Think Forward.



Flaming thoughts of sacred infractions, Delicate lines of a spider’s thread, Milk pale phantoms of familiar conformations, Vast libraries of words unsaid. Liquid night, foreign and odd, As color draining from the face of God. Where now is the bright gaze, and the smile burning? Warm sinews of fabled strength never returning?

Third Paradoxist Manifesto by Florentin Smarandache

Therefore, don't enforce any literary rules on me! Or, if you do, I'll certainly encroach upon them. I'm not a poet, that's why I write poetry. I'm an anti-poet or non-poet. I thus came to America to re-build the Statue of Liberty of the Verse, delivered from the tyranny of the classic and its dogma. I allowed any boldness: - anti-literature and its literature; - flexible forms fixed, or the alive face of the death! - style of the non-style; - poems without verse (because poems don't mean words)- dumb poems with loud voice; - poems without poems (because the notion of "poem" doesn't match any definition found in dictionaries or encyclopedias) - poems which exist by their absence; - after-war literature: pages and pages bombed by filthiness, triteness, and non-poeticality; - paralinguistic verse (only!): graphics, lyrical portraits, drawings, drafts... - non-words and non-sentence poems; - very upset free verse and trivial hermetic verse; - intelligible unintelligible language; - unsolved and open problems of mathematics like very nice poems of the spirit - we must scientificize the art in this technical century; - impersonal texts personalized; - electrical shock; - translation from the impossible into the possible, or transformation of the abnormal to the normal; - pro Non-Art Art; - make literature from everything, make literature from nothing! The poet is not a prince of ducks! The notion of "poetry" and its derivatives have become old-fashioned in this century, and people laugh at them in disregard. I'm ashamed to affirm that I create lyrical texts, I hide them. People neither read nor listen to lyrical texts anymore, but they will read this volume because it's nothing to read! However, the Paradoxist Movement is neither nihilism, nor disparity. The book of the non-poems is a protest against art's marketing. Do you writers sell your feelings? Do you create only for money?? Only books about crimes, sex, horror are published. Where is the true Art? In begging... . You may find in this book of uncollected poems everything you don't need and don't like: poems not to be read, not to be heard, not to be written at all! Enjoy them. Only after nuisance you really know what pleasure means. They provide a mirror of everybody's infinite soul. Art, generally speaking, is pushed up to its last possible frontiers toward non-art, and even more... Better a book of blanc pages, than one which says nothing. A very abstract and symbolic language is further used, but very concrete at the same time: non-restrictive verse from any form or content. It takes advantage of cliche against itself. EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE, THEREFORE: THE IMPOSSIBLE TOO! Hence don't wonder about this anti-book! If you don't understand it, that means you understand all. That is the goal of the manifesto. Because Art is not for the mind, but for feelings. Because Art is also for the mind. Try to interpret the un-interpretable! Your imagination may flourish as a cactus in a desert. But, The American Manifesto of the PARADOXISM is especially a revolt of the emigrant to the United States who doesn't speak English, against the language - an anti-language book written in more than a broken English (the American speech of Tomorrow?)... [From the book: NonPoems, by Florentin Smarandache, Xiquan Publishing House, Phoenix, Chicago, 1991, 1992, 1993; the volume contains very experimental so called , such as: - poems without verse; - poems without poems; - poem-drafts; - drawn-poems; - poems in Pirissanorench (language spoken in the South-West of the United States by a single person); - super-poems; - graphic poems; - upset-poems.]


