Zoon Poetikon by GEORGE G. ASZTALOS (best e books to read .txt) 📕

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.