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While Aphrodite’s seed flows on me
I sniff your scents you voiceless tempest
I rip your dresses daughter of the devil
I rob your spirit sadness of Daphnis

While Aphrodite’s seed flows on me
I warm the shrill sun
Under the glance of Thebes
and I trade with my skin
On a Syrian bazaar.

And I spill my blood down
Baghdad’ cobble
And I gnaw my bone
in the Samarian necropolis!

While Aphrodite’s seed flows on me
I am the twitch of the Life-bearer
Singing in the scream
I am a furry beast
Outspread next to the twilight
The opiate that suffocates the mind, soul and heart,
The thought that creates the swarm of hells in head
While I am a drop of seed on Aphrodite’s thigh

My silence divines,
My presage roars
I will lose my mind in the halls of Letha,
They will rob my spirit in the chambers of Hadesmoobfgfgfdgf

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A dictionary of nonsense, The Adventures Of Boris K. the second part

A dictionary of nonsense, The Adventures Of Boris K. the second part

Dear B.S. MS MBA MPHIL PhD, PhDD, DSc, MMSf, consultant, Mr. Supplication Approver, SA Stabschef Ernst,

I enclose a convincing block of 25 blanco stories so I could get a permanent professorship, at the Faculty of Philosophy of Phenomenorepublic of Balkans (though I could not think of a more meaningless place). For this topic, I decided, since with it, I can represent either yourself, or their views on life and contemporary literature, better than it would have been done by the philosophical saints in the eternal assault for the absolute nirvana…

Never, sir, Dr. Application, I could never trust that the topic of existence can be discussed differently. Each reader will be using my philosophical system and method, from the empty shell of existence I offer, grasp the pearl of a sense that will warm his soul to the last breath and sigh.

1. Start: The first letter of the dictionary

2. …………………………… 16

25. End and last letter of the dictionary

Author: Boris K.

Sources: · “History of written words on empty paper”, (1957), Boris K. ·

“It does not feel like home”, (Phenomenorepublic Library) (1979)

“Transparent, I Love You, Transparent” (Transgender Study) (1946)

“Never underestimate the deadly power of the bleeding creature, the women’s studies, The monastery of the harlots of the last days, Got mit uns, 1976

“Why the alienation? (École Primaire Socrates et Démosthenes) (333. p.n.e), the author is unknown

“Reflection of nothingness on the ax of the nihilist executioner “(Henry VIII Sparknotes) (1857), author: Anne Boleyn

“Letters to imaginary robot”, Odd Future Urban Cookie Collective College, Lecturers, Belgrade, professors Lowlife, Twerp and A real Nobody

“From the Cradle to the Kalashnikovs”, From Saddam to the grave, travelogues, Uday Hussein

“Manual for seppuku,” the ancient Japanese writings

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‘Should Boris K learn English?’, The Adventures Of Boris K., the Second Part

Boris K. would like to learn English to be understood by 0.01% percent of Chinese who speak English (which is not a small number) Although, adds Boris K, the Chinese do not even know Chinese, let alone English. So there goes his inclination in the trash! Boris K. would like to learn English so he could say to Queen Elizabeth: “Long Live The Grandma!” Though, Elizabeth has her “younger brother”… Long live to celebrate his third term…! Boris K. would love to learn English so he could greet Obama, but Obama does not speak English, he speaks American. And that’s why Boris K. decided to say hello to Obama in the Swahili language, which is the dialect in Central Africa, where Obama was born. “Habari za jioni Rais, kama wanawake na watoto!” Obama was thrilled! Boris K. realizes only Obama understands him. Still, Boris K. will not vote for Obama because that would be his third term which is impossible to be. Boris K. would vote for Putin as Putin could stay in Russia for all time, as the president of Russia, in order not to spread his influence further … Boris K. , also, will not vote for “The Pussy Lips”, since Serbia already has enough fools who will vote for him. Boris K., in the end, would love to say ‘Hello!’ to the Red Indians but they are dead and gone, thanks to Buffalo Bill. Boris K. would like to learn English so he could say something to Buffalo Bill, but Bill is dead and gone. Thus, Boris K. realises that there is no need to learn English language, at all.

editor: Raj Pranav



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Lucifer Reborn, a poem for my 42nd birthday (19|10)

To fly and to create is one…

Has’t I nay talent? Of course I doth! Then in which obscure depths is’t falsing eyeless? I guesseth, it’s the canyon of age where thou hideth.

Isn’t it you? For the best I doth, I gotteth the worst. Misery alone! Injustice of You, o vindictive father, can the blind be partial?

To off disposeth mi amor of yesteryears, that gotteth never mi attentioneth, o Honeysuckle! [I was disposing off my old lover. I didn’t love her amorously.]

Partiality be treated, but one medicine. O monster, one cure. My spear, my quill; my blood, my dye; my heath, my grounds — on to it!

Letteth the king’s share, low or high filleth the brown coat d’spy splurgeth doth that mindeth gone waketh the moonlight, slumberth dawn

[Let the royalty come in first. Don’t splurge suddenly.]

And now if the loops still be, and the intentions still doth, mi padre, I evermore aflameth in the scoria of the bottomest creator, the bottomless crator.

Focusth! Focusth! Tomorrow hath not today.

Day gone and my canvas puttieth

Night come and I wanderth the artistic landscape

Dawn my plant a flowerth in eyes

No wonder, a demoneth riding the camel

The desert awakenth in the forest

The age! My age! Older am I. Another year, another decade. Ah, that wandering silver lock, and the coals that surrounded it. No, nothing is it worth.

Am I not even entitled to at least maketh a wish for my 42th birthday? [his eyes turn golden

…to letth me open to the uncontrollable, but not to false loops

to await the darkness with open eyes.

No longer do I want to drink up my screams

Like a heavy swollen configurationless heart.

A sweetened saltiness of thirst, akin to soot, reposes in my baked mouth

While the hoof howled

I bit the day.

As my palms incarcerate in the darkness of the armpits, to revel

claws are exposed to injuries,

hooves touching the naked floor and pushing away.

I am being born. Reborn.


editor: Raj Pranav,
a short personal sketch:
I am Raj. I am a writer and a poet, by vocation, and a software engineer by education. I am young, diligent and striving. Looking at the first few of my poems I posted on my page, Leila Samarrai noticed me and she took me as an editor. I am in process of preparing my first collection of poetry. I hope to be soon an editor for a book of poetry on Kindle. Also, I have been serving for some time as a reviewer, editor and informal consultant for a number of established poets and authors. I dabble in light vocal music. Singing and playing well-known and impromptu instrumental tunes are my pet avocations. My major area is prose, including short stories, along with poetry.  I like to play around with all genres, particularly tragedy, but I have been appreciated for my comic timing as well. I have been a passionate playwright right from my school days. If I were not destined to be an engineer, I would most certainly have been a fulltime Playwright! Outdoor, badminton is one sport that has been an active diversion for me. I aim to achieve in life through not just fiction, but also by effectively highlighting socio-cultural and environmental issues through the vehicle of pen and paper.
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In the claws

Dear readers, I am writing this poem from my heart, as a synopsis of my unpublished novel. I want to bring to you the whole story in all its emotions, but, I wish to preserve the plot with me until it has undergone copywriting and is published. I am not accusing anyone, but thrives are everywhere. I am disclosing only one part of my novel in this poem, but I hope it will move you. Enjoy reading!!

From the broken lands
All set in their own
Nebulous realms
The sliding turmoil
Of tormented life
And children in blood
1. Traitor
2.  The Scourge
3. Orange Rat
1. Traitor
From Bosnia without love
With love arrived
The Marathon bull
Like the witch of wishes
Those skyish strati
As an avalanche on
The back of a Judas boulder
A running mountain of
Revealing ripples
Revealed elbow dances
And sweet tongues
All the way to
With charismatic nostrils aflame
Dust flying
I sat in
The center of
After your stellar performance
Waiting for the Fate
But my folly, ah!
You showed
How easy and hard
Theatrics can be
My golden deed was
My sin
Shields broken and lying
By you who made them
The Scourge
Envy was never greener
Poor Jago!
You were not God’s favourite!
A friend
Of Monroe’s hair
From the criminal
Families of the East
Consecrating the Swastik propounder
First, off to save
A dying love
Without a glimpse
The scourge!
Then to retain
Something worth stealing
Taking it as own
For two good years!
Orange Rat
With requirement
Of aid
Crocodilian insincerity abound
A poor woman
Of rich artifice
Earning wealth outside
And sympathy
From the vulnerable
Like a lurking bulldog
Savage with chicanery
I survived poison
As the nursing love
I was born of
A small-time for
Who still goes on
With their ramblings
Robbing with
Mendacious typicality
Of the Orange Rat
Thrown here
And there
From hospice to monastery
Like a wanderer
At their unwitting behest
My body forced to
Weep red
Like my eyes
Barrator cops
Dancing for them
But deriding me
A commonality
Oh! Could I call upon someone
And say
Che l’inferno sia la tua casa! 
Possa essere il tuo compagno diavolo!
You engulfed me in coals

Of the hottest fire

You cheated me
You stole me
Away from me
The moon will collide
On my behalf
To the earth where you stay
And reduce you to rubble
None could divine
Hope for me be despair for you
Your sickness be evermore
Your abuse serenades yourself
That shall be my daily word.
I’m asked if I will be ever

Able to bring myself
To not abhor you
It’s hard, harder than a diamond
Diamonds do melt in water
Mellowness transpires
Tge rage is in the subconscious
It cannot die
I may delete you temporarily
But you can never sleep safe
My rage be forever after you.


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The unprecedented gift from my fellow-poet Raj Pranav, The Indian Orpheus

I have just received the most beautiful gift and although I’m good with words, I am speechless… This is the gift of the Indian Orpheus whose every word is deeply felt and whose every word is important, not because it is sent to me, but it shows the strength of the artistic talent, that with a little poet can say a lot, through a thought-based symbolic principle, he may shake the heart that has failed to uphold the great experiences. I am immensely grateful. I am touched, Raj Pranav.

An Ode to Leila

What is had
Is a reading, a study

Forcing a catatonic moment

Of thought, dried eyes

Glaring at the abstract realities

Of the world.

Sometimes falls a drop

From the otherwise dry clouds

And sometimes redness

Of a rouge hue

Emerges overcast.

Simple complexities

Are not my domain


The effortlessness

In the Avonian Bard of you

Is a lotus amid muds

Hail Ovid, I love your love!

She stands

With arms wide open

With the eyes

Of her readers

Admirers and detractors

Pernicious presences

Hounding her indigence

Hail Punisher, I am in awe of thy wrath!

In curious throes

Thou go on and on

The mind in work

Creating masterpieces

Unintelligible by lowly

I do not know, though

Where your hardest contingencies

Sprang out and splashed about

When was the Tragedy Born?

The clouds blow

In gusts of dusty winds

Heat reveals

Doors close

Rouge dries

The End is imminent

In the end.

There ever are

Firebird wings

In the glens of the

Petrified woods

Cursed trees

Grey leaves


Stone leaden

Out will rise

The golden Phoenix

We await you!

— Raj Pranav

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Safo, Poetisa de los frágiles


(18 versos)

La más prudente, divina, presionada con el desprecio
Oh poetisa de los frágiles, este mundo que lideras
Evangelios sensible con la fuerza de relámpago derrumbas,
Deformas, doblas, aterras y creas
Decididas festejaban musas celosas
Naturalmente te envenenan con este ruido insensato
No hay cosa más triste que el ajetreo horrible
Paralas masas enloquecidas con suspiros y alegría
Mientras el cielo en su malevolencia arde
Más inocente tú eres
Cada vez más que en el fondo del verso pases
Eres la magia que al deseo del satisfacer escapa
En el jardín de lo azul ornamental tú quedas sosegada

Que más ridículo esté el desprecio tuyo
Que hacia la ofensa deambuló
Los cielos infernales se vuelven,
Y la tierra mancos asquerosos lleva encima
Tú virgen santísima, ¡ornamento cada aniquila!


image: Miguel Carbonell Selva, Safo

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Soon it will all be over. Damn them, the reverse optics of my intracranial madness are picking up the pace. I am no longer a woman, but a macroscopic particle. A peg-top. Call me Peg-Top. This I will do so suddenly, so feverishly, and yet so calmly, my hand will not quake. I will lightly lean forward, legs spread to the width of my shoulders, yes… Calm your body. Aim carefully. Pull the trigger. Take a deep breath. Aim, pull, calm…calm…
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Now that´s what I call a threat! (the excerpts from my semi-fictional autobiography, Inscriptions in the darkness, Intro…), inspired by true events and characters

I will translate this demonic inscription in all the world’s languages because I want to at least post this to them on the internet, for them to see, a part of the inscriptions in the darkness, for them to see that I am still alive and kicking. Hurry up, I tell myself, hurry, make it tonight, to the first crack of dawn. I have to do something, all of the dinosaurs resting in me, being revived in that final clench of humanity for me to trick them, to expose them to all humans to see.

Before I kill them all.

I will kill them and this shitty cage will be torn down. The cage they put me in.

Fighting them is impossible. Their world survives, their red eyes are aflame with a glow of a killer’s sword. They chop off heads, eat limbs, and all of it together, as per a deal. They are so well organized that they shit and piss on us, they cut us, so-called normal people, us who also shit, puke, get disgusted, moralize, read Plato, shake after what they do to us, fall to pieces – and they do not stop. But we shit, moralize and read Plato like humans. Not like a…

A cult.


How many are there? Hold on, let me count them. Five. Maybe more. They network…I don’t know. Let me see… Maybe three. Does it matter? They count. They know the exact number. They know how many of us men remain on this earth. They come for all of us. I…

When they die, maybe there is some hope for humanity.

Tonight, around 1AM, somewhere in Arizona on an online platform Seven Teacups a consultant awaits for me after I told him, a few days ago with a howl nobody could hear, that I would end it all in order for him to convince me that I should live, and I have been preparing to tell him this story and I know that, just like my mother, even with his professional upbringing, he will tell me – Do it… Terrified, stunned.

Nobody would believe me, nobody will believe me. Not even him, because is it really possible to believe it?

Let’s go.


They mold us. When they are done, they use us as manufacturing material, they stuff the remains of our mind in canned food. This way they change the genetic structure of the Chosen Ones. Scientists! Scorpions! One living human system upon another – they transfer the universal genetic code, they intertwine hereditary material of pure, living instinct and submit to it friendship, love, affection, and humanity.

Then they group themselves in chains, they synthesize their stinking fluids of ancient origins in human genes. Thus a gene of wickedness is made.


Of their method, wherein he helped me, in part, to work it out, that it is about a particular type of implanting self-possession which is dictated by a trigger, like a revolver trigger which tears down every cell of the HUMAN IMMUNE system.

It is a corpse – a scientist said, former gravedigger, long gone. Or maybe even turned. At any rate, one morning all trace of him was lost.



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Confession at 3.33

Confession at 3.33

I confess to you, I of an unusual nature,
And all the kingdoms I offer to you- plain.

Lying tongues- orators and benefactors
The first one is of giants of song as of hay,
Through games of ancient history, they peck on the intestines
Filled with the substance of nasty virtue,
With fruitful mouths, they drink the wines.

Serpents hiss with human tongues…
The orator is amidst the ball and casts off damnations… with love.


Washerwomen wash the shores for incessant feasts,
For the water trough of the early morning peacock.

Tigers roar- damned by the fables-
To washerwomen, for labour’s sake, and the dishes plentiful
Fools drink the honorable regal wines.

Casanovas, drunks, erotomen and everybody’s merry Big Brother
Far less than geniuses
Who lead the fools
With fornication, cunningness, and booze
To hidden thoughts.

Scared dogs.
Skilled at stuffing bones.

I raise my right hand and swear on the darkness of
With an unburdened mind and a truth in my heart
Within the light dewy with the ability of
Your knife cut through all the conditions of disorder.
It’s entirely safe in my hands.

With a frozen smile,
I walk through the fall
Of a zillion kingdoms.
Flags are waving and ships are sailing underneath the sky

Of a broken magnificence

After years of absence
Colored in oddity,
I stay…  while drowning in tears

Of my Arabian wrath.

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Stone the Lordling! Parched wilderness,

Incessantly breeding the Talisman ashore

Decaying tissue falcon feather apiece

As if a beardless carpenter brewing bones tiny

in my beef, forging fair maiden figurines

from bygone fantasy brushing and chiseling.

Whispered howbeit the drowning merchant

Wagging tail grappling Outrageous Zeus

Such forlornly the alluring fair maiden?

The sobbing tongue hanging in a scabrous well, forcing a jolt.

Ah! The hell of fear! The chaotic Hades! Looming like a bee.

The skies rumble with agreement, justifying innate deliverance: higher thunder, growling bolt and the lightning!

Bless Gateshead and the British jackal

Caricatures abound, all intellectuals say, all fools agree.

Gold-plated lead is the glory sought on the cradle of faithlessness

What designation is borne by the puffy pockets

Too unconcerned lay I

Never is prudent to disregard the want of endangered seeds sleeping

in burnt lands

Up Punisher, you drunken goat.
and lend your men with horns to the noble task.



image: Artist: Willian Murai, Wrath of God

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A monster, a poem inspired by a quote

“The man you speak of no longer exists.”

“Then what stands before me assuming his manner and form?”

“A monster is rough-hewn by unfortunate events and given breath by necessity.”

Spartacus, Blood and Sand, Claudius Glaber


This can be where the partition starts.

the tearing to pieces.

the presentation of chaos.

the hurricanes within the devils arrange from whose enormity I shudder…

cleverly chuckling, wings on his back, and carries a tremble.


I’m tired, like a dry log, weak.

but the fog is slowly sliding away from my mind

and the veil parts from my all too tired eyes

my clenched teeth are hungry wolves

I needed your meat


I am poisonous honey and rebellious blood

that never wanted to turn into wine

and maybe this is all just make-believe


Broken mirror, I love our shards when painted blue

until I find out the true meaning of the shards

I believe in your opal sky peaks

and threatening everyone with my reflexion

to be a long one.


But hush, the knife knows to cut now

rejoice and dry those red tears falling

sprinkle me with the fire of love

cremate my impurities


So when the world shall pass away

it will only

be the fading of innumerable shadows,

so rough, brutal, yet silent and dark

the true polyglots, storms of words,

yet calming, mildly warning


Soft, muddy picture, then the image comes into focus

and a zoom-in of someone’s eyes.

then the eyes spoke with fiery passion


night vision

a vast gathering around me, out of nowhere,

for I had not seen so many people while I was by myself,

as if a pseudo-country was forming

a creature roughly formed by sad occasions,

a beast given birth by necessity

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I – Prophetess!
I wade onto the devils’ blasphemy
Chiseled inside
The womb of the Sphinx
Where dead Oedipus
Murders father-Chronos
Tied to the flute of Pan
from which the
(un)maker Logos
does not reach.
I – Prophetess!
Mock the cross
And the Chosen Ones
Beaten ribs
His saint-peter-esque
Descendents of the new
Tower of Babylon that quarters
Unborn children.
I – Prophetess!
I urinate into Lethe
Scattered in the heads
Of Pandora’s bastards
I kiss the wound of Caesar
As predicted by Genesis.

