devil
the insane are treated as lusty maids they’re gaudily made up for virgins and lady teachers
we train even the most cowardly rabbits for war we polish our swords with the grease of the fat ones
we behead we burn at the stake we’re the madmen who escaped from the asylum
to march down the streets tricked out as prostitutes
to pay tribute to the madness that makes us creators
to raise altars for the sacrifice of the lucid and livid
to nibble on shaved heads to smear our flesh with blood
we’re the madmen who escaped from the asylum we march across forgotten graves
we don’t believe in deceitful lovers in good-for-nothing friendships
we hang the lucid and livid from ropes that emerge out of their navels
(you’re right this poem’s too violent and incites suicide
don’t read it until you’ve had a few beers and enough loving).

Marius Conkan is a student at the Faculty of Letters in Cluj, Romania. His first poetry collection soporia was published by Editura Vinea, Bucharest, 2009.


 
< Prev   Next >