She held on her the life struggle with grace Time to time and over, breaks made haste Tears wet ran down her face But she prevailed and found her way Loving herself and letting her dark thoughts stay In the moments the task at hand, she has nothing to worry and believes she can In the end after time has passed She will look back and have a laugh and remember the times tough and true We are not our thoughts ----------- we are what we do

"Perfect Mistakes"

You cannot make mistakes They are perfect moments to the art of your life You cannot have perfection Because it's the flaws that make you the most beautiful

"The Ones"

We crave “the ones” that need salvation We crave “the ones” that face starvation Not for saving or comforting our souls The wall “the ones” they climb, brings them to us We are the rope, the strong rope they need. Tattered, frayed and a little torn but able to hold giants


One of those sunless nights My feet planted firmly in the sky I will call your name Meandering through the stars See if gravity pulls us apart You might forget my soul An event without horizon Drink the poison of my hope I will swallow my reason He who wanted to elope In a supernova

The adventures of Billy (part 1)

Billy liked driving his car To see his friends who lived afar Billy's driving wasn't intricate He never forgot to indicate Except sometimes at roundabouts His indicator would mess about And so did Billy wonder Was it for worse or for better That he should think less But to endure the stress Of never knowing which Turn would make it glitch And so did billy wonder And so did billy wonder

Rock Lined Pockets

See the alarm in the shark’s cadence, Hear the sharp seagull’s cry: The merling king has come! The merling king has come! Jellyfish floating around his cloudy crystal crown Like translucent passive thoughts of aggression. Will he forgive your primate indiscretion? In his court of slime and rock sublime He beckons you with open tentacles to join his circle of hedonistic companions. The mermaid is a murderous creature. The dolphins are wanton and wild. What’s that in your pockets? The inquisitive mollusk asks. Rocks. Of the precious kind? No. His soft limbs curl back in plain disappointment. From under a shell a faint voice cautioned, Do not trust in the soft bodied rogue’s trade. Down here the written word is as fleeting as the spoken one.

"Violently in Love"

It was written on her, the poetry of beauty, prose holding struggle and experience Buried in night, wrapped in warm arms Empty space gone and air escapes two sunken bodies An embrace lost in time, I am yours and you are mine The warmth of your skin burns, turns me to ash The sight of you makes my thoughts bleed Your hands dissolve me slowly The taste of you poisons my senses. You have made me bare-boned and raw, I am endless Your existence creates standing water that runs deep in my soul Will you come to me? I will wait. How soon is now? With you is a place where time does not exist.

"Just Be"

Lovers love the faint blue sea, bluer than blue, like the aftermath of a bended knee Readers read the words that paint you through my eyes, the words they whisper, all of them lies Doers do, the deeds that have proper morals and wronged righteousness, the priest and politicians, never are missed Kissers kiss the lips of lovers and poets, creating fire in ones own heart, the more you kiss the hotter it starts Killers kill the authenticity of life and art with their normalized judgments for what they cannot do So, please remember to love, read, do, and kiss as your life will be almost through

"The hard truth of loving"

I am this love to you I’ll pick you up all the times you are blue I’ll shelter you from the rain, wipe you tears and absorb your pain— never waiving in front of you- conquering, ambitious, risky, poetic, passionate, sexy and raw, I’ll ask you to enter but then you crawl But I say for these ideals and truths of us to last, what is your love to me when you take off that mask? What is your love, you offer to me? For the days and nights to set me free. What is your love that takes me from this place? What is your love that opens up me? What is it you have to offer, average love will not due because we are not the love common for two I ask you again, what is your love that is my end? What is your love that cannot bend?


Angry, lost, and afraid- in world I never made Raging, sadness, and rotten- I, in a world, time has forgotten Until her She gave peace, mind, and strength She holds me tight and gives my darkness the kindest light- to be happy with such happiness You are the good that goodness gets to be

"Dancing in the Rain"

She reminded him of no one He was trapped in a dream he wanted He had demons that danced with perfect vulgar in her night that never ended Je suis es noir- he is the black Je suis es blanc- she is the white She needed him like she needs the light She hides from him in the shadows, but he owns the night He was all she never wanted, emotionally complex, and couldn’t understand He was barbed wire on a bloody heart She was all he never wanted, complex emotionally, and understands couldn't She was an anvil made of glass It wasn’t anything but everything, like beautiful demolition The life that breaths life The good that makes bad feel good These words that could not be said, only seen in stares with my eyes Dancing in perfect laughter until we see the sun rise