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The Nymphet’s acrimony

I am the Aeolian echo in the wind
I am the Logos tucked away under the tongue
I am the first things that had joined the choir invisible
O holy night of offense.
I, the Nymphet in the bud,
the Goddess of the dreadful Hymen
an unloved goat-nymph
the envy of all Hellenic islets
lulling betwixt the crests
of the couple of mad waves
inhabited by the covetous
sweat driblets of my restlessness
pouring from my voluptuous thighs
I was caressed by butterfly shadows
entangled in the lux
fleeting as an emotion
my breasts smashed among the covetous crags
my womb became a satchel of acrimony
O holy night of offense.
I was raised a wild one among the lunatics,
a tabula rasa with madness scribbled on it.
Howls of animus heard when the seminal
river breaks beneath the gibbous moon
below the navel where milky pearls
drip into deluges of steamy rivulets
below the eyebrow where the fears
woundingly drip into the eyes of undulant sadness
Lo, rascaldom
lurking lightly, gazing scoundrelaxedly
multiplied deception is built out of perspiration
Lo, a countenance of tears
bear witness at length of the weep
behold a tattered redeeming herz
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Praise of the progenitrix




Mystics listen to her
Cynics vomit her
Midwives truth-birth her
And since always
Welcome her on hands
That insidious trash
To fill their pitchers
With her feces.
Born from the spirit of pride
From the spleen of law
From the blood of forefathers
From the womb of lies
From seventy-seven
The fools loved her
Saints like a knick-knack
Showed her on the fair
Liars about her
Sexually fantasized
Ecce Veritas
Spends her life next to Dionysius,
Bloodless turkey cocks and donkeys
Smell her sacred beak.
Crowned with laurels
Permeated with boredom
In the tasteful asylum
And she sings in blood
To dampened strings
While watching her reflection
In the lavatory of Hades
Now already an aging whore
Arose from the dream
To maintain the dream.
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Zapisi u Tami, moja recenzija, Ja, Pisar vlastite biografije, pokušaj 1

Zapisi u Tami, moja recenzija, pokušaj 1
Dala sam sebi u zadatak da predstavim, na sebi svojstven nacin, neobične događaje koji su me zadesili, u formi autobiografije fragmentarnog tipa, gde su upravo fragmenti neka vrsta zapisa tj zapisi neka vrsta fragmenata, avaj.. reč pravu mi daj! fragmenti su prelom u tekstu koji se može definisati da je poprilicno hermeneutičan, pršti od metafikcije, u opširnim pasusima, bez jasno postavljenih i izostrenih događaja i likova, tačnije njegovog sleda.
Uz autorefleksivnost, Zapisi ipak ne odustaju od stavljanja naglaska na četiri karaktera u teatru pamćenja mene kao pisara vlastite biografije.
Zapisi istražuju arhetipsko u coveku uvođenjem čoveka senke demona Ahrimana koji u nocnomornim putovanjima u nesvesno, nalazi da su autorkine nocne more neobicno zanimljive, a da su izvori psihicke patnje,, utvara i spodoba iz snova, zapravo 4 sasvim obicne vesticare, vile, vestice i jedna sirena koja je postala vampir, inkorporirajuci se u autorkin mozak, a Zapisi su jedina veza izmedju onog sto se zaista dogodilo i mitskog sveta strave nastalog iz imaginacije podrivene nerazresenim sukobom, narocito onog dela koji autorka zeli da kako na javi tako i na snu silovito amputira, ambivalentno rastrgana da podlegne dejstvu opasne, mudre i zle sile otelotvorene u antagonisti, razornom vidu zla.
Arhetipske uloge likova u “Zapisima”, podsećaju na one u bajkama, ali ono sto im je zajedničko jeste da likovi realno postoje i da žele da razore autorku. “Zapisi” su jedini (moćno oružje) koji gutaju njihove konkretne pokušaje da čin daljnju štetu, samim tim sto napreduju, bujaju, plaše sve božansko i demonsko, jer su napisani na taj nacin da savijaju i najtvrdokorniju prirodu, najsamouverenijeg gada, svojim minucioznim, magijskim dejstvom…. – konacno oruzje, prava priroda destruktivne umetnosti, kao oluja deluje i na najprostiji um, crna harizma Zapisa menja licnosti ucesnika koji se medjusobno i ne podnose, a narocito ne redove cije postenje i istinoljubivost treba desifrovati sto konacno odlucju da ucine da nadrealnom skupu koja bi se mogla tumaciti na razne nacine – religijska sekta, dezurni sindikat ujedinjenih zlostavljaca Srbije acca Svi na Jednu.
Kroz retrospektivu *drugi sloj romana i kroz mracni uticaj carobnog pomagaca, autorka uspeva da se seti aktuelnih dogadjaja, onih koji su se zapravo zbili, ali nad njima ne uspeva da ostvari kontrolu, jer je otvaranje volsebnih vrata probudilo u njoj mnoge druge nerasvetljene konflikte. Ulazimo u podrucje magicnog realizma, ludila kao da nikad nije bilo, a opet traje i ne zavrsava se ili se grana u nepriznatim delovima potisnutih secanja koje autorkin ego samo kroz nocnu moru moze da prihvati, da se suoci s necim nevidljivim sto nikako i do kraja ne moze sasvim da opise.
Dobija savete od likova iz svojih drugih romana kako Zapisima pristupati, a Ahrimanove namere nisu do kraja jasne osim da se namerio na jos vece zlo od njega samog – autorkine neprijateljice koje su otpocele udruzeno delovanje protiv Autorke kad je prvi put krocila nogom u Beograd iz krajnje razlicitih i trivijalnih razloga.
U Zapisima, svako psihoanalizira sebe, da bismo shvatili da je Jung bio u pravu kad je shvatio da mrznja moze da se u vidu kolektivne i grupne senke umnogostruci i da spoji nespojivo, pa i one zavadjene, sve samo da se jedna osoba unisti.
U sustini, to je fiktivna reprodukcija nekog vida autobiografije cija je srz – bullying…
Ukratko mi pade ovo na um ovo jutro, a recenzije Zapisa jednom kad bude bio gotov sigurna sam bice duze od samog romana.. u serijalima.
Ovo je stivo koje neko pise citavog zivota, pa objavljuje posthumno, i valja zavrsiti Zapise i objaviti ih, a i pri pisanju i pri citanju, sto Autorka savetuje valja biti mudar i strpljiv.
Ipak, zlostavljanje je trajalo 13 godina. Mozda treba isto toliko vremena da se isto opise…
p.s recenzije Zapisa du u viseslojnoj strukturi romana, opet, deo metafikcije
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Gilda, The Serial Kitchen Killer

I’m Gilda!
I get up!
I glitter!
I cook.
Lunch lounges under laughing chandeliers.
They smile back and the knife blades beam in luminescent light.
They illuminate my garish gilded plates.
Light light everywhere!
Plates talk as they hop and bounce
Feed us!
Eat us!
Kill us!
Polish, polish me, my Nazi!
Dinner time!
Play the macabre music!
But among the plates, shiny, gold and pink, one cracks.
The gold was gutted by my knife!
It was the unsharpened one that spoke to me…
Feed us!
Eat us!
Kill us!
Suddenly the fridge is jumping for joy.
And then there’s the vampiric meat I cut up last summer.
Dance! Hop Hop! Dance!
It’s the one I cut up last summer
She looks at me vindictively, and shouts:
My knife quivers above the sparkling sink water
Come out deep fish
Octopus, crabs, snails!
The chicken wants his gizzard back
(finger points down in swirling dirty dish water)
Serial killer of meat and crab
Blond-haired metonymy of death
The lights die. All is dark.
I scream at the mutiny.
One by one they attack.
With a meat cleaver
(Clean us, clean us, you dirty bird! Sing!)
Dead zombie guests assault me, shuffling forth.
Vindictively, fork stabs the pork
Once more into the battle of the Green Fork!
“I can’t stand the pain! ”
“Wait for MEEEEEE! ”
Tomorrow the police will find me in a glass jar.
I’ll just be two golden eyes and a rotten iris…
Swimming around contained and happy.
My kitchen will finally be clean!

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The Birth of a monster, Hail Hydra!

I woke up with surplus five heads. I was running down a Žička street, hoping that a kind soul finds us, some Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley sort, to sew us back up into a whole.
For a time, I was sneaking around in the shadows, facing ridicule, disgust, and dread.
No particular way to go, I was heading to the mountain Avala. Somewhere along the way, I got lost, exhausted by a long voyage and dying of hunger and thirst.
A lot of heads to feed!
Well, that lasted.. there re-arose an outstanding feud between heads; they say they have headaches, they cannot sleep, they raised their voices and wept some more.
The latest effort to speak the same language ended in failure, therefore, turning to the macabre practice of survival cannibalism absolutely was the key to our ultimate continual existence of the organism.
And the only survivor became the only suspect, the soft tissue monster head, bull shaped with serrated teeth, a pincer-like mouth, however, no one could clearly define its mysterious monstrosity.
A spineless reborn blood-drinking creature, whose name eludes me, was charged with four murders on August 24, 1776, defending itself in court, without a solicitor, that it has been acting in a manner befitting a sensible head, against her unhappy, yet brutal, and violent companions.
The acquittal based on self-defense was decided by a simple majority.

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Okupljanje, odlomak 28c, Zapisi u Tami

image: Good Vs Evil Painting by William J Blake

– Drago mi je, moje zmijske ministarke, da smo se konačno okupile ispod zasvođenog krova impozantne fasade oblizane svetim plamenom, u domu seksualne magije i kosmičke religije. Još draže mi je da ste sve došle obučene u crne odore, da vas niko na putu nije prepoznao, da nema svedoka, barem ne onih pouzdanih.  A sada, sedite na pod s licem usmerenim prema istoku, a ako baš insistirate, moj rob će doneti stolice iz misirskog groba.. neviđena rezbarija, sva u hijeroglifima. – zastade, oduševljena svečanim govorom koji je unapred pripremila, a u improvizaciji nadmašila, u stuporu samoobožavanja, ipak, oprezna da se ne razbrblja previše – “Drago mi je da ste udovoljile mojoj želji, ipak, boravimo na sakralnom mestu..”, dok se istovremeno kajala zbog propuštenih detalja koji su temelji moći svake dobro skovane aristokratske intrige: “Trebalo je da im kažem da na lica navuku bele fantomske maske”

O prvoj učesnici ove priče, koju ćemo zvati Meri, ne može se znati ništa pouzdano, osim onog što je u Zapisima dosad otkriveno – ostavlja snažan, premda neugodan utisak, tela nalik na motku oblepljenu bledunjavim mesom, glava je ćoškasta,  frizura kao u mokrog štakora, skupljena u rep, a iz očiju od zloće (kao da) sevne munja. Našminkana je u više boja, a oči je istakla ajlajnerom, pomešavši masti i gar, podelivši gošćama zaslužene osmehe.

Druga učesnica, narandžaste boje kose, s više alternativnih imena no Lucifer, s mukom održava ravnotežu, zalepljena za treću, kao za autobusku šipku, Treća (neka bude da je Zlatokosa) jauče kao da je neko istovremeno jako šiba škurjom il’ već kakvom napravom za teranje volova, a Druga žuri da sedne, vođena, koliko – toliko sigurnom rukom Treće učesnice, Druga i Treća, dva obrisa, obraz uz obraz, jedan je veliki, a drugi je mali.

Toliko o njima trima.

Četvrta, koju su zvali Ami, hodala je laganije, oprezno, kao da će svakim korakom naleteti na deonicu ispunjenu klopkama, bilo u podu, bilo iz zidova, kao u video igricama. Ovo autorka ne zna, ali Ami, Četvrta se zaplela u njeno štivo čitajući ga od večeri do jutra,  mirnog, fokusiranog izraza lica izbrazdanog malim ožiljcima i poderotinama od uličnih tuča, čudeći se šta sve ljudski um neće sebi uvrteti u glavu.

–  Sve je ovde brújalo od priprema, sve moje sluge, pa.. dali su sve od sebe.. – nakašlja se Prva, Meri dodirujući nabranu maramu oko vrata – što znači samo jedno.

–  Da je ona TU! Leila, Peta!Ah, Bože moj! Ona je poput onih neuhvatljivih čestica,  poput stardasta! Brza je!– Treća učesnica razdra odoru kao komični kostim i još komičnijim gestovima stade da se hvata za krupne, plave kovrdže dok je jurila po impozantnom zdanju čupajući se za kosu – Ne mogu više, Meri, ne mogu – talasala je šakama, uz drhtavo piskanje –  kontrolisala sam se sve vreme u taksiju da vozač ne primeti,  znojim se, panika me ‘vata, a život ugrožen, oh zašto me niko nije upozorio na ono što se spremalo, ja nisam rekla ništa, ništa, ta ludača mi je već jednom disala za vratom, sociópata jedna, ona laže, da prevari, da ubije, dok maše zastavama paklenoga kralja! Da mi uništi karijeru! Odnos s majkom!”– ispod razderane halje, Učesnica, kvalitetna kopija Merilin Monro, nosila je neku vrstu kosmičkog, a la džedaj odela… koju autorka Zapisa ne bi umela opisati ni da je Toleđani istežu kao žrtvu na šiljcima, vežu za gvozdenu Mariju ili već nekakvu napravu – prekretnicu u istoriji mučenja.

–  Mačko, jel to aerogel?  – Meri podiže obrvu kao ruku s čekićem, a Narandžasta, a ime joj beše Nensi primeti i namignu joj šeretski iskrivivši usta, jer se nije spremalo ništa ozbiljno. Sve je pod kontrolom.

–  Oh jeste, kupila sam ga kod Kistlera – Merilinka se naglo uozbilji. I lagano, koketno prođe prstima kroz zlaćanu kosu. – Kod Kistlera i Tri Medveda.

–  Sama si kriva. Lepo ti je mama govorila da se ne udaljavaš previše od kuće”, zabrunda Četvrta učesnica, neobična verzija demonizovane i zlobno oklevetane Astarte, rasu plave kose i svuče sa sebe platnenu kukuljicu boje uskipelog crvenila dok je žurnim koracima, u najkama prošvercovanim ispod odore, istovremeno skidajući apostolke, koračala preko kamenog poda iz kojeg su izlazili vitki stubovi, poput oštrih zuba.  Kršila je ruke i uzdisala a la Koj’ ću ja ovde, uperenog oka u zid gde se raskrečila gola, debela žena, bujnih grudi i crvene kose. Oko glave naslikane žene su obletale raznobojne ptičice.

–        Jel ovo neka Anđelina? – približi se slici i uzdahnu osetivši nemir u preponama- Isuviše je gola za moj ukus.

–        Šta fali? Zar ne prija tmurnoj realnosti tvog animalnog ega? – ravnodušno će Meri, istovremeno se namrštivši.

– Šta ONA može da unese u naš TASK.. izuzev hmelja i slada, ta gvozdena bačva! – govorila je svojoj zlatokosoj frigidnoj ljubavnici, koja je bila i uvek će biti koliko joj lepa, toliko prostonarodska i  turbofolk.

–        Gospi fali koplje, štit, nešto otrova.

Merine oči bljesnuše, kao ulaštene SS čizme.

–        To je iz arapske mitologije. Idol s Crvenog mora. U neku ruku, moja tvorevina. Nazvala sam je Laila, po našoj mučiteljki. Naprosto sam joj je mistično posvetila, alhemijski je venčala s tom slikom. Inicijacija njenog Marsa s Venerom je možda poslednje što nam može pomoći. – uzdahnu – Moj izum Laila model 3000 je vrlo vešta s maskama, pomuti um svakom muškarcu, a žene vodi putevima sirovih strasti I nekonvencionalnih ljubavi. – Meri ju je pakosno posmatrala ispod nadrealno velikih naočara prastarog okvira. – Koreni svake borbe su u seksu. Piše u priručniku za svetu seksualnost kroz istoriju, Zavod za udžbenike i nastavna sredstva, Salamanka, str 19

U Astartinim očima zatrepta iskra podrugljivosti.

–        Uopšte ne liči na nju. Ko zna koga si ti crtala. Pre mi liči na one droce što se po kuloarima smeju, zavode na mnogim jezicima, sklonije politici negó molitvama, tračare plemenite gospe, bez zadaha umerenosti i sve tako.. – ona se kiselo nasmeši, a čeljust joj beše razvijena.

Meri joj okrete leđa i nastavi da slaže papire iz jedne odvojene škrinje u drugu, veću, da bi zagledala svaki, kao da bira raskošniju dragocenost.

–        Primećujem da ti se vokabular popravio. Da nisi čitala Zapise noćas?

–        Čovek postaje manje rečit što su vremena krvavija.

–        I razvila si dosadašnji dar da ispaljuješ rečenice koje nemaju ama baš nikakvog smisla.

–        Devojke, dosta, ne dozvolite da Leila stane između nas. To se jeziva njena senka nadvila nad svima nama! – nakon što je ispustila poslednji, jezivi, snažni krik, Zlaćana se smirila, pregladnela, željna žestokog okrepljenja i sočne prasetine, zaboravivši na tren opasnost koja vreba od zajedničke neprijateljice, prethodno popivši bensedin.

–        Zlatokosa, pazi da ti neko nije sedeo na stolcu.

–        Ami, to kaže medved, to ne kažem ja.

–        Opet je omašila.. bilo film, bilo knjigu. – zacereka se naočarka – faraonka

–        Izuzetno, Meri

–        Šta to, Ami?

–        ONA. Gola. Kao od majke. Nepokretna. Impotentna.

–        Ah, ti još o slici..  Misliš frigidna?

–        Šta drugo.

Na trenutak Ami nestade (ko putnici severnjaci uskovitlani snegom i mrakom), prativši izvor zvuka koji je dopirao sa ulaznih stepeništa. Kao da je teški zveket prodrmao ulazna vrata.

“Očekuješ nekog, Meri?”

“Samo kućnog roba. Ostalima sam zakazala za sredu. “

Ami prodrma kvaku sigurnosne brave čeličnih vrata.

“Odmah da si mi dala sef ključ”

Neko vreme je razdražljivost budila čula dve zavađene devojke koje nisu mogle da se dogovore bilo oko sigurnosne šifre bilo oko kasa ključa, sve dok pod uplivom nekakvog instinktivnog osećaja (nikako poverenja) Ami vrati izraz lica pažljivog, smirenog posmatrača i odustade od svake rasprave, a ono što bi joj proletelo kroz usne trudila se da održi što mirnijim.

I lukavijim…

Konačno rešenje proticalo je u opuštenom ćaskanju i lažnom umiljavanju kojima su Učesnice Zapisa skrivale nervozu. “Kad će početi” ili “Aman kad će se završiti i na koji način ćemo spasti svoju kožu. Imamo li je? Držimo li čaše valjano? Gostoprimstvo, dobro li smo uvežbale? Kako to da je ona još uvek živa?

“Upravo. Teža je za upotrebu od tupog kuhinjskog noža”

“Ama baš, istim je ne možeš niti ubiti”

“Ko još koga ubija tupim noževima, šta pričaš, Neno.”

“Ima slučajeva…  kad naslada traje duže…  Al’ o oštrim ja govorim. Otporna je ta i na metak”

Da bi im glas postajao milozvučan, kao premazan medom, uz nešto malo prostačke smelosti. Spontanost od koje ih bole zubi.  Međusobne nesuglasice od čijih loših ishoda ih deli isključivo ujedinjena mržnja prema autorki Zapisa.

“A da isečemo Zapise, možda su jestivi?”

“Ne! To je autokanibalizam!”

–     “Ah, ovde je tako vruće. K’o znoj i mast s pečenog pileta”, hladila se lepezom Zlatokosa.

I tome slično..

Astarta IV ne odgovara, zagleda prostoriju, prati šta drugi oko nje rade. I ona bi tog trena nešto da prezalogaji – dalje je od toga ništa ne zanima,

izuzev kružnih stepenica kojima se uputila.

–        Ne odaljavaj se previše. – zareža Meri. Amino prisustvo joj je ranjavalo srce.

–        Što? Zloglasno suđenje samo što nije? – rana doseže još dublje.

–        I ne pipaj ništa. Tek što sam sve restaurirala.

Meri se češe po glavi, ignoriši je, okreće neke papire u ruci, potom stavlja na sto nekakvu čudnovatu škrinju, čudnovatiju od ove dve prethodne, polaže ruke na nju i stiska šake u pesnice.

–        Naklon svi, pa da počnemo, jer opasnost je blizu, a ja kao da sam imperator u počasnoj loži, dala sam sebi u zadatak da završim ono što smo započele, dame i..   –  pogled sa strane strogo okrznu plemenitu Astartu, Ami u najkama – gospodo.

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C’est la Guerre, It’s the Sun and his name is Hellion.

Belgrade, in the fierce heat of the sun.

image: https://fineartamerica.com/featured/heat-transfer-andrew-kubica.html


Start dying, my dear!
start dying
you’ re not going to cry, are you?
weep and stand back
be good, my dear
What can you do?
C’est la Guerre, It’s the Sun and his name is Hellion.

You’re trapped, got frozen, grow rusty, as iron.
surrounded by other little corpses
so gentle
gentle angels
your life became about extinguished eyes,
light of death in devouring mouth
always sink down evil and heavy
a cursed figment.
And now… now mirrors have become very sensitive.


All my life I’ve been brutalized
most victim of domestic violence if you must know
my injurious torment stretch out to fullest pitch
All that is left is ashes, a trembling hand, a creature
lightning a candle, it’s artificial light, it’ s like a skin replacement

at the point of breaking.
I snap myself out of the dream
the creepy wake-up feeling
as is known to all Sleeping Beauties
It is reality, illusory, dark, terrible thing
though.. nothing but a distraction.

The sun is bringing one more misleading day
through and through venerable Saint
spewing hopes and epics for significance of living

This is deceit produced by daylight
we’ve given up dying
in the arms of the slow death of life, again,
no more than
a striking caress of maladjusted mind, a dead apostles
a drama fragment, the driving force, strings, melodies…
We are devils of our own blood
Holy kunt. You were the Bringer of Sun!
There are thousands of deities that can ensure respectable name for
a brute.
but only one hellion that bringeth good tidings,

too much for a man

who is rising in my verses

built into eye, buried fingers and many feet underground


What was that eerie sound I hear, is it the rattle and hum of innocent wind, kind and insane?
What else could it be?




No, it won’ t take long
be good, my dear
What can you do?
C’est la Guerre
C’est la Guerre
C’est la…  Guerre


Weather forecast: The coldest days are expected

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It is ALL in there, only that it remains hidden

on display in… pavilions!

in the book of the moment,

at the given moment in the humble meekness


where’s the window’s  skin is far too thin for the wicked weather


quivering with fury… stammering and iced


(Add a thousand and so more)

Who sits near you,

hearing you

touching you, a slow trembling, Fingers.

