"impotents" poems
I know that once I have loved you,
on a date that I can't remember well...
it was cold that night
it could have been winter, anyhow
you were unwashed, nameless
without perfume and a beer
desanctifed a hundred times,
but I have loved you
more than all the saints of the world
yes, I've been waiting for you too long,
but you didn't stay long enough
anyhow we'd still do the usual
**** that little love from our sweaty skin
then we would say to each other
'Good night, you are better than her'
Once i have loved you
on a date I can't remember quite well...
more than all the saints of the world,
the impotents that never knew how to love the way we do
and what they did when you went crazy while orgasming?
gave you flowers, sorted out the words
for their sterile loves
and didn't want any of them then,
so you wanted me
a wild haired stud
a descantified sinner for you
one hundred times,
we knew,
love was just an ordinary *****
and we were like that
not sacred as that day had to be
so I don't remember it quite well
and you haven't forgotten it, I know...
©Ndriçim Ademaj
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
this type of disrespectfulness
that all the idiots of all times
have called **********
an essential irony
affecting the taste of instincts
are you revenging?
are you making a soldier out of rationality?
don’t seek reasons to confirm
these feelings
eventually we fake ourselves
and accept the testimony of feelings
in the face of the enemy
in the face of the unfound truth
the aim of the artist
is ideological
an thus he is a human
he saves his own
morality
from being mutilated
the world as a mistake
a disgraceful yearning
with an instinct of self-preservation
which seeks nothing
refusing wars
against the impotents
and this type of disrespectfulness
coalesced with him
call “love”
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Ma plume pleure les agonies et les souffrances
De mon peuple qui se noie dans la misère.
Mon stylo stylise les lentes cadences
D’un mendiant qui s’égare au sein de la galère.
Ma voix dénonce la vaine guerre et l’injustice
Qui punissent les plus impotents de la vallée.
Un petit groupe se voit maigrement récompenser,
Quelle honte pour un monde infesté de vices!
Mon pinceau démasque l’inégalité et le déséquilibre
Qui bottinent tout un univers soi-disant libre.
Mes 'rayons laser' brûlent l’iris des aveugles
Qui voient très clair le mini-tableau de mon peuple.
Je suis le gendre du poète lâchement exécuté
Et le petit-fils du plus pauvre empereur assassiné.
J’abhorre la vanité et la mièvrerie de l’homme
Qui se croit supérieur à l’hérisson et à la pomme.
Ma plume pleure pour mon peuple
Qui boit l’absinthe comme un aveugle.
Ma voix emportée, par le vent de la liberté
Est pareille aux soupirs perçants des enfants affamés.
Copyright© 18 Mai 2010, Hebert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés
Hébert Logerie est l’auteur de quatre recueils de poèmes.
May 17, 2025
May 17, 2025 at 3:01 PM UTC