Full moon

When I showed my latest poems

to the editor, he told

me in a patronizing voice:

‘Why on Earth do you

write in English

when we live in fucking Romania?’

‘Well’, I told him, ‘everybody

in this country understands English.

Hell, Romanians have the tendency

to speak it better than

their mother tongue.

All Europeans speak and understand

English fluently, except our

Hungarian brothers,

but who cares about them?’

‘Well, tough luck, smart ass! I have a

Hungarian great-grandfather and

I don’t speak English and thus cannot

evaluate your book! How can I

publish something

I don’t actually understand?’

‘Quite simple, sir. You have to trust

your instinct. I assure you this is

a fairly decent book,

not for the masses, but for

the refined reader.’

‘Well, that is a solid argument

not to publish it.

I need manuscripts that sell,

not subtleties. I published

your previous manuscript and nobody

bought it. I have a strong feeling

that the poems you are now

burdening me with

will not resist ‘til the next full moon.’

‘I disagree, sir. It all depends

on the marketing. If you want you can

advertise my new book

on the day of the next full moon and

publish my manuscript in blood ink

and tell the public

that I am a dead writer

who returned to this world as a zombie

in order to write

the memoirs of his lost love affair.’

‘Get out of here before I zombify you

myself!’, he shouted and threw the

manuscript towards me.

‘Well, fuck you, sir!’, I answered

and left.