Bring on lots more honeyed mead.

For caged music(s), the voice of longing

wock-woch notes


Blessed art thou, a little bird, blessed among the blessed

sitting next to our piano and sharing a sweet whisper

my  soul is fleeting, like the airplane circling over my old room

the black keys, the white keys

forged in silence

I laugh

I play the piano, people…

It was bombs and cannons and soldiers shooting

I am everything

becoming a mass of flames at the touch of…

(Fingers! I either got blind,  can’t see a thing. Fingers!)




Am I  nothing?

But the blank face of the bloodbath bathed in mutiny

Of the March pale grass, eristic cherries scattered by the wind

And what was left… was music and me


I gaze into my  front yard

you know, living outdoors is very beautiful

I’ve seen the old mine battlefield

and that day, I mean to  play minefields, there

with a hammer!

bumping against the keys

stripped of a core melodies

An understanding words with a remarkable depth of insight worlds

saying such things as my heart is defiled

as agate as.. hematite gemstone

It seems a mythical beast itself is glowing from under my skin

red – light picture


Just… ash, just this…

I laugh.


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ankh symbol Painting by Liana Horbaniuc


I, who travel the world ruled by a bestial frenzy,

I am the pain of the sufferer and the distorted folly,

I left those who did not follow me.

According to the desire of my heart,

I traveled to the lands of the horizon, to step on my throne,

To calm down my stormy mind where the

Deluge dwells since the dawn of time,

Irritated by an ancient wrath

Turned into candescence as the centuries went by.


And I saw the top of the wondrous horn

It stands out as a bestly tooth from the barren gums

Whether it’s a crypt or a golden chest

Buried in sand


In the harsh desolation of the desert

A dead woman’s silent garden

Like an oasis.


A sweet, intoxicating voice asks from the grave:

”Where art thou go?”

Is that a spirit, or a jackal

Sneaking around my throne made of copper

Wishing to depose me and

Take my crown away?

You’re standing, Traveler, among the spirits –

The killer of the descendants of my kind,

Pharaoh Ai, counselor of the emperors,

Stands among the powerful ones he slaughtered


They murdered my children!

Ai, the slaughterer shall stand among the spirits

His smell is Pazuzu, the smell of Horus’ eye belong to my flesh.



”I do not ask for such a dwelling,

Or any other at all…

Blinded, I’m walking the world

To rise like a morning beast-star

And count all my foes

My eyes are open, my ears open too

I travel the horizons of the Sun, travel the horizons of the Dark.


I bridled my weapons

Ropes are tied, ships summoned

I have conquered, I’ve passed by – was that all it was?

I went to a dream of things that once’d been

Glory, the miracle of Gods, miracle, and a coffin

That’s the dignity that belongs to the powerful ones

And the desperate ones as well

Who will win this race?


I walk the world to command

Jackals, pass the throne to those who come in peace

And praise them, you, jackals;

The throne you should give, not your knives

Throne, so I can rule the spirits

With a forged scepter in my hand

Scepter made of an unknown element

To revive this heart in my dead body.


Then you sit on that firm throne,

On the throne of scholars,

In a lone tower that needs to be redone

I bow down to your deadly efforts

You brought light into my eternal night

And now listen to me well,

Because you won’t hear from me anymore:




I, Ankhesenamun, an ancient statue

Mother of the dead-born children

Whom I sprayed with the sacred milk

Brewed in the breast of mother Isis.

Distorted by blows and insults,

distorted by time itself,

I’m leaving a mark on the ground,

Marking the arrival of the beast.

And the mark says:

Yes, the ropes are tied, the ships summoned

For the One who passed by the graves – was that all it was?

For the One who walked hand-in-hand with the dead and the spirits.

To the things that once had been

She voiced a wise word

About the One that was a loyal mummy in the dead hour,

A chaperone of the unfortunate King’s daughter.


They killed her children!

Bearing a white crown, in a royal dress, with two sagging,

Barren teats

In the house of Anubis

Your books will burn

Around the altar, the salted Sun pillars

And you will cry your witless eyes out

With an aristocratic humaneness

Coupled with vulgar curses

Fruitless are all hopes, and fruitless are woes

To be told in the cold heat of misery.

They’re keen to lament, but they don’t,

Sadly smiling before the emptiness.

Oh, crowned thou art, Ankhe, together with

The buried Gods in pain and fatigue.

You, worshiped by the temples with snake litters

In their foundations, and – behold! – vipers are

Waiting in the line.




May these sailors take you to the horizon

May they round your path off

My mouth is open to you, my nose is open to you

My ears are open to you, my voice reeds too…


Red as the red crown of Horus

(one can hear a whimper-like laughter)



Collect my bones when leaving

Clear this dust from my limbs

And from the furrows of a long thinking and dried tears

Which left a sterile track behind

Remove these bandages from my body and give me your hand

A grave is open for you too


But if you won’t, may your boats sail in a hurry

So my name can endure

So my tomb may endure

And that’s my temple, my temple too,



And before you go,

Here’s my gift to you:

A green feather of a crocodile God, with caring eyes,

With passing time,

The One that rules the river, Nile,

With his powerful face,

Yes, that’s the one that rules,

The master of the night,

And he says:

Every day is shining for those who yearn for the horizon

The upper door of the Heavens wait for them

A place in Heavens is ready for them

Under the blind eye of Horus.

And as for me…

For a millennium and a half, I haven’t talked to anyone

Like I talk to you!




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Imprisoned beauty

image: Argo by Alecu Grigore
In three layers poured
During a hellish night

Intrigue ate you
And Erinyes
In turbulent water
Tongue burns from gall

Trojan woman,
Shave your beards!
And you shall see truth:
Shackled naked bodies
Stumble through underground passages.

Through myths
My death
Will be the eternal memory
Of sun’s fiasco.

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Kraljica Egipta, Zapisi u Tami, 2.deo serijala, Glava 1




Image: -tell-you-my-sins-and-you-can-sharpen-your-knife

Reč Autorke


Na trenutak, reči se rascvetahu u rakete, osuh paljbu na na prvo lice koje protrča, sa sve odorom koja šušti, paklenim iznajmljenim sobičkom  u zamršenoj besmislenosti mog uma gde blješti zapaljena vatra,  nalik na sobu oblika avetinjske kocke,  baš ona, crvena, iz koje sam iz dosadašnje pripovesti izašla gnevno držeči Somerset Mom pivo u ruci, uz mrmljanje: zajebeš sve to, s rukom na praznom tobolcu.

Presamićene heraldične figure survavavaju se iz bledila nejakog zaborava koji ih je rasparčao, preglumio, sve smeštene u jednu jedinu sobu čija se velika glava ugnezdila među mojim nogama, dekomponovan prostor, na umoru, nagriza iznutra u apstraktnim kombinacijama sastavljenih od životnih sitnica koje se moraju iznova izmisliti.

To je život iza zida. Rukopisu smeta prevelika amorfnost likova.

To je sve što je bolesno  I što mrtvo iz nas, mene, vas izrasta, korov kao grana ledenice koje si preživela u sebi, jer izmaštati sliku da bi prepoznala lik, potom otići u trpezariju I videti ih, da.. Uvek ih vidiš, tu, kako sede, piju kafu, tvoju kafu, u tvom sobičku, a da nisi čestito ni utrčala da pokriješ rukom rukopis koji – oni ne smeju da vide dok sve ne bude gotovo.

S gađenjem sam protegla telo u čudnoj odluci da ih ostavim da sami sebe čitaju, da grle slova zverskim pogledima I ližu zmijskim jezicima poganu, okrvavljenu strast koja se zapalila na hartiji, slova zavarena u rečenici kao zavaren zub.


Ljudi vukovi faluciraju na silovanu divlju pičku, drkaju na arapski ćilim na kojem je obavljeno silovanje, u palati, u veličanstvenim zamkovima, u elegantnim salonima.. egipatska kuga u satanskoj crkvi – i čudne petlje. A isplele su ih slepe pletilje i one se ponavljaju ponovo i iznova. I ma šta napisala, uvek se nađeš ponovo na istom mestu, na istom tepihu.. što onemogućava da razotkrijem njihovu sektu bludnika, silovatelja i ubica u kojoj vlada zapetljana hijerarhija kako bih opisala sistem u kojem se pojavljuje Čudna petlja.

Kakogod da san preživela užase koje su mi namenila ta hibridna bića koja puze maglovitim, jedva nagoveštenim pejzažima, mora da je sam Zeus uvideo moju vrednost.

A ja sam samo skromni instrument.

Skršiću tu gomilu buba, esnaf budala i..


Esnaf budala???! Ja?!!

Visoka štrkljasta ženska prilika tanke retke kose vezane u rep diskretnim trakama od zmijske kože, pređe dugačkim prstima i zagrebe veštičjim noktima po ugraviranim znakovima.. Slova su joj se mutila pred očima. Vrvela su poput mrava, ima ih previše, trljala je čelo, zaklopivši oči jer su je slova rešetala krvavo prodornim svetlima, dok ju je glavobolja cepala kao munja mračno nebo.

.- Kako može o nama.. o MENI da piše nešto ovakvo?! – ražesti se, dok je držala rukopis u drhtavim rukama, naoko mirno koračala je po kamenom pod, po kojem su puzale zmije.Osećala se nelagodnije svakim pređenim korakom.  Osvrnula se na svoje kućne robove.  Bili su prljavi kao odrane ribe, smrad pišaćke bio je nezaustavljiv kao plamen žarke BDSM žudnje koju nije delila s njima, osim ponosa što je uspela da ih natera da sažvaću i poslednji ostatak kožnog kaiša kojim ih je bičevala do krvi.

Pohlepna i nestalna za moći, ravnom merom je slavila bilo liberale, bilo fašiste, drag joj je bio ekstremni hedonizam koliko i radikalno pokajanje.  Bila je to žena sarkastične ozbiljnosti, svečane poruge i grubih šala, dok je pokušavala samu sebe da razume kružeći kontrastirajućim konstelacijama, magičnom orbitom.

Identifikovala se s Bogorodicom koja bi, u nekoj od njenih mračnih fantazija,  tlačila narode lukvstvom i silom i jedino je mogla da prihvati ljude ukoliko bi joj pokazivali ljubav kroz potčinjavanje.  Ukoliko su ućutkani, ukroćeni i spremni da joj se požale, jer je onim slabijima, a to je bio čitav muški rod, prilazila s pun zlobe. Nijedan muškarac nije bio ništa više do podređenog kućnog ljubimca. Od pomisli da bilo kojeg muškarca prihvati kao ravnopravnog partnera  joj se bljuvalo.

Druge žene je vrednovala daleko iznad muškaraca. U najboljem slučaju, muškarac je samo oruđe, ništa više. Draže su joj bile neukroćene žene, dominantne kao ona sama, ali znala je da njih ne može imati.

Muškarci i njihovi resursi su eksploatisani, a to sve je moguće uz pomoć simboličnih, diskursivnih institucionalnih praksi. Zbog toga se, pobogu, udala… i t upravo u svom hramu, u delu koji se zove mamissi. Imala je i svoju verziju per ankh, gde je izučavala tekstove posvećene religiji, diplomatiji, gde je prevodila, tumačila I kopirala rukopise, a svoje robove pretvarala u lične pisare…

Kad je bila raspoložena, udarala ih je po zadnjicama plastičnim falusima, kao simbolom želje al generale, a kad nije…

Bila je veoma sadistična. Dobijala je doslovno fizičko zadovoljstvo na bliskom orgazmičnom nivou kad bi videla  ljude u neobjašnjivoj agoniji i bedi i smejela se na video snimke ljudi koji se pucaju u glavu. Zbog sjajnog stepena samokontrole, samodiscipline, samopouzdanja i inteligencije u opsegu geniusa, nikad ne bi dozvolila sebi da pokaže šta je uradila osobi koja me je iznervirala na vestima…Bič natopljen krvi i solju bio je prirodan produžetak mračnih crta njene ličnosti. Volela je da sebe smatra, izlišno je reći, najsmrtonosnijim stvorenjem koje se na gozbi može sresti, nebitno da li je u pitanju čudotvoran primerak muškarca koga bi automatski proglasila bratom ili žena kojoj mesto nije bilo u bordelu, njena sorta je uvek prelazila granice. Jedini izazov bilo je – premašiti samu sebe užasima i besramnostima.

-Hajde, ustani, zemaljsko roblje!– rubovi istočnjačke odore nepoznatog porekla zaplitali su joj se oko bosih nogu.

Jeli su iz zdela za pse, isturivši lica s bradama i nosevima iz mraćnih ćoškova napuštene crkve, u kripti u koju su iz glavnog zdanja vodile mermerne stepenice. Kriptu je krasila božanska statua koju je dala izraditi po svom liku, u egipatskom stilu. Vremenom, kripta je ličila na svetište hrama, a nije imala ništa protiv prinošenje žrtava, mada je radije primala keš.

– Uzmite urin sa stola. – velikodušno će ona – Popijte meni u čast. I dodajte malo terpentina – da zasladi. Nastavićemo mučenje sutra. Imam glavobolju od ovog prokletog teksta! I to javno – na wordpressu.

– Ako želite da me kastrirate ne bi li Vama bilo lakše, na usluzi sam, domina – muškarac oblika debelog creva, izgledao je kao da je pojeo pozamašnu količinu gojaznih miševa, kleknu pored nje, u stavu, kao da bi je zaprosio. Moram da ih usavršim. Garavim im oči cijanidom po uzoru na Egipćane, a dajem im rimske okovratnike. Moram da kažem mužu šta videh na pijaci u Jerusalimu, pa to je pravi.. kratki laneni kilt!

-Ćuti, robe, nije u tome bit. Ona se vratila!

-Ko se vratio, domina. – uporno će rob, koga je prozvala Robert.

Nije se obazirala na Roberta (kršteno ime Borivoje) kog je srela na liturgiji, s okovanim metalnim okovratnikom oko vrata. Trgla se od nervoze, a trzaj propratiše zvončići ušiveni u odoru. Borivoje je bio bezvredni batler i jedini koga je krstila imenom Robert. Ovo je bilo bitnije. Blesnula joj je vizija. Zaslepila ju je. Svet se oko nje komešao, na tren nestao i u njoj su ostale samo – njih dve – njena stara fantazija, blagi prsti koji klize niz njeno telo kao u dubinu sna.. ona polako uzima bič..  ali na to joj Spisateljica odgovara: Ne zanosi se. Vratiću se još jednom, ali s mačetom.

Kao da je bila tu, ogrubgelg lika od zaricanja na paklenu osvetu i čučala je kraj nje, s nožem podmetnutim joj pod grlo. Osetila je užitak.

-Probdela sam hladnu noć, ne jednu, no..  govorili su da je takva duhovna bolest sveta. Imao ju je Makijaveli Neron, Kaligula.. tu.. bolest..  o kojoj ona govori.. – vrtelo joj se u glavi od doživljenog poniženja

-Hodaš među velikanima, domina!

-Hodam među govnima! – oči joj opasno zasijaše. Zenica joj se zaoštri pretećiu da probije rožnjaču kao vrh pirámide, grobnice Kraljice Egipta. – Upravo sam razgovarala s pravom ženom, sadistkičkim psihopatom, a ne s ulizivačkim ljigavcima koji se mažu s mojim znojem da bi im koža bila mekša. Piju moj urin. Govore da miriše kao ruža. Gde je tu izazov? Gde naslada?

-Ali,. bol koji nam nanosite naše je zadovoljstvo.. –

– Izazov dostojan Kraljice Egipta! – dreknu ona i kosa joj se rasplete –  O, ćuti. To jednostavno dosadi. – A sad me ostavi. Idi, založi.. običnu vatru. Obrednu ćemo kasnije, kad stignu ostale gošće. I ne zaboravi da nahraniš ostale pse.

-Kako Vi kažete, domina.

Kukavni insekt ju je s požudom posmatrao, ona uzdahnu i podiže pogled ka srebrnom kandelabru. Neretko je provodila sate sanjareći o storijama koje bi volela da napiše, no nije imala prevelikog dara. Ali, imala je bujnu maštu, tako da je uvek umela da osmisli način na koji će ojaditi ljudske živote. Obično empatičnh i inteligennih žena koje bi joj stale na žulj. Rekla mi je, ta Leila., da mi je um iskrivljen i da volim da radim, bez nekog posebnog razloga male i štetne stvari, ali ne više od štete koju bi nanelo glupiranje deteta koje se igra prskalicama ispred njenog prozora. Drsko štene. Približavala se eksploziji besa. Izložila je njoj samoj njenu najdublju tajnu koja je uništavala porodice, kao porugu uz savet da proba s kantama s đubre ili da pobije nekoliko štenaca, ukoliko baš želi daje uznemiri i poljulja joj mir. Spakovana si, odrana i skuvana i praćakaš se u unutrašnjem krugu svoje izopačenosti jadnim mahinacijama – izrejkla je hladno, jezivo, arogantno i oštro. Isto je izrekla i njenom bratu Hermangdaru, ponizivši gap red discipulosima.

Uz jedno “blokiraću ti crvotočinu i poklnjam ti Egipat”, nestala je s fejsbuka, ostavivši je sa žegom na gladnoj koži s koje se slivala tečnost. Ona ju je secirala, a ona se oglasila vriskom, nastavljajući da plače od uzbuđenja i sreće: Postoji još načina, postoji.. Das se osetim živom! Srećom, razum je prevagnuo i nadvladao već savladano telo. Osetila je upetorostručeni stid. Šta ako neko sazna?

Postoji samo jedan način da niko ne sazna za..  – progutala je knedlu – , a to je da ne postoje usne koje će šaputati ili škrabati o tome.

Misli su joj se okrenule ka ubistvu. Osećala se bolje.


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  1. PO DOZVOLI IZDAVAČA RUKOPISA “ZAPISI U TAMI”, REČ AUTORKE, u znoju pera svogIMG_20180721_193827 (1).jpg

Aveti s kojima se autorka borila mimo ovog teksta, sa srpdačinama koje su dopuštene poput oštrica sečiva postale su joj toliko bliske da se par meseci bojala da ih ne izgubi. Jer šta ako kojom nesrećom izgubi ono što joj se pukom nesrećom dogodilo? Ipak, i ona je ljudsko biće, ne samo autorka. Šor u koji se doselila nedavno postao je problem. Uočavanje da je neko nekoga angažovao da je prati kad joj socijalna fobija popusti bila je osveženje! Izvršni organ stranke komšija pokazalo se da je upravo to – organ.

Jebena odvratna matora gadura od komšinice s leva bilo je sve što joj je bilo potrebno da skine voštanu masku kako s plejade likova u Zapisima, tako i sa svog, ali morala je neko vreme da ukloni svoj otpor prema kičeraju i papazjaniji, da shvati da joj treba biti drago što mora da ih gleda, da se paklena osamljenost udružila sa nagošću primitivnog seljačkog nasilja, da se u ovom šoru melanholicima ne prašta već se isteruju iz čamotinje svog iznajmljenog doma, da sve nora da piči i puca, uz trubu, uz narodnjak, uz nalevo – krug da ne pritisnem uza zid i tebe i tu crnu mačku i ima da ja pppprrr… radim šta mi se ćefne, i briga me, gospođa pisac što je tebe pravio senegalski pesnik. Šor je moj!

Par puta je Autorka našla komšije rasute preko praga kako se čude događaju koji se odvija nedaleko od njih, a to je ratoborno čukaranje po tastaturi i „neka vaša privatna posla, gospodična, a ovde nema ništa privatno, ovde se svi zajedno radujemo, propinjemo, jaučemo, a ti se zavukla tu k’o medved, pišeš i pretvaraš se da svakodnevno čitaš što nije istina. Ni u Evropi, niti na Aljasci, niti na Ekvatoru“

Autorka, na granici između samoubistva i mučeništva, u nameri i nahođenju da nanovo spozna samu sebe kao objekta, ali ne kao bilo kakav,  nego objekt – u problemu, ali i na putu izlaska iz lavirinta zadatog matricom,  shvata da je najbolje rešenje biti glupa i gluva kao top.

Tako je sudba baci da se naseli u pustoj zemlji, u šoru, u jednoj od rustičnih kuća na prelazu u moderno, nasred centra Beograda, s povoljnim uslovima za razvoj seoskog turizma, sa zajedničkom septičkom jamom nevezanom za gradsku kanalizaciju, blizu duboko iskopane rupe, gde su sve fekalije zajedničke.

Reklo bi se da ovakve nesretne okolnost treba smatrati otrovom za sve što je osetljivo i da autorka zaglavila u svom ličnom limbu, pomalo ljuta što ju se u celini i u delovima umnožilo, preštampalo, prenelo u surovom obliku s jednog tragičnog mesta na još tragičnije, zastrašujućim sredstvima koje, kad bi ih bilo moguće opisati, ugrozile bi njenu već upitnu razumljivost proze i već usahlu korist i to sve bez odobrenja autorke, kao i njenog izdavača, da je se distribuira, sa sve psihopatološki grotesknim noćnim morama i rulfoovskim sablastima..  tako.. po šorovima i kućama, evo ima godinu petnaestu.

Ovo obdareno biće je rešilo da otkuca još paragraf ili dva, a potom da se zauvek digne od stola i oslobodi se želje da se bavi tako imućnim zanimanjem, uz još nekoliko uzgrednih koje je imala, a o kojima, protivno samozadatim vlastitim pravilima nije želela da govori ama baš nikako, a pogotovo ne otvoreno i javno.

Uprkos snažnoj veri, pod pritiskom velike patnje, autorka je rešila da odustane. Uz izgovor da je kritičnma narodna masa isuviše ljubomorna kako na njen novčanik tako i na ono što piše.

Kome su potrebni prizori bede, vapaju i krici izgubljenog uma,  priče o hiljadu i jednoj želji koja će se ostvariti samo onoj koja nadmaši Šeherezadu uspavljujući legendarnim storijama poreznika s disleksijom koji pati od bibliofobije – (čitalac određuje da li je poslednja primedba smehovna, duhovita ili smešna) To je jako važno jer autorka koristi humor da iskaže svoje ekspresivne ideale, uz opasku: Zabranjeno citirati Fidijana.

Daljim ispisivanjem bljutavosti svojih dilema, bljutavo ih ispisujući, u prljavštini, u ćorsokaku koji služi za šoranje, autorka je, svodeći konačan, veliki račun, na kraju tog računa, shvatila da je propatila toliko mnogo, da je izgubila dodatih 4 kilograma i trista grama, nešto iz oblasti fantastičnog, a nešto uistinu nije umislila, ali se više nije sebi doimala u ogledalu niti nezgrapnom niti čudnom.

Pogledala je dosad napisane pasuse ZAPISA, pohvale dostojne, odlučila je da se samoj sebi toplo zahvali na pokušaju da napiše sjajno pismo o tome da je po svojoj škodljivosti u odnosu na sve i svakog koga je prikazala bila nevina, ali da je došla na mesto koje jj preti.. koje predskazuje propast, da je kvalitet rečenica opadački, koliko i besmislen i da će svako, ne razumevši ama baš ništa od onog što je napisala imati želju da pročita autorkinu samozahvalnicu koja glasi:

Hoću sada, kao jedino živo biće koje me zanima, da izvršim gorku dužnost spram strašne vesti koju sam dobila, a ona me je zasenila i obradovala na načine na koje nisam ni sanjala, jer ni sanjala nisam.. – ovde se autorka zbunila, u toj meri da je ostatak rukopisa napisan u prvom licu – da ću biti toliko srećna pukim faktom da svojim pisanjem više neću opterećivati druge jer…

Najedared, nešto prsnu, kao krv i prasak smeha,  a zvuk je došao s druge strane prozora, iz hladnoće, tame i iz plesa senki.

Staklo puče, razbije se i pre nego što sam shvatila da mi je cigla tek za par milimetara okrznula glavu i načinila vidljiv ožiljak iznad slepoočnice. Ciglin let od tame iza prozorskog slomljenog okna do susednog zida trajao je merljivo kratko, no nisam se zamajavala time, no sam počela da se istovremeno smejem i da pretim.

To je vrlo zahtevan posao. Pretnje. Treba iskriviti lice propisno, grunuti iz grla tako da to ima neki opasan, skriven smisao, te iako se obično počinitelji uplaše pretnji, uvek treba biti spreman da primiš pretnje nazad, a da pritom ne dozvoliš da vidiš koliko se u tvom nedostatu ikakvog straha krije prezir prema svima.

Stoga sam oduvek sebi savetovla da se držim prekora. Poslati u pakao, to je ljudsi. Pozvbati se na status žrtve. Slobodnog mislioca.

No, ono što me je navelo da se zamislim  jeste razlog zbog kog bi neko propratio moje postupke, a budući da te noćii nisam načinila niti jedan, da razmotrim mogućnost da neko prati moje postupke, i to me je protreslo, da čak i moje ništa ima nekog smisla, u ovoj tami, noći,  u umerenosti strave i čistoti apsolutnog besmisla.

Tada shvatih. Histeričan i prodoran krik od kojih bi i kamen zajaukao dopirao je s moje tastature, a možda sam i vrištala dok sam pisala – ljubazno mi saopštavaju dok im pajserom dodirujem noseve smešeći se: „Čik ponovi ako je to tačno“

(Unutrašnji urednik se raskrečio nad rukopisom i gleda sve šta pišem iz ptičje perspektive: Mislim da treba da obrišeš ovaj deo. Dogovorili smo se da ne izmišljaš.

Izmišljam? Kakva budala. Sve vrvi od urednika ovih dana. Do – gooders. Ne podnosim ih)

U pitanju je bilo, zaključujem, razbijanje prozora iz zvučnih pobuda. Komunalna buka koju sam pravila u zatvorenom prostoru, svojim ratničkim izlivom emocija udarajući po tastaturi prepoznatljivom pijanističkom tehnikom vežbanja a la Franc List, udžbenik za daktilografe „Prstomet i umetnička interpretacija“ , prešla je nivo 100 fona (ako se nisam prevarila u cifri) uznemirivši komšinicu s leva za koju se govorilo, još od mog useljenja, a ponajviše je sama o sebi govorila, da meditira u noćnim časima, čvrsto sklopljenih očiju, te živčani sistem, te promene u metabolizmu, te trigliceridi…

Dozvoliću sebi da zastanem na ovom mestu i da se smejem. Samo malo.

(Za sve je kriv fakat da nisam sastavila detaljno sve scene u romanu, inalče bi poodavno bio završen, a postala sam ravnodušna prema pakostima uprkos stalnim selidbama, te na kraju shvatam d aplašim svet svojim literarnim postojanjem, a možda i da suviše dugo živim. Možda bude da je to)

Utom senka promače. Brzo. Isuviše brzo, ali dovoljno da vidim prikazu u begu odevenu u ski masku s nacrtanim likom bele ajkule oštrih zuba kji proškrgutaše: „Ma boli me kurac!“ To reče, otvori kapiju i uđe u dvorište s leva, skinuvši pred pragom ski masku, a tamnocrvena, laganokovrdžava kosa se rasu…


Dugo sam sedela zagledana u plafon. Noćašnji događaj izoštrio je i produbio stare instinkte.

Upravo pobedonosno sam izašla iz Prvog rata „Ja tebi ciglom kroz prozor“

Odlučih da dovršim tu priču, a nakon svojeručnog potpisa, zaboravim na čitavu stvar, uz zvanično obrazloženje:

Tekst Zapisa u tami smatrajte kao svesno izbegavanje otkrivanja vlstite istoriografije. Autorka smatra da je s rukopis gotov, iako nije. Komedija je izrodila isuviše bezumnika, iako mnogo manje no što ih je u istinitoj ispovesti bilo ili bi ih bilo. Zbog sticaja nesrećnih okolnosti, pomahnitalnog tempa kako selidbi, tako i tempa kojim se skinula do gole kože u vlastitom romanu, a nije se libila da započne lov na veštice kad su u pitanju i bogomznani kreteni kojima se posvetila pažnju, kao sveštenik kokošinjcu, uz želju da nepočinima razbije njuške, u stanju u kojem joj boravi čitavo biće, to nije više moguće, te autorka ne ume da isprati sled događaja na ubedljiv način, a da pritom ne odoli čežnji da se stopi sa svojim šumskim ja i premaže se ratničkim bojama.

Ako biste je posetili, shvatili biste da je podivljala i fantazira da lukom i strelom lovi zalutale turiste po okolišu Avalske planine.  Njenu priču je teško pratiti, mada su složni u tome da je njen delirijum zarazan, koliko i interpretativan.

Dovoljno je reći da je odbila ozbiljnu glumačku ponudu za Beogradsko dramsko, jer je smatrala da je razlog za minornu ulogu u predstavi „Lepa i luda“ nevredan njene pažnje neprihvatljiv od strane neotesanog režisera Mihaela Hajdna.

Ukoliko ona sama ne napiše bolji scenario.

„Tvoja rupa odgovara mom falusu“, rekao joj je na generalnoj probi i uprskao stvar.

Majci je pukao film, otišla je na pijacu i nije se vraćala dva dana. Sunčala se Autorka dva dana kod baba Ruslane na sunčanom krovu, setila se teme iz maturskog i iz samo njoj poznatog razloga, mrmljajući nešto o Arapima i Suncu i pištolju, te o nekakvom Dušanu Slovaku, uz mantru: „Uradila sam to. Sve sam ih pobila“,  stravičnim gestom koji je prethodio odluci  (kad je ona u pitanju i bogovi se boje da nagađaju šta je to bilo) podigla je ruku visoko u vis i u glisandu svakako  nastavila da piše, uz Kingovo misery pitanje „Možeš li“, uspela je da se osmehne monitoru kao detetu.

Hvala Bogu i za ručno izrađenu škrinju što mi ju je danas doneo poštar – poklon od prijateljice koja je pročitala dosadašnji serijal Zapisa u Tami, uz poruku ohrabrenja: „Žuri polako. Tek si na hiljadu i osmoj stranici.“

Svaki pisac ima svoj ritual pre nego što išta iole pomisli, a kad nešto pomisli, dobar pisac mora to isto i da zapiše. Streljala je zelenim okom dosadašnji rukopis kao sečivom. Potom je otvorila škrinju na kojoj je zlatnim slovima bilo ugravirano „Knjiga magije“ i položila podebeli tabak odštampanog rukopisa.

Poluglasne rečenice okretale su se u njenoj glavi sve dok nije zaverglala sledeće poglavlje, pa sledeće, list po list slažući u škrinju i strašnim pamćenjem klavijaturisala po istini, svedočanstvu, nestrpljiva da završi s uvodnim ritualom, a to su u dahu sklepane loše rime o izmišljenim bludnicama koje joj dolaze u san i koje se nude da joj urade korekturu teksta.

To je ritual. Za ovaj mesec: bludnice. Za sledeći: političari.

Potom je izvgrnula ruglu sve što prezire, od veoma rđavog oca kog nije niti upoznala preko nedotupavaca koji smatraju da se ona zapravo rukopisom kompromituje,  iako je njeno najveće dostignuće bilo u tome da je uspela da izvaja svojevrsne rečenične kipoe a la Luvr po stilizaciji i mašti, a da pritom nije rekla ama baš ništa.

Ovo je za autorku krupno priznanje i razlog da odustane, kao što bi i bilo da začuđena i ožalošćena selidbama i bezočnim ciglomanima,  osetila gotovo idolatrijski naboj prema srčanosti kojom je komšinica boli me kurac napisala vlastito poglavlje, odbrnila vlastite uši, uz ne baš preveliko rasuđivanje i dubokoumnu baroknost u iskazu, ali svakome, pa i samoj autorki jasno i razumljivo.

„Pokazala mi je put“,  jer autorka bi neretko bila zadubljena u misli tokom pisanja obimne knjige, ali rečite u meri da može da se radnja prati, sve dok se ne bi trgla iz donkihotovskog sna –  žurila se potom, spremala šta će reći, držala govor pred ogledalom, teško gutala zalogaje tokom obroka, odlučila da će se posvetiti bogu, postu, militvama, samo da u rukopisu sve ide dobro i da se ne uzbudi previše tokom samog pisanja.

Bila je to greška. Zanosna igra i ples opisa groteski koje su joj mučile um činile su njenu knjigu zarobljenom u zamku privezanu spletom aluminijumskih žica koje likovima nisu dozvoljavale dah.

„Ovo je intervencija s nebesa“, kucala je autorka i svakog dana dok je pisala, tamo negde u Beogradu, Sunce bi se penjalo iznad vidika kad bi joj neki paragraf uspeo, a padalo ispod vidika kad neki paragraf bi zaličio na hagnjeći kotlet ili bi je poznati glas Izvršnog komšiničinog organa:

–        Boli me kurac!, virnuvši iz oblog zvona tela sa ne tako uzanim otvorom.

Lozinka.. Mora da je lozinka..  – mrmljala je Autorka stisnutih, isušenih usana. Toliko pomno je kucala po tastaturi da je zaboravljala na žeđ.

–        Njena mačka opet ušla u kuću, a ja.. presekla sam se živa!-         

Zamišljam je u vlažnom kazamatu kako se testeriše od prepona ka glavi. – otkuca Autorka, ustade sa stolice, udalji se dva metra i pomno se zagleda u slova: „Dobro je“

–        Zeca sam morala da odnesem u Aranđelovac, a ona tamo piše.



K’o klepalo kad bije na radost uskrsnuća.


Autorka viri kroz kroz drvene prozorske kapke.

Neko na njenom mestu ne bi želeo da se upušta u pojedinosti fizičke prirode, a da ne pomene očekivane plave kitove, artiljerijska oružja na Istočnom frontu, teške haubice,  Indijke, do nedavno najteže žene na svetu koja je uspela da se prepolovi, elefantijaze, da tu nešto debelo nije u redu…

Tabana kao krdo afričkih slova sa svojom tankom kosom prikucanom šarenim šnalama uz glavu, ofarbanu u tamnocrvenu boju i klati tamo amo povelikim grudima dok joj iz usta viri jezik koji vrluda i po jutru, i nći i po livadi i po šoru i kojim preti, kojim seče u naletu neprijatelje sistema, one koji njen kurac ne vole, turobne godine tvrde upotrebe nisu ga umorile niti iznurile,  no ojačale da blista poput čelika, da besni po šorovima beJogradskim i aranđelovačkim, a svet sav se, taj svet koji u kurac šalje i iz kurca se odlio u slivnik, udružio s njom, sa slivnikom, propustljivom površinom sveta i kurči  kamenu tišinu –pičKi gore dole i kurata okolo, a još povrh kurca i cigaretu joj pripaljuju.


Moje bludno psovanje, moj udo, njen nežnik..

Lepa sam k’o satana! Obla k’o crkveno zvono!


KOMŠIJE, scena iz predstave LEPA I LUDA, Leila Samaraj i Mihail Hajdn

Scenario s falinkom


Leila Samaraj



Mihail Hajdn

KOMŠIJE I NJIHOVI POTOMCI: Cika i vriska, dva deteta pred školom, ponašanje dvogodišnnjakinja,  dakle, retardi, neartikulisano kreveljenje i sumanuto skakanje, nerazgovetno pričanje, vrištanje, tapkanje loptom, lupanje u prozor, dozivanje mačke,  komšije razapele kanap preko ulice.

AUTORKA: Odbija telesni kontakt. Ne obraća pažnju na druge, bez kontakta očima sa spoljnim svetom. Ne priča s komšijama. Ne pokazuje strah od opasnosti. Smeje se ili kikoće, s razlogom. Pruža otpor slušanju legendi o silovanoj devojci kraj Momina kamenu kod Vladičinog hana što se Turčinu nije dala. Uzvraća legendama o vlastitim avanturama na Sinajskome brdu koga je uzduž i popreko prekopala, negde u neolitu, kad ga dokazano nije niti bilo. Interesuje se samo za istoriju normanskih osvajanja, ali se žali na odbacivanje paganizma, kadgod komšinica Ruslana, koja se predstavlja kao Radmila, od 90 leta i koja je prema vlastitim rečima imala urednu menstruaciju do sedamdesete, pomene lezbejstvo Hilari Klinton. Na pomen sintagme: “Dečja radost”, obično brizne u plač.


–    Ne bacaj tako loptu!

–    Ma boli me kurac. (evo ga!)

–    Trči, vidi koliko ti dupe

–    Malo poskoči!

–    Hop! Hop!

–    Vidi kako moja Zoka skače!

–    Baci tu loptu tamo na vrata onoj što čuka, a ad izađe ti kaži: izvin’te komšinice.

–  A ko i što toliko čuka?

–        Ma doselili se tu s mačkama, književnica i njena majka! Majka je u redu, ali ona, ta mala, bezsisna i pikljava – ona…  – Piše.

–        Piše! A što?

–        Iz nekog razloga nešto piše, ne pitam se kojeg, mora da je nešto umnobolesno.. neka ekstrasenzorna percepcija, možda je nadresirana pa naskače k’o kuče na tu jadnu tastaturu i sakati hartije da bi suzbila bolest, ali tu pomaže samo pištolj i noga istovremeno, ne bi je mađijala cimetom ni da mi je prineti toj toj.. grotesknoj implementaciji.

Komšije se uplašeno pogledaše.

–        A lepa je!

–        K’o prostitutka u poodmaklim godinama. Ne bi je jebala ni Goleovim kurcem, niti nevidnom silom prizvanom s četri upaljene sveće.

–        Hajde, Zoko, nemoj tako, i za tebe su govorili da si propušena, a ti bila lepotica sela.

–        Udara, udara ko čekićem! Noću, kad je bog reko da se spava, kad svi spavaju, pa i mačke. Šta bi bilo da ja napišem roman!

–        Piši, što ne počneš i ti pa udarajte zajedno


 (bele stoličice poskakaše)

–    Lupa, čoveče, lupa! Jadan moj zec!

–    Komšinka, hajd’ da ubacimo ove stolice unutra da ne pokisnu. Kiša će.

–      I čula sam je. Kaže ona da smo smi mi seljaci. A šta je ona? Gospođa iz Kragujevac? A znaš šta. Boli me kurac.

–      A jel te mnogo boli kurac.

–      Mnogo!

–      Gole, nisi rekao da ti Zoka ima kurac.

–   I još kaže da našu ulicu da je Šor na Vračaru. Kaže: poređali se k’o na prelu i vrište. Eno. I onu babu laži -ruskinju primaju u goste, kao prvu komšinicu. Onu što stalno priča da su joj četnici zaklali sina. A lepo sam je upozorila da je baba luda. Ma boli me.. guess what!

Udaranje, vriska dečurlije, treskanje,








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Birth of the Crabs




A  Something was wrong with her. Aha! She thought she was beyond everyone! (a convincing cadence) Sold her house to move to the Big City! (grandioso)

B Fine.

A We want to go to the Big City too, but no can do. You do not sell the house. Not at that cheap price! (followed by two oboes and fagots, calmo, cantabile)

Da capo. D.C (from the top)

A What did they do to this woman, for her to squat in other people’s houses in her age. She can’t even die in peace. Shame!

B They won’t be there long, they do not know what the Big City is. And it’s a beauty that the kid is incompetent at everything. She cannot clean! You have to work and earn money, and she can’t do anything. Yeah, sure, as if people need her books! You can’t live on books!

A  Let us pray.

    Let us pray.



I climbed on the altar, lifting a knee before climbing a step. Then I laid my hands on the altar, lowered my right knee all the way, bowed my head and the tip of my body a bit, and my eyes are lowered cutely.  I calmly spoke, without seductive rush, or tears; quite the contrary, there was merriment in my voice, as if mocking.

Then I outstretched my hands, placed it onto the altar and kissed it pressing my lips against the shroud in the middle. It was stiff with a wooden frame, and instead of a dedication kissing stone, I realized this was a coffin with someone in it.

It was a girl in her mid-twenties, pale oval face on her and stunningly full lips. She lay on the shroud, in a black satin dress, hands on her belly.

– This is how I placed my hands so everyone can kiss my ass – I said, approaching the shroud and kissing the forehead of my corpse.


Mother and I entered the apartment and found it infested with Dusan Slovak’s presence. Horn-rimmed thick glasses partially clouded the murky look of the vulture. He pointed his beak at us. His hair was like a cockatoo after his crest was plucked out.

He was breathing heavily, each breath making his larynx inflate. Cancerous growth in his larynx is aching to burst out. As does the barrel of the gun peering from out of a white rug wrapped and on his knees.

– You know how to pamper your asses, but not how to pay the bills.

His voice was coarse and soundless.

– Money, right now. I am not a nobody. – brandy was pungent in his throat. – Nobody screws over Slovak. I can kill the shit out of you. Nobody fucks with Slovak, do you hear? Everyone knows who I am.

– Police especially.

– Police too. All of them my men. I have people there.

– Sit, mom. – I went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water, put sugar in it, then came back nonchalantly gazing about the room. – What’s up, Dule? – I removed my jacket slowly and started an insane conversation about the weather, casting angry looks at his hooknose, the gun which he pulled out with a nervous, fast notion from his white piece of cloth. It was an old magnum, I’d bet Long Star England.

-Dule, is that a BB gun? – I took a sip.

– Suck a dick, Leila – he replied casually.

To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve:
to thee do we send up our sighs,
mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.

I turned to my mother. I could summarize it – she was looking at him like he was a piece of shit, but I’d rather go with this – her eyes were wide with seething rage. Dim from suppressed anger. I was under the intention that they were enveloped in murderous foam.

He gulped his brandy gulps one after another, and she managed to calmly and collectedly, I daresay professionally with an Al Capone’s focus, suppress her anger behind the dark curtains of her angry eyes.

Her voice was down three octaves, quieter than usual, her arms but obliquely – if you really paid attention – clasped in her hands. I admired her gallant gift that the most controversial historians don’t find among great queens. When it came to me, considering all mothers have a personality deficiency, she could at once be both a lady and a killer. She who gave her life to her child since the severing of the umbilical cord, wrapping that same cord, Boston strangler style, around the bulging neck of Slovak like a telekinetic, while the attacker coughs and gags under her eyes, fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair, ready to be devoured by her eyes with murderous intent, growing like a fetus.

– Why are you making a scene, I mean…What do I owe you? And what are you even doing here? Did I pay the rent? You sneak around, mess about, drop in…You should behave a bit better for 300 euros, not wield that gun.

Turn then, most gracious Advocate,
and after this our exile,
defend me from the evil enemy

– No debt with Dusan!

– There should be no theft either.

He gets up suddenly. Beside himself with anger. She stutters. He then points a gun at her.

– Where is my daughter’s sporting equipment? – she was yelling. – Where is my money? And where have you seen my ass? Not through the peephole, so you set up cameras.

He opens his maw, but the arytenoid cartilage go their separate ways as he forms his voice, and leave far away to Hell and beyond, thus his voice had an eerie coarse quality to it, with his attempted shout ending in a snake hiss.

– And if I did? There’s crime in this world, that’s how you gotta do.

– The closet – I thought he would burn from anger and despair like an ignited log, I approached her and hugged her around the waist pointing her murderous eyes at him, but he paid me no heed, and his neck veins were popping blue as rivers. – I had money in the closet, below the sheets, the money which was going to take us out of your dungeon. So you have my money. And you came to make a scene for a telephone bill.

– Mom… – my eyes were focused on his throat. Inside it were rolling stones, his eyes all but ready to burst through the convex lenses of his glasses. He held the gun at the two of us, his hand surprisingly calm.

– Look, Slovak, if you must shoot, shoot us both. – I said with a tired voice. Me the old Judge of eternal hatred, as Cernuda once wrote in a verse. But a little tired, from a decade of merging and melting of eternal artificiality, circular cycles, dying, loneliness, eternal questions, terrifying riddles, paradoxes…and another idiot with a fold gun. I felt the warm, burning body of my mother between my arms which was wallowing in rage. I felt no fear. Not for me. Merely that if anything happened to her, he would be dead and the world would be an empty date behind me. I would have nothing to live for. So get us both…

– What are you saying? – mother scolded me, to which I snapped and an ancient, underground warrior was born in me, my eyes aflame with murderous rage. From that moment whenever I found myself in a similar situation, and the crown mockery of time is my witness to this, the tiger and I would switch around, embrace in a mirror and solve the situation brilliantly, predatorily.

At that point I kind of loved violence.

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away

– First off, you entered the apartment with us not around. What were you looking for?

– It’s mine – he squealed. – What’s yours, you foo?! As long as I pay for your apartment, and I do so regularly, it’s mine and you have nothing to do here. Stop waving that gun – she shouted.

– Mother… – I never saw her like this before. The invisible mirror kept filling up with a full reflection of an enraged tiger.

– I do have cameras – Slovak started waving the gun around. I felt myself becoming a beast, through the centuries, finally having awoken it, and that if this lasts any longer, I…I would not be able to contain myself. Fears flew through space. I walked through the bestiary with my heart full, my stomach empty, hungry.

The tiger is circling the cage.

– And I have cameras. I follow your every move. Especially your daughter taking a bath.

– You sick dog. Give us back our money.

– Dumb bitch, why did you not keep it in the bank?

– Because those are the only thieves worse than you.

– Mind your language with me. Got a gun. I worked security in…big firms.

– You, security? You’re a twig. Look at yourself. Some firms those were that you kept secure. Our money.

– Get the stuff back, then you get the money back.

I nearly wept out of frustration when he returned his gun.

– Why did you move your stuff from this apartment? – he suddenly turned to me.


At that point, I wanted to not only kill him, but go outside, among the people, and shoot and kill them. One by one. Scream laughing as they drop and crabs come out of their throats.



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CATS, theatre play, CHARACTERS acca Dramatis personae, Scene 1

CHARACTERS acca Dramatis personae

Living Beings:

ŽELJKO: The Butcher. He is about 40-year-old

JANA: high school girl.  Željko’s daughter, 17-year-old

SRĐAN: a driver, contractor, delayed student, his mental age is still that of a 17-year-old, but he is now 30-years-old

DRAGUTIN:  Jana’s history teacher, about 50-year-old

IKONIJA: A computer expert and a clever astrologer. She keeps her ages a secret.

Sphere Spiriticus Beings:

SAINT PETER: a head of the Eden Administration, Combatant versus Evil Forces. Under his leadership, Eden has boomed economically.

EMANUEL: a hell of the ferryman of Hades who carries souls of the newly deceased across the rivers Styx. a latent kleptomaniac

THE HOLY PARAMORE: A saint, Protector of expectant mothers as well as a feminist

LILITH, a fallen angelina

ALMIGHTY, also known as El, Creator of Heaven, Earth and Hell, blessed be he

LUCIFER, the infamous ruler of Hell.


CATS – Ghosts or ancestral spirits (Disguised actors)

SAINT JOAN OF ARC,  also known as The Runaway Of Paradise

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, famous French military leader of blessed memory. A firestarter. He sets fire to the Hell, regularly, as a memorial to The Battle of Borodino

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: famous English poet, playwright and actor, of blessed memory, in mourning for his son, Hamet, who passed away too soon.

MARY TUDOR usually appears to drunkards as Bloody Mary


Voice Of Almighty

Voice of Lucifer acca Bad Man With a Forktail




(The stage is illuminated by the spooky light. An apparition like the Commendatore of Mozart’s Don Giovanni is placing coins in the mouth of a dead,  simultaneously taking cash from spectres, surrounded by phantasms and grotesques)  

Grotesque: Am I at the centre of the underworld?

the Commendatore: You don’t have to look no further. This here is a swamp, which sometimes is also called the River Styx.

Grotesque: I was told to take a boat that crosses the Styx rivers.  Ask the psychopomp to guide you across the rivers Styx, Acheron…

the Commendatore: (interrupting Grotesque mid-sentence) You have to pay me to take you! Or you could get stuck on the shore.

Grotesque: Fair enough. Take your coin.

the Commendatore: Your money’ s no good here.  We don’t take nor obols, nor checks. Euros only.

Grotesque: You took my intention the wrong way.  I want you to take me back to the place I was before. Could you tell me how much this would cost?

the Commendatore: Too much to receive a payment in a currency you don’t hold.





















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Cats, theatre play, scene 5

Cats, theatre play, scene 5, Leila Samarrai, translated into English, Mazikeen Leila Smith

Read it fully, deeply, and completely on the link below.



(The Holy Paramore and Saint Peter are sitting together, cheek to cheek, staring at each other lovingly, outside the gates of Heaven.)


SAINT PETER: Sweetie, I would tear down the sky for you if you ask me!

THE HOLY PARAMORE: That’s not possible, my angel. We are already in the heavens.

SAINT PETER (he is kissing her forehead) You are choosing words wisely, my ethereal love.

THE HOLY PARAMORE: Well, then, my honey, my sweetie pie, my darl… always honourable, acquitted from all sins and free of defilement (sigh) I’d give you all my bury bones.

SAINT PETER: And I’d give you all my hagiographys! But don’t my lamb chop, don’t bother… my heart leaps to see you again, almost stopped with happiness! My tongue got tangled, like tree branches, that’ s all so wonderfully romantic! – weaving a knotted web. Keep your relics for yourself. You’ll need them when you least expect it. Say, as far as your parents, were they enjoying considerable wealth? When they were alive?

THE HOLY PARAMORE: Maybe they would’ve been, but they died out millions of years ago, beloved.

SAINT PETER: (shaking his head) Such a write off. I don’t need anything besides you, thou that art highly favoured. Along with other virtues which are not worthy of you or of that expensive dress you are wearing.

THE HOLY PARAMORE: It warms my heart knowing you are having second thoughts when it comes to receiving gifts, my inamorato, for it suggests the sentiments which are disgusting to both of us. Bad, black acts governing both heaven and hell. And all violations and transgressions, can’t even approach two greatest sins, my flame.

SAINT PETER: And what since might those be, my true love?

THE HOLY PARAMORE: These two: a materialism and an adultery.

SAINT PETER: Blessed be.

THE HOLY PARAMORE: You’ve been spending too much time with Satan’s ferryman, my one and only. He is a bad influence on you, my Pippin. Should I be concerned?

SAINT PETER: But, my crackajack, my peach, my sugar, you always told me: Peter, you’re gentle like Lorca’s rosebud. But only sweet imp, a devilish masculine type is fit to be my real husband. I am having trouble enjoying the company of that mad, bad sinner, my holy par – amore, my significant other. But, that’ s the only way that I can learn high/level pranks and stuff. I’ m doing all of this for you, paramour. Whatever I do… maintaining my vow of chastity, I ask him, now and then, to teach me how to dodge, to cheat, to turn tricks, to…

THE HOLY PARAMORE: Trick, what trick? Any unusual sin? Sure! This must be.. ah! Tell me! (her eyes shine)

SAINT PETER: Blessed the cheek…! Recently… (scratches behind his ear) He, Emanuel, our hellish ferryman, disguised as John The Baptist, he swung a censer as he danced a Limbo dance, calling for souls in Limbo, making them swim in groups.. in Styx, yelling: Bathe and prepare to meet the Chief, citing verses 42-43… a moment Paradise filled up with sinners, choking angels with devilish smoke, while he was still singing: “The bath is full” while I.. oh my dearie, my knockout, my holy par amour.. I’ve had my hands pretty busy putting them all back in and to straighten out Emanuel’s mess. Suddenly, a stubborn Limbecile, since he was obliged to come home to the antechamber of hell, took his own life. He liked Paradise so much that he actually thought he was innocent. Of course, this was just a hell – loop…

THE HOLY PARAMORE: (squeezing her ethereal little legs just a little harder, her cheeks reddened)
O, sacrilège!
O, blasphème!
Isn’ t that what happened? Terrible thing.

SAINT PETER: There’ s more! Emanuel ordered Pizza capricciosa for the Gluttonous of the Third Circle of Hell… a special-order kind of thing: one for Cerberus – The chilli peppers give it a real kick.

Quite the scandal. Say no more! Not a second thought! Strike it from your mind, my darl, such a leechcraft, no more! Keep your high-quality pectoral cross washed clean of all the black marks, for he shall forever glow as a sign of perpetual light!
As for your Eden Key, Peter, bring it to my ethereal bed, Romeo!

SAINT PETER: (Peter, his lovely eyes intent on his Key, breathlessly..)
The apple of my eye! I got a report on the Sanitation department of Eden… It is written: The key won’t get rusty, Peter if you keep him someplace dry.

THE HOLY PARAMORE: Not before he serves his purpose. Oh, Peter! Hug me, hug me, hold me, Peter! Almighty, wrap him up in dark bedsheets. Let there be dark! Let him go forth, out of the dark, come out, a beautiful gloomy face of my true love! A, he’s asleep!… (she’s up, stepped into the Garden, butt- nagged for gods sakes)

THE HOLY PARAMORE: Oh, you, a madcap little devil of mine! Cheater! Hustler! Handsome sleaze – bag! O, I loved the way how you banged me in the clouds and there I lay pretended I were dead!

EMANUEL: (peeking over Tree of the knowledge of good and evil)
Does he not suspect something?

THE HOLY PARAMORE: He is no more boring than book reports. Let’s get together at midnight, honeypie, someone might see us.

EMANUEL: You wanna go for a ride in our gondola, my bimbo!
THE HOLY PARAMORE:… Surfing dark waters, us being together.. my beefcake!

EMANUEL: There’ s a shortcut near purgatory river, bitch!

THE HOLY PARAMORE: I’m getting juiced up over the nude beaches, stud!

EMANUEL: Come to my arms, you, she-devil!
(They are kissing)

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Rider, (I) Not a man, merely a warning to others.

(I) Not a man, merely a warning to others.

Rider in eternity
In a holy day of the paunch
The trample of the horse on trail leads the reprobate to the gates of the Black Castle
In the entourage of the greedy, debauchee, gamblers
(steeped are all of his pockets)
the lock clicks and closes like a roomette of the sarcophagus

I am not a man, merely a warning to others.
Blood of the rider on the sorrel horse decants down the eyes of the sword.
Draw your courage.
Skeleton leaks from the paunch
Down valves of thirsty purple, cold sun

For madman who surfeit gnawed naked trees.
„Provision of wheat for a groat, three provisions of barley for a groat, and oil and wine there won’t be.”

I am not a man, merely a warning to others,
Swollen from anger and cry,
With eyes the colour of swamp
Wizened body…

Inflamed are the furies
(Heracles, here is fire!)
minds are fed with hunger
(death with no hurry)

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Caligula and his comrade Adolf, an excerpt from the SF novel “There was once a republic”, Timeline: Caligula

Before he met Caligula, Adolf seemed the fairly ordinary young man who took delight in his job, painting walls, striving to meet a beautiful young woman, so that he could marry her, leading a quiet of a private life. He never had thoughts about conquering the world, inside his mind… The only brain activity that gave him a real bummer was that to recalculate the amount of paint needed for painting facades, because his employer, a Jew, cut Adolf’s pay every time he estimated Adolf wasn’t up to the task. As a result, young Adolf never loved Jews too much. The idea he was special, that he was destined to rule the world had been implanted in his mind by Caligula, by now in the advanced stage of the madness. At the thought of something like this, Adolf, already, sees flashes of light in front of his eyes, like small sparkles. Thus, Gitler has his mind set on the organization of the Party Troops modelled according to The Praetorian Guard. Sturm Abteilung Troop Leader, Ernest Roehm, saw the Praetorians and he got excited:
“Gitler”, Roehm said, “Urge Caligula for Sturm Abteilung to get the same helmets as Romans. He’s your comrade, he will listen… ”
Gitler flatly refused the proposal:
“Ernst, bitte, control yourself. We are a serious Party!”
Thus, he was giving parades through Berlin, building on the ancient Romans defiles, building Reichstag per the Roman Senate projects.

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I was gone for 15 hours last night, at my place. And since I couldn’ t remember where I’ d been, it’ s been bothering me until I came up with an idea – I’ll use my imagination. So, I imagined myself sitting on a bench in the town square with a blank notebook on my lap putting pieces of my magnum opus together, with shining eyes, despite the fact that my landlord, by the way, a typical nincompoop from around here, without any sense for someone with such sensibilities, kicked me out of the apartment!



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Caligula i njegov camarad Adolf, odlomak iz “Bila jednom jedna Republika”, timeline: Caligula

Caligula i njegov camarad Adolf


Pre nego što je upoznao Caligulu, Adolf je bio sasvim normalan mladić koji je uživao u svom poslu molera i težio da upozna lepu devojku kojom će se oženiti i voditi miran porodični život. Misli o osvajanju čitavog sveta nikada nisu bile prisutne u njegovoj glavi i jedina moždana aktivnost koja mu je zadavala glavobolju bila je da proračunava količinu boje potrebne za farbanje neke fasade, pošto mu je poslodavac, Jevrej, redovno od plate odbijao uvek kada je procenio da Adolf to nije dobro učinio. Zbog toga mladi Adolf nije previše voleo Jevreje. Ideju da je poseban, da je predodređen da vlada svetom usađuje mu Caligula, sada već u poodmaklom stadijumu ludila, a Adolfu se sve više pojavljuje iskra u očima prilikom pomisli na tako nešto. Tako se Gitler odluči na organizovanje partijske vojske po uzoru na pretorijansku gardu. Ernst Roehm, vođa Sturm Aptailung – a odreda oduševio se pretorijancima .

„Gitleru“,  – reče Roehm – urgiraj kod Caligule da Sturm Aptailung dobiju iste kacige! To je tvoj camarad, poslušaće te!“

Gitler glatko odbi s objašnjenjem: “Ernst, bitte, kontroliši se, mi smo ozbiljna partija!”, a Ernst će: “Jawohl, mein Fuhrer!”.

Tako načini Gitler parade u Berlinu ugledajući se na starorimske pobedničke defilee. I izgradi Gitler Reichstag po projektima za Rimski senat.


image: Ernst Seger

Before he met Caligula, Adolf seemed the fairly ordinary young man who took delight in his job, painting walls, striving to meet a beautiful young woman, so that he could marry her, leading a quiet of a private life. He never had thoughts about conquering the world, inside his mind… The only brain activity that gave him a real bummer was that recalculate the amount of paint needed for painting facades, because his employer, a Jew, cut Adolf’s pay every time he estimated Adolf wasn’t up to the task. As a result, young Adolf never loved Jews too much. The idea he was special, that he was destined to rule the world had been implanted in his mind by Caligula, by now in the advanced stage of the madness. At the thought of something like this, Adolf, already, sees flashes of light in front of his eyes, like small sparkles. Thus, Gitler has his mind set on the organization of the Party Troops modelled according to The Praetorian Guard. Sturm Abteilung Troop Leader, Ernest Roehm, saw the Praetorians and he got excited:
“Gitler”, Roehm said, “Urge Caligula for Sturm Abteilung to get the same helmets as Romans. He’s your comrade, he will listen… ”
Gitler flatly refused the proposal:
“Ernst, bitte, control yourself. We are a serious Party!”
Thus, he was giving parades through Berlin, building on the ancient Romans defiles, building Reichstag per the Roman Senate projects.

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Non Believer

My poem Non Believer has no independent identity. It is tied with myself based on my sinister intentions of composing that poem. i.e per the intentions behind writing it.
It meant to be tied with the audience too but due to the word-for-word translation ii e due to rendering of text from one language to another one word as Latin would have said: “verbum pro verbo”) with or without conveying the sense of the original whole, I cannot judge whether I was able to write exactly my indescribable painful experience. Sorry about it!

Who would want this
who wanted this?

If there’ s a God
who did this
if there’ s one
if there’ s one
if only you knew how much I hated you
You made out you’re merciful
But what about those like me
giving in to temptations
totally outclassed us in the first half
The ducklings
she wanted to be free

You don’t think I’d ignore the whole thing
You think I’d make a fool of myself like you?
Don’t you think I know who you are?
Didn’t you think I forgot about you?
Don’ t you think that I know that?
you think this lousy toilette chain is gonna keep me out?
do you think I wanted THIS?
somebody wanted to make sure
you didn’t get it
Who would want to…
if there’s momentum
if there’s…

At this hour
to live that horror again
always afraidit’ s for the first time
during this month decades of incarceration…
And bars on the windows.
driven through my heart
Bedridden, I know how to pray
I will honour the words but
I was never a believer
I don’ t…I don’ t… I don’ t
do you?


Recasting happens all the time on soaps.
It’s way past bedtime, a lifetime ago
I summon thee, songbirds, humans
and some nonhuman primates
Me, I call it looking for friendly foes.
Me, I carried them in a dead child body.
another sin
another immaculate conception
between the pillars of Babilon
I go off about
pygmy marmoset babbling language
I am PhD in even more than one million
I speak in rhythmic patterns just as hearing infants do
mumble, grumble
nag nag nag
Unlike me,
The bloody heathens
The wicked
are unable to phonate

Now turn around a little, round and round
get on the ground
pick a grass, stones, lichen
There are crops to harvest
Pour it into their green wings
make fun of some poor bastard

If you’ re there
But if you’ re there
No, no, don’ t worry, don’ t worry
I’ll be here.
I’ll be right there
I understand that I understand that.
all these things were said

if you do exist
keep in mind to give me hope
a torture by hope
as if there’ s something or someone
waiting for me
a comfortable life, the sound of a faraway star
gig’s on pastoral Saturdays
playing the guqin lute
such beautiful music
Nice inscription on my footsteps chain
once plentiful, was once, a long time ago

when there were no other worries
I know I want to believe that
I will walk along free,
even with a good deal of leisure,
rather than between grey, tired bars
under arrest, in cuffs, doing time, for a long time

Now, give me a kiss on my imprint
even though it had been raised
by contusions and shrapnel
a belt, a child has been jailed and flogged
was once, I was eight
and now…
The cage must be tired I am
The Colour Sick Pearl
do it
before I fall asleep into a soporific roar of the waves

They’ll be right in
above my head
They, the very same.
to take me away

Rooted in the last morning of a bullet

Leila Samarrai

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The Birth Of Narcissus

It’s a poem about the separation of a woman from the toxic environment and finding strength and meaning in their own being.

image https://www.deviantart.com/ericadalmaso/art/Self-Love-352173814


I  have found my face

It is beautiful…
to smile by the lake, to kneel before my image
I, Creator,
Beside my one true lover
Who gazes upon my improved facial features
I, Creator,
I touch them with my newborn newly lengthened arms
Recreating myself, but in my own image

Graceful mirror,
what a magnificent creature I am
the pure form, offended by piss-poor perfection
I have no need for this damned society
Of humanity’s cretinous castaways,
now that I have found
my mad reflection

One vanity
one nature
one jealousy
that gazes at what she cannot touch!
no more!
and one love
always reciprocated.

With this new love brought from Heaven to Earth

with this beautiful creation emerged from the freezing water
there will be no more Petrarchan Platonic patheticalness
no more dark clouds above my shoulders with the strong pungent smell of storm
there will be.. No!
no more waking life, no!
No more wounds in my back, no crying at night
no more…

I understand that love is essential
I am taking the silvered mirror
I am kissing the lips of Goddess
I am having my first date.
with Myself.

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Mrak će razumeti, Leila Samaraj

Mrak će razumeti(zbirka pesama), Leila Samarrai

Izdavač: Edicija „Prvenac“ Studentski kulturni centar, prva nagrada

2002.  ISBN 978-86-7398-010-2.

Vašoj milosti*
U hlad ruža htela sam da se sklonim
Ali zaspah u knjizi
Otvorenoj na pesmi o (m)učitelju

Pesnici davnašnji
Pod senkama i zemljom
Računaju li na serafime
Na tamninu, na prozorska okna
Na odškrinuta vrata i tajnu života
Na grane čempresa koje tišinom mame
I dugo severno jutro pod harfama

Na izmaku vidokruga
Neka nam ćutnja iščupa istinu
Od kamena spevanu

* Upućeno čitaocima
Tuga je skrivena u glavi ovenčanoj krvlju
Ka mudrosti zvanoj Jerusalim
Ubijate čoveka što daljinu osluškuje
Je li tamo zbilja „Ecce Homo“
Viša hijerarhija Španije
Dok teče vreme očaj silazi do krvarenja
Bolno nikad, ne priznajući bol
Ptica sam
Ptica sa željom da umre u Španiji

Napisaću u izveštaju
U mekim plodovima krije se
Namučena Hulija Burgos

Onostrano sećanje otkucava šest časova

Taština na lisičjem tragu
Gle, čuda!
Čas naizgled jednoličan
Pogodan za izokrenut tren ili večnost
Mučenica i njena kćer što peru noge
Ukrašene ekserom umesto sandalama
Ćutke razgovaraju

Samo ne žamor iznutra
Obale i strugotine maštaju
Kćeri želiš da ti se omakne prah
I uznemiriš teret, nebiće i vitice
Zamišljena preko puta kamenja odolevaš
Crnja od noći
Strah te da neće više biti kičmenjaka

Treći je čas u noći Posle

Ne shvataš – prosuta krv zvoni
Od otkrića pogrešno strepiš
U agoniji sebe same
Dok vapimo na grčkim terasama

Mirne su reke čujne u naporu
I to zajedno

U ogledalima je put ka mrtvoj zemlji
I obožavaoci hronometra
I neostvarivi cvat leta

Goluba na vatru kćeri moja
Naješćemo se
I skakavce kćeri moja
Pre nego nas napuste kroz prozore

Predosećam da nepouzdani čovek
Stišava dah i kreće putem
Lepote, Zapovesti i Ratova

Znakovi pored puta jedino ti preostaju

Tako mi govoraše mati

Ne traži više zemlju
Zaboravljena među drvećem
Ispod kojeg si rođena

U izabranoj noći
Kada su skakavci odleteli sa terasa
U gomilu glasova punih mržnje
Ka meni upućenih

Majko tiha
U meni ni glas da zapucketa
Otkud sam mogla znati
Za drugu stranu karata

Dolaze li već da me povedu
Ukorenjeni u poslednjem jutru metka

Ustajem bosa
More se uplašilo
Ko zemlja od groma

Trnov venac više niko ne pominje

Iako svaka rana ne krvari
Svake večeri umire po jedan čovek

Nastaće polutama i osama
Služiću sama u sebi, iako nisam svoja
Pred ranjenim kolenima sve se otvara
Cvetovi i misli, priče o pravdi
Lobanje razuzdane i doba bez predaha

Znam kazniće me Bog
Ali u grču strasti
Neće me slomiti odsutni

Igrasmo celoga dana
Samoća ponovo dolinama
Grlena iznad kladenca
I ljudima greh

Uplašim se da budem

Sen bi tvoja bila
I nevestinski veo
I vrisak prvi
Zločin iz strasti
I krv vremena i nevremena

Bolje da se uplašimo

Tajna paprati i beše i ne beše
I strah
Odnekud samoća izgreva neokrznuta

Zatvorena u zvezde u sebi
Očima volim i dalje
Bez ljubavi mrak će me razneti

U postelji se ne uzdam u zapovesti
Ruže već bremenite vetrom
Koliko časovnika pitaš
Dok kasni jutro načičkano večnošću
Jutro bunilo

Proriču kraj sveta
Kroz zvezdane kapije
Želeće otvoriti ih, otvoriti ih neće moći
Želeće zatvoriti i njih i put
Pesme će oglasiti mrtve
Mrtvi i živi krenuće lažnim ustima
Bez ijednog čula

Moj Bog spava mrmljajući molitve
Posle čega nasleđujem tugu, vetar, planine i ptice
Ipak ruke i stabla odolevaju

Nije me strah od metka
I konjanika apokalipse
Već od tebe
Voljeni moj Oče

Biće vremena da ti kažem
Hoće li se i sutra okretati reči
I suština bivati konac

Vrebaju me povijeni svećnjaci
Između čežnje i straha
Između strasti i postojanosti
Uvek su prisutni dok spavaš nemirno
Tamo gde počeci končaju

I samoća je uhvaćena, oblikovana i ograničena
I njen sadržaj oglodan u vetrometinama
Gde se kraj i početak sastaju
Svakog punog meseca

Još jedan san

Vrisak troje dece među lišćem
Blizu vodopada i provalije
Ruže im preblizu
Da li da ih sledim ili previdim

Odluke čudne
A deca čuda bez samouzdanja
Treba na vreme poznati zemlju i sazvežđa
Da poslednje otkriće
Pusto vreme ne bude
I razapet odjek koraka u osami

Biće vremena da ti kažem sve

Strepimo, ne živimo
Igramo po prostirkama od paprati
U ritmu izvesno mrtvih

Čuvaj se suze ludaka i mostova bez ograda
Žrtava i samoće molitve
Tapšanja po ramenu
I praznine u kojoj umiru savetnici

Čuvaj se
Ne budi opet pronađena

U međuvremenu ne živimo

Između proleća i zime
Belog i crnog
Srca i krčme sve nižeg vinostaja
Između prerušenog i slomljenog
Nestvarnog i tornjeva izvrnutih očiju
Između svemira i „da li smem“
Gradske lude i „isplatilo se“

Između „donekle“ i postojanja
Smirili su me plač i post
Klanjam ti se
Pomoć ti ištem
Gospo tišine, vatre i iskušenja

Idi u mirnu jesen
Nemoj vedrino pozna u groznicu
Kraljice kikota neodlučna ćeš reći:
Kad u Singidunum dođoh tražeći tuđi svet
Ne videh zamišljeno
Već svežu kap krvi niz nogu
I nedresiranu reč bez volje da se izrekne

Šumski slavuju
Ako možeš u ponoć da zapevaš
Ovde ću te čuti
Između noćne radosti i zore

Kako brzo prolazi sen reče Marko Aurelije
Duša je prolazna, zar ne, ponada se
Udružen sa demonima po treći put
Krivica mu prišt, čovek žrtva, a život podvrsta čira

Nezadovoljstvo je ono savršeno
Od pamtiveka ne možeš izgubiti ono što nisi imao

Odvojiš li se jednom
Saznaš li za pravdu bola nasleđenu
Mogu li otrov i požar biti korisni
Nisi li postao previše popustljiv Marko Aurelije
Pred deobama i žudnjama
Namerno izazvanim

Neka te ne muči više juče
Sve zavisi od Bogova

Danas su stvari potpuno otvorene
Dok ih krvožedni vetar ne obori
I odnese u sutra koje neće biti

Zato Marko Aurelije kad god se pogledaš
Seti se da li je oblik prepreka suštini
I odgovori ko je veći lažov
San ili sen u ogledalu

Kada će početi ništavilo
Kada ćemo čuti odjeke jutra
Lišenog brzine, ljubavi i mudrosti

Doći će čas
Biti istovremen
Biti tišina i bljesak
Biti sudar i stvaranje
Da bi kroz trenutak ničega
Došao na ovaj svet

Od tada se širi kroz ukus ničega
Kao talasi vode

Zagrni usne i odvike
Udahni miris vetra i promena
Odškrini kovčežić
Pusti nek izlete sve stvari
I mirne noći i uspavanke

Odrekni ih se
Dolaze pometnje i druge noći

Poželiš li šapate i guste zaklone
Čuvaj se
San je čuveni sejač
U doba novih iluzija
Koje device pretvaraju u život

Zašto nema granica
Između laži i života
Pred devičanskim kolenima

Rodila sam se u igri svetla i senki vodopada
I čekala da zagrizem plodove
Kroz jedan svet ili vek

A oni gorki iznutra

Vraćam se mirisu doma
Ostrvu sto pliva u noći i vodi

Groznica nema kraja
Pesma ostala bez zvuka i vatre
Magle ne haju da budu opevane
Pa nema razlike između vode i blata

Devojka uplakana bez uporišta
Dok zid zavičaja dogoreva

U podsvesnom dijalogu
Niko nije budan

Ja uporno napasam reči
Dan i noć
Prvo ih tražim
Prepoznajem čak i u gušterima
Koji nesreću najavljuju
A Vi bi vreme i puteve, iako isprazne
I plave krugove iznad izvorišta brzih reka

Vi mesečeva deca
Ja usamljena stabljika
Vi upamćene boje
Vi pesnici, a ja nisam još

Ja Pan zaljubljiv
Koji ne zna kako se na Vašem jeziku kaže pustoš
Obeležena da pevam žudim Istoku
Gde bih mogla da se spalim
I u zvezdu konačno pretvorim
Kao Kecalkoatl*

(Kad bih samo mogla da se zanjišem
Na trenutak
Ni muzika nije potrebna)

* Kecalkoatl- mitsko biće Tolteka, prvobitno vladar i prvosveštenik a potom i vrhovno božanstvo. Po predanju sam je sebe spalio i pretvorio se u zvezdu
Kako su radosni odjeci ravnica u susretu s vodom
Krošnje se zavrtele
Ispod njih šćućureni reka i ja
Ne za dugo

Muzika straha i pukotina groma
Dižu vode protiv nas
Koje do tad nismo poznavali
Ni moje Juče i Danas

Zatočena sam
Da ne bih otišla u mesto gde se prelivaju vode
Čineći naše odredište
O zakonu spojenih sudova

Svejedno mi je
Samarićanin je umro

Otići ću u pustinju
Napraviću masku sebi i prizivaću kiše

Vidi li nas Veliko oko

Ne zaboravi
Voda je talas do praznine
Voda je pad kroz metafore
Koja moli ogledalo
Da se vrati
Na manjkava mesta pesme

Samo da mi san
Ne dovede do dna

Nikada neću reći
Na šta vonja mesečar
Sposoban da bude budan

Nikada neću zaspati
Bojim se misli

Šta čekaju oni
Koji se sećaju mojih reči
One su kamen koji se kruni

Zaškiljim kroz videlo rešetki
Šumovi detinjstva
Simboli intime
I snovi
Jedan po jedan
Jedan po jedan
I nasta vreme
Vreme sa druge strane zida
I života iza nas

Volim ponoći bez umora
I ljubav bez razmišljanja
Proždirane usne
Između pospanog drveća i zore

Dete sam na plećima oblaka
Neću da zvuk ode predaleko
Ni svetionik da se izgubi u mraku
Ni čuvare što bdiju nad mojim tajnama
(Ni slavoluke od blata)

Želim košulju od srebra
Da pokrijem tuđe poglede
Želim samo tvoje oči između zidova

Dosta mi je zbunjenih i zavijanja u noći
I onih što me traže i zaspu pre nego me nađu

Noć i otvorena vrata
Sablast mi glavu obuzima
Vidim ti oči
Sudnji čas – tačno izmeren tren sagoreva
Vidim ti oči
Ne pripadaju meni

Bacih svoju dušu
To su dužice povetarca – viču mračna ogledala
Istrošeni glasovi iz krvi izrastaju
Puzeći obaraju stabla

Ti se vraćaš
Grubo vlažeći svetinju mojih usana
Nema i ukočena na pragu
Izgrižena prvim bolom
Bljujem zmijski otrov

To su možda tvoja tišina mržnje i moj zaborav
A zapravo
Ni ti, ni ja, ni pričešće

Ni mornari
Ostavljeni na izgubljenoj obali sablasti
Ni plač brodova u noći
Ili je to pesma nasilne ljubavi

Ona nikad ne ostaje bez glasa
I kad se ne čuje

Šume spavaju
Ne znajući
Za preplašenu travu
I njihov uzdah

U doba vetra
I biljnih padavina

Tišina kamenih spavača
I prevarene publike

Ćutim pred nemuštim zvucima
Groznicu slutim
Čuvam te tišine
I gradskih uhoda u cvatu
Iako nas očevici razdvajaju

Nestanak boja
Dan pretvara u noć
I obijenu hrid

U deveti čas

Nalikani leševi se raspliću
Nikako da ih potopim sve
Kao ni istorija crne marame
Spremne na pomeranje vremena i vazduha

Tokom ove
Hiljadu devetsto devedeset devete
Teško je stišati plač iznad posmrtnih izveštaja
Šume i trava i dalje niču iz nekada živih
Jer su najpouzdaniji

Sa nebesima pregovaraju
Oni što su neposredno došli iz zelenog pamćenja
I grobova pre zaborava

Motre nas živi i mrtvi
Da mrtvi nisu živi
Ostali bismo svi bez jezika i plamena
Zar oni nisu i Vaši dvojnici
Da živi ne potiču od slabosti možda
Kada se u odsustvu
Predaju jedan drugome

Jeza mrtvih ptica
U ambijentu zasede
Poj krvotoka je

Misao malo glasnija
Kao što se daljine
Tišinom umivaju

Otplovite oči
Atilinim zlovirima
Iskopajte ptice
Koje su sebi dovoljne
Da najlepši glasovi
Iz mrtvih redova u zemlji

Trebaju nam
Na početku i kraju ljubavi
Uvek ih tada dozivamo

Kalderon reče: život je san
Varljivi pratilac između dva buđenja
Ni život ni smrt
Ni nešto treće
Ni život posle smrti
Ni smrt pre života
I zamire među kazaljkama
Pre nego zanoći u našim telima

Sigismund uzalud okovan nepouzdanim zvezdama
Objavljuje veliku varku
I krugove nemuštih snova

Posle hiljadu i dvesta noći
Vidim u vrtovima vire moje kosti
Kad bi beskraj zavladao pre jutra
Možda bi iscelio usamljenost

Dva zagrljena oblaka
A možda i dve ptice
Ili poznata marama u čvoru
Ili san između dva oblika

Uzalud se krv osamila
I tišina sa senkom
Pršte kalemovi i bezbožni udarci
Koje ne razumem
Kao ni odsutni zvuk koji sledim
Dok se oblaci ne pomeraju

Senke uzmiču
I serafimi se izgubili
U sebi grizu sve strane sveta

Kuda ću ako me mračni san savlada
I vampir

Sablast tvog života još nije iščezla
Poput koplja zabodenog
U oči idolopoklonika

Niz proplanak klizi mesec
Ali raskršće je još uvek u sumraku
Iz kojeg koščate ruke i bajalice
Tvoju bi nagost u grču

Uzdah pod plaštom ljubomore

Ne čekaj Sunce bez senke
Ono ne razlikuje bludnicu
Od davljenice na obali

Nek poljubac pesništva
Bedro ti prepusti mojim usnama
Nek krik ućutka sve
Osim nežnosti kiše tek pripremljene

Nije mi žao
Što će rečni pesak prekriti svaki stih

Lirika pripada svima
Ni bekstvom ne možeš izbeći njenu težinu
Zato nikud ne žuri
Ne napipavaj prstima trbuh mraka

Neko će umreti u prvom sumraku
A ja ću pisati o kometama
Zakidati na hlebu u tvojim rukama
I pripremati uzoranu zemlju
Da se mrtvaci rumenih usana nadišu

Mirno spavaj
Krivotvoriću sve što treba
Pobiću kokoši ako ih ruže ne zaustave

Ti pronađi one koji su nas optužili

Zaustavljen strahom od čekanja
Ne izrastaš
Ni u snohvaticu

Kad plamen plamenom prećutiš
Iza tebe praznina i vetar
Postaju spojenost irealnih čvorova

Stakla ulepšavaju život i ljubav
Nek samo pokušaju da razbiju sočiva naših kuća
I saksije što kipte cvećem greha

Vi što se smejete pokazujući crne zube
Zalud Vam pohlepa i strava
Ako Vam lik zanoći u rasparčanom ogledalu

Ja odoh na sever čija je odsutnost mislena
U tišinu i stud
Gde jedino drveća podsećaju na ljude

Slepilo – usud prokletnika
Ćutanje – navika ubice
A san – java smrtnika

Mogla su to biti tri čoveka
Spojena očima
Iako je jedan od njih slepac

Sresti čoveka sa svim čulima je retkost
Jer put nije označen
Ako ne vidiš
Ili ne sanjaš
Ili ne umeš da ćutiš

Verujem u božanstvo smrti
I u istinu demona
Jer u njima lepota zaglušuje

Priroda je u stanju da ubije
Bez razmišljanja
Da bi razdvojila iste senke

Oči moje
Svejedno mi je kada ću umreti
Vaša me varka ne može utešiti više

Priroda ume da kazni radoznale
Nezavisno od greha
Samo da se iluzija i istina ne susretnu

Noćas purpurno naličje oblaka
Probudilo poslušne mrtvace
Koji podigli glave
Oslonjene na koščate šake

Ne znaju jesu li živi ili mrtvi
Prvog su dana čuli trube
I zaspali ispod zastava i oblaka
Pod kojima su
Umesto pod zvezdama prodisali

Drugog dana objavljeni tišina i cveće
Ne verujući da postoje

U međuvremenu nebo je uranjalo u sumrak

A trećeg dana
Mrtvaci su slavili budnost mimohodnika

Dolina stihova još uvek mami
Kćeri svetlosti u luninim haljinama
Jedna drugoj sestre
Po zemlji bešumno se dozivaju
I mene u kolo pozivaju

Prihvatam ruku jedne od njih
Saplićem se

Usiljeni koraci ne udaljavaju
Od ponora i uporišnih tačaka

Plač im nalik na nokturna

Dok ruža života zaleđena u istini ogledala
Na zaravnima povrh čarolija
Kaplje po mahovini
I razvalinama sveta

Devet časova spava
I devet kazaljki sveta

Usta blagosti odbegoše
Kao cvetovi narandži
Kad dođu da ih seku
Iako nenajavljeni

Sem vremena, sve je u znaku prolaza
I drvo maslina
Što izdiše pod insektima

Za svakog postoji odgovor
Prezir, ljubav
Ograničena svetlost
I nasukani brodovi

Je li istina neverni Tomo
Da rekoše mu:
Za svoju stvar
Iz tvojih usta izbori pravo
Dok ti umire dan

A on
Osuđen na okolnosti u poletu
Pretvara se u svakog ko ga podržava
Daleko od puteva koji glođu nevernike

A on
Na prvu reč ne zbori, ni na drugu ne uzvraća
Tek na treću smerno i obazrivo

A on
Zna da je ovaj život za mrtve
A ne za žive
Ni zid ne huli

A on
Moli za providnu nevinost sa očima od melema
I za podvige očajnika

A on
Ne mari ni da ga među ljude vrate
U molitvi učeći

Ipak jedno ti ne verujem
Ne verujem ti sveti Tomo
Da nije dovoljna uteha
Izmišljena u obliku žene


Featured post

La oscuridad del entender, Leila Samarrai

La oscuridad del entender (poemario), Leila Samarrai

Editorial: Edición “Primogénito”, 

Centro Cultural Estudiantil, ganadora del primer premio

2002. ISBN 978-86-7398-010-2.



La tristeza está ocultada en la cabeza con la sangre laureada

Hacia la sabiduría Jerusalén llamada

Está matando al hombre que la lejanía está escuchando.

Está de veras allí “Ecce Homo”,

De España jerarquía alta,

Mientras el tiempo transcurre la desesperación baja hasta el sangrar.

Doloroso jamás, sin reconocer malestar

Ave soy,

Ave con deseo de morir en España.

Escribiré en el informe

En los suaves frutos se esconde

Julia Burgos Mortificada.

La reminiscencia de más allá muestra que.

Son las seis en la noche




Así madre mía a mí me decía

No busques más a tu patria

Entre los árboles olvidada

Debajo de los cuales estás nacida

En la noche elegida

Cuando los saltamontes de las terrazas volaron

A un a un montón de voces odiosas

A mí destinadas

Madre quieta,

No suelto ni un chasquido

¿Cómo iría a saber yo

De los naipes el otro lado?

¿Vienen ya a llevarme

arraigados del disparo en la última mañana?

Me levanto descalza

La mar asustada está

Como del trueno la tierra

La corona de espinas ya nadie menciona



El silencio de los dormidos de piedra
Y del publico engañado
Frente a los sonidos mudos callo
La fiebre presiento
Del silencio te defiendo
Y de los espías urbanos “que florecen”
Aunque los testigos nos separan
Desaparición de los colores
Al día convierte en la noche
Y en acantilado golpeado

A las nueve horas



Los cadáveres pintados desarrollándose
No hay modo de que yo los hunda todos
Igual que la historia del negro pañuelo
Dispuestas a mover el tiempo y el aire
Durante este año,
Mil novecientos noventa y nueve
Es difícil callar el lloro sobre los informes de luto
Los bosques y la hierba siguen brotando de los que antes vivían
Porque son los más leales
Con los cielos negocian
Los que mediatamente vinieron de la memoria verde
Y las tumbas antes del olvido
Nos observan los vivos y los muertos
Si los muertos no hubieron sido vivos
Nos hubiéramos quedado todos sin las lenguas y las llamas
¿Acaso son ellos sus dobles también?
¿Acaso los vivos se originan en la debilidad,
en la ausencia,
al entregarse unos a otros?



Repeluzno de las muertas aves
En el ambiente de la insidia
Es el canto de la corriente de sangre
un pensamiento razonable
Igual que las distancias
Con el silencio se lavan
Váyanse flotando los ojos
Por las fuentes maliciosas de Átila
Exhumen a las aves que autosuficientes están
De que los sonidos más hermosos
Desde las filas muertas en la tierra Las necesitamos
Cuando empieza y termina el amor
Entonces siempre las llamamos



Calderón dijo: la vida es sueño
Acompañante engañoso entre dos despertamientos
Ni la vida ni la muerte
Algo tercero tampoco
Ni la vida después de la muerte
Ni la muerte antes de la vida
Y está expirando entre las manecillas
Antes de que anochezca en nuestros cuerpos
Segismundo en vano aprisionado




Con las estrellas dudosas
Proclama el gran engaño
Y los círculos de los mudos sueños
Después de mil doscientas noches
Veo en los jardines mis huesos divisándose
Si la infinidad predominara antes de la mañana

Dos abrazadas nubes
Y tal vez dos aves también
O el pañuelo conocido en el nudo
O el sueño entre dos formas
En vano la sangré se aisló
Y el silencio con la sombra
Estallan bobinas y golpes ateos
Los que no entiendo
Igual el ausente sonido que sigo
Mientras los nubes no se mueven



Desaparecen las sombras

Y los serafines se han perdido

En sí muerden todas las partes del mundo.


¿Y adónde iré si el oscuro sueño me rinde

y el vampiro también?

El fantasma de tu vida no ha desaparecido aún

Como una lanza clavada

En los ojos del idólatra.



La lírica pertenece a todos

Ni siquiera huyendo puedes evitar su pesadez

Por eso no te apures

Y no intentes tocar con los dedos la panza de la oscuridad

Alguien morirá en el primer atardecer

Y yo sobre las cometas escribiré

El pan de tus manos quitaré(¿?)

Y la tierra apenas arada prepararé

Para que los muertos de los labios encarnados puedan respirar

Duerma serenamente

Falsificaré todo lo que sea necesario

Mataré a las gallinas si las rosas no las paran

Tú busca a los que nos acusaron



Parado por el miedo de la espera

No llegas a crecer

Ni en la somnolencia

Cuando llegas a callar llama con llama

Detrás de ti un hueco y el viento

Llegan a ser la unión de los nudos irreales


Los cristales embellecen la vida y el amor

¡Que intente la gente romper las lentes de nuestras casas

Vosotros que os reís mostrando negros dientes

Vanos son sus avaricia y horror

Si su imagen anochece en el despedazado espejo


me voy al norte, cuya ausencia es inteligible

en el silencio, en el frío

dónde sólo árboles parecen a la gente.



Esta noche purpúrea antifaz de las nubes

ha despertado a los obedientes muertos

que sus cabezas han levantado


apoyadas en sus huesudas manos.

No saben si viven o muertos están

el primer día las trompetas oyeron

y dormidas bajo las banderas y nubes quedaron

bajo las cuales a respirar llegaron

en vez debajo de las estrellas.

El segundo día silencio y las flores

sin creer que existan.

Entre tanto, el cielo se hundía en el atardecer.

Y el tercer día

los muertos a los despiertos viajeros celebraron.



Desaparecidos – omnipresentes

Su llanto a nocturnos se parece.

Mientras la rosa de la vida congelada en la verdad de los espejos


En los planos encima de las magias

Gotea por el musgo

Y las ruinas del mundo.



Nueve horas duermen

Y las nueve manecillas del mundo también

Las bocas de la suavidad huyeron

Como las flores de los naranjos

Cuando vienen a cortarlos

Aunque sin aviso alguno

Salvo el tiempo, todo esta marcado por lo efímero

Y el olivo también

Que expira bajo los insectos

Sin embargo

Para cada uno hay una respuesta

El desprecio, el amor

Una luz limitada

Y los barcos a la deriva



Es cierto, Tomás infiel,

Que le dijeron:

Por lo suyo

De tu boca gana el derecho

Mientras el día se te muere

Y él,

Condenado en las circunstancias en el brío

Se transforma en cada quien le apoya

Lejos de los caminos que a los infieles muerden

Y él,

No dijo nada después de la primera palabra, ni a la segunda no contesta

Apenas moderado y con cuidado a la tercera

Y él

Sabe que esta vida es para los muertos

Y no para los vivos

La pared tampoco blasfema

Y él

Rogando por la transparente inocencia con los ojos del emplasto

Y por las hazañas de los desesperados

Y él

Sin importarle que le regresen entre la gente

Aprende rezando

Sin embargo hay algo que no te creo

No te creo santo Tomás

Que no es suficiente el consuelo

Inventado en la forma de mujer



(47 versos)


En este momento la desesperación predigo futura

La desesperación que me consuela en mi locura

La desesperación turbia, insonora,

Como la callada sombra

Que calumnia conjura

¿Cómo fijar puedo la exacta hora?

¿De dónde ese silencio me viene a la memoria?


Predigo la crueldad a la cual me recordaría

Futura expectativa

Reflejada en el estómago

Con la luciente, despejada y añeja

De lo futuro no-venida

Se impondrá la no-venida la noche de arena

No habrá

Me parece que la no-venida tardará

Y el miedo ese

Que a mi alma valora

Aparentando la fuerza de un metafísico día

Cuando todo se dijo interiormente

El miedo ese a mi alma fortalece

En el fondo

Y un ¡Sí!


De la desconsoladora, desvergonzada, sarcástica profecía

Frente a los cielos clementes

Que en los pechos me apaga la candela


Sino, apariencias, movimientos

La imagen vista desde dentro,

Debajo de los huesos

La única existente

Para el no-venir del porvenir.

La tierra ajena

Frente al que espera el viento se encierra

¿Cómo fijar el porvenir y lo que no vendrá?

Nada que a esperar se ha llegado.

Sólo con el morir valorado

Pero carcome el Sí que se ha llegado

a esperar la piel debajo del estómago

Para siempre hay que olvidar

lo que en la cabeza se ha llegado a amasar

Mi esperanza más no me tolera.

Con sangrientos cuchillos me lacera

Por eso

Concentra la sonrisa y da la cara

a las miradas de la gente de amor llena

Me dijo El que no vendrá



(71 versos)


¡Quita tu mente de las garras de los lobos que te observan y acechan

Y con el silencio de la dignidad clávalo!

¡Con la inundación de los cuerpos quítalo!

Luego limpia el sudor de la frente hasta que las fieras se repelan,

Y que sea la última vez que te dirijas

Y la fortaleza ante las voces chabacanas que comienza

Primero aullando hacerte esófago de las orejas

Para sus amables vómitos impulsivos

Por ti.

Mientras elogian su ruido asqueroso y se rehierven de festejar

Manadas de marranos se alegran por tu caída.

Pero silencia el ruido ese de la desvergonzada ebullición suya

Calma sin risas a los descabezados que

En tu cabeza sentarse querrían

Y rugir mientras el último cadáver de las tinieblas sin escrúpulos aceptan.

Que te invada la rojez del otoño tardío que tanto llorabas y adorabas

En el atardecer ante los secretos de las sombras

Hasta que pase esto.

Toma sólo un poco del aire fresco y con las orejas sácales

El secreto suyo y que impotentes y vacíos chillen

Por fin y cuando te agarren

Líbrate con los dientes y uñas,

Empújalos, que te salga en la boca la espuma,

Empújalos con los codos, con todo lo anterior y futuro

Por el tiempo tuyo que llega y los supera

Te va a glorificar tu obra

Como la gota de la madera apenas encendida abrasando las colas de víboras.

Cuando tienes la boca más seca

Y la sed te fatiga y del hambre tu alma expira

Son ellos

Son ellos pensativos sobre tu cabeza

Esperando el último viento con el que el chillido de tu garganta penetrarán

Y tranquilos y consigo impresionados cenarán

Sobre tu cadáver.

¡No se lo permitas!

Despedaza sus cabezas taurinas que vuelen

Y que se funden con el aire traidor.

Una vez te desalentaron cuando esperanza no tenías

Y sin estrellas en el corazón

Cuando pronunciándoles la palabra sólo sufrías

Les mirabas en la boca al chillar y agonizar en resaca

Y cavaron por tu garganta al elogiar sus manos ineptos

Con la sangre tuya

¡Que no lo vuelvan a hacer!

Silencia esa codiciosa masa de marranos

Que manada suele llamarse

Y con los lobos montañosos

De tu gloria venidera una vez calladas

todas las bajezas

Se ocupará el que nunca muere

Y como novia inocente en tu obra hermanece.

Tú para siempre vivo quedarás

La niebla los toros comerá

A la carga del tiempo destruirá

Esas anclas de ladrones y fosas sangrientas

Te agarran la manga / y te tiran asas manos crecientes

Que te rumian las espaldas / en las que yaces encogido silenciosamente

El tiempo su destino con nuevos versos tuyos maldecirá

En su cogote les escribirá

Les punzará el dedo en los ojos directamente

Que sepan que al dragón no se ataca

Ésos buitres desvergonzadas y tan soberbias

Los quemará el fuego vivaz

De tú espíritu audaz

En la soledad del rezar mientras hacia tu saber asciendes

El Dios mismo de los malvados malditos corazones ajenos te salvará

No dejas correr ni una sola gota de lágrimas

Cuando no haya ni un chillido vivirás

Y cuando la noche más ennegrezca


Y en sosiego respirarás y amarás.



Featured post

The Darkness Will Understand, Leila Samarrai

The Darkness Will Understand (A poetry collection), by Leila Samarrai

Publisher: “The Firstborn Edition”, Student Cultural Center, first prize winner.

 2002.  ISBN 978-86-7398-010-2.


To your Grace*


Into the shade of roses, I desired to hide

But I fell asleep in a book

Open on a poem about a t(ort)u(rer)tor


Poets of long ago

Under shadows and soil

Count they on seraphim

On somberness, on window panes

On doors pried open and the secret of life

On branches of cypress that lure with silence

And long, northern morning under harps


At the wane of sight

Let quietude rip out the truth

Sang of stone


*Addressed to the readers



Sorrow is hidden in a head crowned in blood

Towards the wisdom called Jerusalem

You are killing the man who listens to the distance

Is “Ecce Homo” truly there

The higher hierarchy of Spain

While time flows despair descends to haemorrhage

Never painfully, not admitting pain

A bird I am

A bird with a desire to die in Spain.


I will write in the report

She is hiding in soft fruits

Mortified Julia Burgos


Otherworldly memory ticks away six o’clock



Vanity on the fox’s trail

Behold, a miracle!

Supposedly one-sided at instants

Suitable for a scrambled moment

The martyr and her daughter who wash their feet

Tasseled with nails instead of sandals

Conversing silently.


Anything but sough

Shores and scrapings fantasizing

Daughter do you wish the powder to slip you

To disturb the onus, non-being and tendrils

Wistful across the stones you overcome

Blacker than night

You fear there will no longer be vertebrates


It is the third hour in the night After



You do not grasp – the spilt blood is chiming

From unveiling you wrongfully dread

In agony of you yourself

While we pine atop Grecian terraces.



Still, rivers are audible in endeavour

And at that conjoined


In mirrors is the road to land of the dead

And worshippers of the chronometer

And the unachievable bloom of summer


Put the pigeon on the fire my daughter

We are going to satiate ourselves

Grasshoppers as well my daughter

Before they abandon us through the windows


I forefeel that the unreliable man

quiets his breath and embarks on the way

of Beauty, Ordinance and Wars


The signs along the path are the only thing left for you



Thus spoke my mother.


Seek no longer the soil

Forgotten among the trees

Under which you were born


In the chosen night

When the grasshoppers flew away from the terraces

Into the heap of voices filled with hatred

Directed towards me


Silent mother

Not even a sound to flicker within me

How could I have known

About the other side of maps


Are they coming yet to take me

Rooted in the last morning of a bullet


I arise barefoot

The sea is frightened

Like ground from thunder



Even though not every wound bleeds


A man dies each eve




The semi-darkness and solitude will vanish

I will serve alone within myself even though I am not my own

Before wounded knees, everything opens

Flowers and thoughts, stories of justice

Wanton skulls and eras without rest


God will punish me I know

But in the cramp of passion

I will not be broken by those absent


We danced the whole day

The solitude anew embraced by valleys

Above the springhead

And sin to people


I get scared to be



I would be your shadow

And the bridal veil

And the first scream

A crime of passion

And the blood of both times, ill and well


It is better to get frightened


The secret of the fern both was and was not

And fear

From somewhere the solitude burns untainted


Confined in the stars within me

I still love with my eyes

Without love, the darkness will disseminate me



In the bed, I do not rely on commandments

The roses already fraught with wind

How many clocks do you ask

While the morning overladen with eternity is late

Delirium morning


They foresee the end of the world

Through stargates

They will wish to open them, open them they will not be able to

They will wish to close both them and the road

The poems shall herald the dead

The dead and the living will depart for false mouth

Without a single sense


My God sleeps murmuring prayers

After which I inherit sadness, wind, mountains, birds

Yet hands and bole resist


I do not fear bullets

And horseman of the apocalypse

But you

My beloved Father



There will be time for me to tell you

Will the words spin tomorrow as well

And will the essence be the thread


Stooped candelabrums stalk me

Between yearning and fear

Between passion and constancy

Always present while you sleep restlessly

There where the beginnings end


Solitude too has been captured, moulded and limited

And her contents gnawed off in the tempest

Where the beginning and the end meet

Each full moon



Another dream


The scream of three children among the leaves

Close to the waterfall and the abyss

Roses too close to them

Should I follow them or overlook them


Strange decisions

And children miracles with no self-belief

In due time the ground and constellations should be known

So the last revelation

Is not empty time

And crucified echo of footsteps in seclusion



There will be time for me to tell you everything


We quail, not live.

We dance on rugs of fern

In the rhythm of the certainly dead


Beware the tear of the lunatic and bridges with no fences

Victims and solitude of the prayer

Patting on the shoulder

And emptiness in which the counselors die



Do not be found again


We quail

In the meantime, we do not live



Between spring and winter

White and black

The heart and tavern with a lowering vine level

Between the masked and the broken

Unreal and the tower of inverted eyes

Between the universe and “may I”

The city harlequin and “it paid off”


Between “somewhat” and existence

I was soothed by the cry and fasting

I bow to you

I plead you help

Lady of silence, fire and temptation



Go into the calm autumn

Late serenity, do not go into the fever

queen of giggle indecisively you will say:

When in Singidunum I arrived searching for a foreign world

I did not see what was imagined

But a fresh drop of blood down the leg

And an untrained word with no will to be spoken


Forest nightingale

If you can sing at midnight

I will hear you here

Between the nightly joy and dawn



How fast the shadow passes said, Marcus Aurelius,

A soul is temporary, isn’t it, he hoped

Banded with demons for the third time

The guilt his pustule, man a sacrifice and life a sub species of a boil


Discontent is what is perfect

Since ancient times you cannot lose what you did not have



If you separate yourself once

If you learn about the inherited justice of pain

Can poison and arson be useful

Have you not become too lenient Marco Aurelius

Before divisions and longings

Provoked on purpose


Today things are completely open

Until the bloodthirsty wind knocks them down

And carries them away into tomorrow which will not be


For that, Marco Aurelius, whenever you look at yourself

Remember if the shape is an obstacle to the essence

And answer who is the bigger liar

The dream or the shadow in the mirror



When will the nothingness begin

When will we hear the echoes of the morning

Devoid of celerity, love and wisdom


The hour will come

To be concurrent

To be silence and flash

To be collision and creation

So through the moment of nothing

You would be born to this world


From then spread through the taste of nothing

Like waves of the water



Cover your lips and hails

Inhale the odour of wind and change

Pry open the little casket

Let all things fly out

Both peaceful nights and lullabies


Renounce them

Confusion and long nights are coming


If you wish for whispers and thick shelters


A dream is a famous sower

In the age of new illusions

Which virgins turn to life



Why are there no borders

Between lies and life

Before the virginal knees


I was born in the dalliance of light and shades of the waterfall

And waited to bite the fruits

Through one world or a century


And they were bitter inside


I return to the scent of home

The island which swims through night and water



The fever has no end

The song was left without sound and fire

The mists do not care to be praised

Hence the difference is null between water and mud


A girl with no stronghold is in tears

While the wall of homeland withers



I persistently graze words

Day and night

First I seek them

Recognize them even among lizards

Who announce misfortune

And even though they are vainly

You want time and roads

And blue circles above the wellsprings of rapid rivers


You children of moonlight

I a lonely stalk

You memorized colours

You poets, which I am yet not


I the amorous Pan

Not knowing how to say wasteland on your language

Marked to sing I yearn for East

Where I could burn myself

And turn into a star

Like Quetzalcoatl*


(If I could only  sway

for a moment

not even music is necessary)


*Quetzalcoatl – a mythical being of Toltec, originally a ruler and high priest, and later on a patron god. By the tale, he burned himself and became a star



How joyous are the echoes of the plains when meeting water

Treetops spun

Underneath them huddled the river and I

Not for long


The music of fear and the crack of thunder

Raise the waters against us

Unknown to us until then

Alike my Yesterday and Today


I am imprisoned

So I do not go to where the waters overflow

Making our destination

About a law of merged vessels


It is all the same to me

A Samaritan has died


I will go into the desert

I will make myself a mask and summon the rains


Does the Great eye see us



Do not forget

Water is a wave to emptiness

Water is the fall through metaphors

Which begs the mirror

To return

To the lacking places of the poem


Only that my dream

Is not brought to bottom



I will never tell

How a sleepwalker smells

Capable of being awake


I will never fall asleep

I am afraid of thoughts


What do they wait

Those who remember my words

They are a crumbling stone



I squint through the grid


Are the murmurs of childhood

Symbols of intimacy

And dreams

One by one

One by one

And time became

Time on the other side of the wall

And of life behind us



I like midnight without fatigue

And love without thinking

Devoured lips

Between sleepy trees and dawn


I am the child on the backs of clouds

I do not wish for the sound to go too far

Nor the lighthouse to be lost in the dark

Nor guards who watch over my secrets

(nor triumphal arches of mud)


I wish for a shirt of silver

To hide the peregrine views

I wish for your eyes only between the walls


I had enough of those confused and howling in the night

And those who seek me and fall asleep before they find me



Night and an open door

Spook takes over my head

I see your eyes

Judgment hour – accurately measured moment burns away

I see your eyes

They do not belong to me alone


I threw my soul

Those are the irises of the breeze – yell the dark mirrors

Used up voices grow from blood

They knock over trees by crawling


You return

Roughly wetting the sanctity of my lips


Mute and stiff on the threshold

Bitten by the first pain

I spew snake venom


Those are perhaps the silence of your hate and my oblivion

In truth

Neither you, neither me, neither communion


Neither sailors

Left on the lost spectral shores

Neither the cry of ships in the night

Or is it a song of violent love


She is never left voiceless

Even when unheard


The forests sleep

Not knowing

About the terrified grass

And its sigh



In time of wind

And herbal precipitations



The silence of the stone sleepers

And the tricked audience


I say nothing before the mute sounds

I foresee fever

I guard you against silence

And city spies in bloom

Even though eyewitnesses keep us apart


The disappearance of colours

Turns Day into night

And the broken into rock


Into the ninth hour



Painted corpses are unweaving

I have not yet submerged them all

Much like the history of the black scarf

Ready to move time and air


During this

Year of one thousand nine hundred and ninety-five

It is hard to silence the cry above mortuary reports

The woods and the grass still sprout from the once living

Because they are the most reliable


Those who came point-blank from the green memory

And tombs before oblivion

Negotiate with the heavens


We are watched by the living and dead

If the dead weren’t alive

We would all be left without tongue and tribe

Are they not your doubles too

Do perhaps the living originate from weakness

When in absence

They give themselves to each other



The dread of dead birds

In the ambient of a stake-out

Is the song of blood



A slightly higher pitched thought

Like the distances

Lave themselves with silence


Sail away eyes down Attila’s ill-whirlpools

Dig out the birds

Which are self-sufficient


That the most beautiful voices


From deadlines in the ground


We need them

At the beginning and the end of love

We always summon them then



Calderon said: life is a dream

A deceptive escort between two awakenings

Neither life nor death

Nor something third

Neither life after death

Nor death before life

And it dies among hour hands

Before it spends the night in our bodies


Segismundo chained by precarious stars in vain

Announces a great illusion

And circles of mute dreams


After one thousand and two hundred nights

I see my bones peering in the gardens

If eternity would rule before the dawn

Perhaps it would cure the loneliness



Two embraced clouds

Perhaps even two birds

Or a known scarf in a knot

Or a dream between two shapes


The blood isolated itself in vain

And silence with the shadow

Bursting are the coils and godless blows

Which I do not understand

As well as the absent sound I follow

While the clouds do not move



The shadow recedes

And the seraphim are lost

Biting within themselves on all corners of the world


Where shall I go if the dark dream overpowers me

And the vampire


The spectra of your life has not yet vanished

Like the spear stabbed

Into the eyes of the idolater



The moon slides down the glade

But the crossroads is still in twilight

Out of which boney hands and witch chants

Would have your bareness in a cramp


A sigh under the cape of jealousy



Do not wait for the Sun without shadow

It does not differ a harlot

From a drowning woman upon a shore


May the kiss of poetics

Release your thigh to my lips

May the shriek silence everything

Except for the gentleness of a fresh prepared rain


I do not regret

That the river sand will cover every stanza



Lyrics belong to everyone

Not even by escaping can you avoid her heaviness

So do not rush to anywhere

Do not feel the abdomen of the dark with your fingers


Somebody will die during the first twilight

And I will write about comets

Deprive the bread in your hands

And prepare the ploughed land

For the dead of rosy lips to breathe


Sleep peacefully

I will counterfeit whatever is necessary

I will kill the chickens if the roses don’t stop them


You find those who accused us



Stopped by the fear of waiting

You do not grow

Not even into a dream catcher


When you pass over a flame with a flame

Behind you the void and wind

Become the connection of unreal knots



Glass panes beautify life and love

Let them try to break the lens of our homes

And flowerpots fizzing with flowers of sin


You who laugh showing your black teeth

Your greed and dread are in vain

If your face falls asleep in a broken mirror


It does not matter

I am away into the north whose absence is meaningful

Into silence and cold

Where only the trees resemble humans



Blindness – the fate of the damned one

Hush – the habit of a killer

And dream – the wake of a mortal


It could have been three men

Merged with their eyes

Even though one of them is the blind man


To encounter a man with all his senses is a rarity

Because the road is not marked


If you do not see

Or do not dream

Or do not know how to keep quiet



I believe in the divinity of death

And the truth of demons

Because within them beauty deafens


Nature is capable of killing

Without reconsideration

To separate the same shadows


Eyes of mine

I do not care when I will die

Your tricks cannot console me no more


Nature can punish the curious

Independently from sin

Only for the illusion and the truth never to meet



Tonight the purple insides of the clouds

Awakened the obedient dead

Who raised their heads

Leaned on their bony hands


They do not know if they are alive or dead

They heard trumpets on the first day

And fell asleep under flags and clouds

Under which they breathed for the first time

Instead under the stars


On the second day without believing in their existence

Silence and flowers were published


In the meantime, the sky was diving into the twilight


And on the third day

The dead celebrated the vigilance of the parade



The valley of verses still lures

Daughters of light in Luna’s dresses

Sisters to themselves

Noiselessly they hail for each other in the world

And invite me into their circle of dance


I accept the hand of one of them


I trip


In vain

Strained steps do not estrange

From abysses and focal points



Missing – omnipresent

Their cry resembling a Nocturno


While the rose of life frozen inside the truth of mirrors


On plateaus atop enchantments

Drips on the moss

And ruins of the world



Nine hours is sleeping

And the nine-hour hands of the world


The mouth of leniency ran away

Like the flowers of the oranges

When they come to cut them

Even though unannounced


Besides, time, everything is in the sign of transience

Also the olive tree

That exhales under insects



There is an answer for everyone

Scorn, love

Limited life

And stranded ships



Is it true Doubting Thomas

That they told him:

For your possession

From thine mouth, you win a right

While your day is dying


And he

Condemned to circumstances in verve

Becomes everyone who supports him

Far away from the roads that gnaw on non-believers


And he

Does not answer to the first word, not even on the second he speaks

Only on the third humbly and considerately


And he

Knows this life is for the dead

And not for the living

Not even the wall blasphemes


And he

Begs for the transparent innocence with eyes of balm

And the accomplishment of the desolate


And he

Even cares not to be returned among the people

Learning in prayer


Still, one thing I do not believe you

I do not believe you saint Thomas

That comfort is not sufficient

Invented in the shape of a woman









Featured post

Conversation with Solitude

image: https://bookofsolitude.wordpress.com/2015/04/06/in-conversation-frank-souler/

If you’d let me tell you
a nice thing or two
the Word will not be melted,
as breath into the wind.
But my words will cower in the face of You.
as parrots’ feathers looking around
to see where to
Fly, stop time, paint me a pretty picture

You are disappointed,
as I am, as I am
without a veil falling upon a hidden picture
black and red she is
suddenly on that
remains in the empty skin, smiles,
people, paper portions
plates start flying off the shelves
A thorn is enough
A cut is enough
A lap of loneliness, enough.

lofty eyes, narrow spaces,l
lonely paths, silently

the houses that are offending me
with always the same faces,
and so the days pass by
with this lengthy hiatus inside of me

Well, it’ s a disappointment, but the disappointment is me

You’ re not despairing, are you?
the people’s mouth and teeth are smiling up at you
You will never… ever… be stuck alone
as I’ ve been… beside thee
if you could have heard my screams
Only you and me…
You’ d better talk.

Featured post

DRIPPING WINDMILLS (Serbian Original Included)

DRIPPING WINDMILLS (Serbian Original Included)

“For tomorrow you will live forever”


Snatch your mind from the clutches of the wolves
That have been observing and watching you
And fasten it with quiet dignity
Snatch it with a torrent of your body
Then wipe the sweat off your brow
While the beasts lure away
And may it be your last address
Your last stronghold before the voices of the buffoons
That boom at first
To make a pharynx out of your ears
So they could vomit cosily and instinctively
All over you
While glorifying the spiteful noise of theirs
And bursting with exultation
Herds of pigs look forward to your fall
But you just mute the miserable noise
Of their shameful fermentation
With no laughter appease those who’d like to
Sit on your head
Who would snarl then
Shamelessly accepting
The last cadaver out of the darkness
May the redness of a total autumn flood you
Of an autumn tearful and adored
Confronted in the dusk with the secrets of shadows
And then all will pass
Just take a little breath of fresh air
And rip out their Secret with your ears.
Let them scream
Helpless and empty
And while they’re grabbing you
You break loose with your teeth
With your nails
And you foam and keep on pushing them
With your elbows
With all this stuff
Past and future
For the sake of your time that is arriving
And overcoming them
Your deed will extol you
Like a spark of kindling wood
Which haunts the serpents tails
When driest is your mouth
And thirst torments you
And you’re starving

maxresdefault (1)
It’s them
Them who
Brooding over your head
Await the last wind that will
Bring the cry out of your throat
And they’ll feast then
Peacefully and self-admiringly
Over your carrion
Don’t you let them do that.
Instead, quarter their bull heads
Make them fly away
Let them merge with that
Treasonous air
Oh, did they sway you once
Upon a time
While you languished in hopelessness
While heart of yours was starless
Then, when you suffered
Assigning them your word
At their mouths, you looked
And you shrieked and teetered
Consumed by hangover
And they ploughed your throat while
Their unskilled hands chanted hollowly
Writing lyrics with your own blood
Never let them do that again
You just silence that greedy mob of pigs
Which calls itself a pack
Mountain wolves they call themselves
And for your glory of tomorrow
After all the hushed-up vileness
The One that never dies will take care of
The One that resides in your deed
Like a chaste bride
For tomorrow you will live forever
And a fog will devour the bulls
The burden of time will blow to smithereens
All those thieves anchors and gory pits
Those growing arms that are grabbing your sleeve
And pulling you
Browsing the back on which youre laying
Coiled and voiceless
Time will doom them
With your new verses
It will write on the crown of their heads
And point a finger right in their eye
Because they should have never
Attacked a dragon
Those shameless plucked eagles
And the living fire of your proud spirit
Will swallow them with all their
While you climb in the solitude of prayer
Reaching the uttermost cognition
God, Himself will save you from the evildoers
Ill-fated hearts
Don’t you shed a single tear
Don’t let a sound escape from your lips
Rejoice because you’re a poet
And Gods inspired you for eternity
You will live when there’s no more roars
And in the darkest night, you will live
And you will breathe peacefully
And you will love.



Otrgni svoj um iz kandži vukova
što te snatre i motre
I zakuj ga tišinom dostojanstva
Otrgni ga bujicom tela
Potom obriši znoj sa čela
dok se zveri ne odmame
I neka to bude tvoje poslednje obraćanje
I uporište pred lakrdijaškim glasovima što počinju
Najpre huktajući
da ti od ušiju prave ždrelo
Za njihovo prijazno nagonsko povraćanje
Po tebi
Dok veličaju svoju gadnu buku
i kipte od slavlja
Raduju se krda svinja tvome padu
Al’ utišaj tu žalosnu buku
stidnoga im vrenja
Smiri bez smeha pomahnitale koji bi
Na glavu da ti sednu
I na njoj da reže dok zadnji leš tmina primaju bez stida
Nek te oblije crvenilo potpune jeseni koja beše ti plačna i obožavana
U sumrak pred tajnama seni
Dok to ne prođe
Samo malo udahni vazduha svežeg
I ušima iščupaj Tajnu njihovu.
Neka zavrište nemoćni i prazni
I dok te ščepaju
Otrgni se zubima noktima
Zapeni, guraj ih
Laktovima svim stvarima
pređašnjim i budućim
Za tvoje vreme koje nadolazi
i nadilazi ih
Tvoje će delo da te veliča
kao kap netom zapaljene luči
što prži repove zmija
Kad su ti usta najsuvlja
I žeđ te mori i od gladi
skapava duša tvoja
To oni
To oni zamišljeni nad tvojom glavom
Iščekuju poslednji vetar kojim će ti probiti krik iz grla
I večeraće spokojni i sobom zadivljeni
Nad tvojom lešinom
Ne daj im da to učine

Raščereči im bikovske glave
neka polete
I neka se stope zajedno
sa izdajničkim vazduhom
Jednom te pokolebaše
dok bejaše ti bez nade
I bez zvezda u srcu
dok si samo patio izgovaravši im reč
Usta si im gledao dok si vrištao i srljao u mamurluku
I riljali su ti po grlu dok su pojali svoje nevešte ruke
Krvlju tvojom
Nek ne čine to opet
Utišaj tu gramzivu rulju svinja
Koja sebe čoporom naziva
I planinskim vucima
A za tvoju sutrašnju slavu nakon prećutkivanja svih podlosti
Brinuće onaj koji nikad ne umire
I u tvome delu sedi
kao čedna nevesta
Ti zauvek sutra živ ćeš biti
Poješće magla bikove
Razneće breme vremena
Ta lopovska sidra i krvave jame
Te rastuće ruke koje ti ščepaju rukav i vuku te
Koje ti brste leđa na kojima ležiš
u muku savijen

Vreme će im sudbinu ukleti
tvojim stihovima novim
Zapisaće im na temenu
Uperiće im prst pravo u oko
Da nisu smeli na zmaja nasrtati
Te orlušine bez stida
i tako pouzdane
Spaliće ih vatra živa
tvog gordoga duha
U samoći molitve dok se uspinješ
ka svome saznanju
Sam bog će te spasti od zlotvora tuđih hudih srca
Ni kap suze ne ispusti da potekne
Ni glasa ne ispusti
Raduj se jer si pesnik
I od bogova nadahnut stvor za večna vremena
Živećeš i kad ne bude bilo urlika
I kad noć bude najmračnija
I disaćeš spokojno i volećeš

Featured post

The summoning of a star’s dream

Image: https://lemyreart.wordpress.com/tag/surreal-art/

I, tomorrow will be dying
a blink of darkness that enshrouds your eye that
offend thee
become so thick as well
its astrological wells
calling upon us, stars

The essay of the young, tough artists
in a shaky shadiness,
Arcadia’s magic is spreading
south of my ears, east of my scars
I was there
I was there

I flashed and sparkled and glowed
across the empyrean’s chest
let there be dark
let there be dusk
Apollo, are you deaf, or something?

… and icy paths of daylight made me
wrapped in the shrouds,
distant, echoing …

I don’t mind, really.
The death is opened up to me, like a woman

Featured post


I am ripping… reptile meat.
(of my body…)
Let Eagles keep their beaks sharp
in their lazy armchair…
I think Sisyphus is being watched,
Long after I have been forgotten
I am going into oblivion
into my sleep, to bed, to bed of satin
tucked away somewhere,
out of my mind



Kidam gušterovo meso

(sa tela…)

za orlove, neka oštre kljunove

zavaljeni među stene logično

i razložno posmatraju Sizifa

polako odlazim u zaborav

u san, u postelju od svile

izlečena, pomućenog razuma

Featured post

Back beyond, back beyond, back beyond.

Wherever I go, they are at my heels
sick and angry feelings
I am sipping
drip, drip, drip
so it that gets diluted out
through the fog
is racing the headless horseman

Back beyond.

The howling morning took my fingerprints
by tapping the hoof with a hoof
come in, burning madness, do not be shy
almost a hundreds of miraculous years
this woman has been away

Back beyond, back beyond, back beyond.

Featured post

Testament jednog pisca, Invita Minerva* i.e. “Unwilling Minerva!”


S izvesnom, svečanom ozbiljnošću, oslobađam prste i zapisujem neobičnu istoriju koja mi se dogodila. Neobičnu?

Daleko od toga, iako me me nenormalnosti guše i dave, sagnuta nad svojom beležnicom nemam nikakvu kontrolu, mrmljam nepovezano sebi u bradu, puzim po sobi, derem se: “Jel ja sad treba baš sve u tančine da ispripovedam?”, u stanju fantastmagoričnog bunila, prsti,  gipko, neuhvatljivo, neobuzdano navaljuju:  ovog puta se nećeš izvući bez celovitog dela.  O nama. O nama si govorila onda kad.. ah sad će znaju. Kad pročitaju, ima sve da znaju! Rukavica je bačena, kao kocka” i ja moram da pišem, iz straha da ne izgubim razum, ali i da dokažem..  neka se rasplete isprepletana mreža oko oslobođenih prstiju. Dobro me čitajte.. To su one: Knjige. A one ne vide činjenicu da ja više nisam ništa – ponajmanje Pisac. Ipak, one me teraju i teraju da pišem, da izvršim krvavi ritual, opsenarski čin i iako sam napisala jednu savršeno celovitu zbirku priča, to je bilo u zlatnim godinama, jeziva slučajnost, rečenice vođene kao loši poslovi, ukrasi kao preterana maskara na veštičjem liku ogrubele matore.. starice.

Već mi je sedamdeset. Nisam imala nameru. Knjige to ne razumeju. One su uzbuđene, one gore od želje da otpočnem svoj stari posao.

Ne postoji ništa na ovom svetu što me može zaštititi od njihovih zlih namera. A bila je tek slučajnost, to što se dogodilo, proistekla sama iz sebe i moram početi, odmah početi..  Priželjkujete da znate o čemu zapravo govorim, hožete da budem sažeta, pa i crnohumorna, ali da skratim….

  • Ali, ko ste vi? Pišete li ili ne? Neko vas tera? Sprečite stravičnu nameru, zašto mene davite s vašim “oslobođenim prstima?” Ili mislite das am dovoljno luda da od vas očekujem ikakvo razmno objašnjenje?
  • Isto mogu ja Vas da pitam ko ste dođavola vi. Ali, razgovor mi je ugodan, te mi ne mari da se izrazgovaram, znate kako kažu, u početku beše glas u glavi, a tek kasnije nadođođe slova. I krvavi pakao sačiniše slova.
  • Budalo!
  • Možda jesam, ali retko ko, pa i najsmeliji umetnik začuje, za života zvuk svog glasa. Onog.. pravog. Znate li o čemu govorim? Moje digresije, upadi i lutanja od teme dovode do iscrpljivanja, da, zbog toga je moje delo još u dvadesetima ocenjeno kao beznačajno, sećate li se toga?
  • Sećam se da su vaša dela lišena artikulacije, da je pisati, za vas, pisati jasno, sažeto, britko, kao da vodite strahovitu i unapred izgubljenu bitku.

Niste heroj. – rekli su – vaša fragmentarizacija, nedovršenost, nesposobnost pripovedanja jasne, pregledne storije u manje od 200 reči, pa kakva je to rabota nagrnuti na hiljadu.. hiljadu reči, čak i dve,  to je čudovišno, vaš barok koji prelazi u rokoko, pa kako će to čitalac sve ispratiti! Da ste manje komentarisali već postojeću situaciju, možda biste uspeli, ali ne, vi, u oholosti, ne shvatiste da vidi čitalac sve i bez komentara vas, sveznajućeg pripovedača.  Niste sveznajući, gospođo Confuzione, šta vi znate o ekspresiji supstancije, a nama zamerate!  Čekali smo da izađete ili se makar snađete u kovitlacu vaših storija koje liča na buncanje samrtnika… A sad lupate po tastaturi i ta buka koju pravite je poput udaraca bičem – besnog vetra…   To je udar – udar po tasterima, besno, vulgrarno, pohotno, zašto? Zar ne bi bilo mudro nežno spuštati vrhove jagodica na njih? Ali, ne, isuviše je to vulgarno, ta izražajnost nedostojna vaše domišljatosti, vi niste rađali priče, no izrode! NIje to.. vaše… nikakav dragocen nakit, to je buncanje, razumete li, buncanje neumrlog!

-Ah! Ali, dopustite mi da završim.

-Tako reći, da počnete?

Svesna sam da moje priče nisu u čitaocima izazivale radost i slast. Zamalo da pohrlim za pištoljem kad to shvatih.. Znate već. Da sebi raznesem mozak

-Vidite kako to može jasno da se kaže!

-Vidim! Slušajte.. Nemam u sebi lukavštine da načinim da izgleda isuviše dubokoumno ovo što sam rekla. Tako mi je kako mi je.  Nemirnih pokreta, crvenoga lika k’o u nevine Actečke devojke ili poglavice Džeronima, a sve je to od nervoze, jer je  u grudima nevoljenost, a hladno je tad oko srca, tako hladno.. kao da se u meni  rascvetava ledenica, dok se uzavrela glava kotrlja neobičnim svetovima. Tad rečenice zavrve i nemoguće je da stanem!

Imadoh neprijatelje najljuće, prijatelje klevetnike, a u jednog Bruta svoga bejah raskalašno zaljubljena, te na vreme shvatih, hvala pameti što mi je do neba, da u teškim prilikama u kojima sam se obrela niti najveći genij ne istraje i ne održi se ili makar, ako uspe da pređe preko kala, to učini i iskoprca se iz živoga blata na obalu spasa, prljav  do bola i nedovoljno čitav.

A ljubavni jadi, oni bejahu ponajviše krivi što ne istrajah u  uzgajanju talenta ili makar želje da se naučim sažetom iskazu.  Jer zbi se gore! Shvatih da to uopšte ne behu ljubavni jadi, makar s početka jesu bili, do trenutka kad je moje srce potpuno umrlo. Do koronarne smrti. Tad nesta i duh lakoće, mladalačko ludilo prođe, kao i vedrina čistote. Pronicljiv bol me probadao dok hodih okolo po svetu, grčevito se savijaći u mukama,  pipajući naslepo i tragajući za sumornim, bednim slikama.

Prezrena, odbačena, ostavih se promišljanja, te mi rečenice, ranije oštre kao mač postadoše nezgrapne, oštrica mi otupi, pisah sve ređe, bez volje, na silu i misli mi postadoše iskrzane kao ostaci odrane kože kojima je Kolumbo ukrašavao svoj bikovski vrat, a behu to kaiševi kože žrtava koje je bacao izdresiranim psima – upravo je izvor mog jada ličio na Kolumba.  Smejete se?  Ne veseli oči hor muza u nenadmašnom zamahu romantične lepote,  sve ono što zavređuje divljenje, izaziva suze ganuća u očima, katkad čoveka zaludi i strvina..

(ne ovo nije digresija, uvrnuti bonton izvinjavanja zbog nagona da se bulazni u tekstu, neka vrsta OCD – a, ako hoćete dijagnozu – ukoliko bih izbacila ovu misao, izbacila bih deo vlastite utrobe, a reči su moćne i vraćaju se s vražjom osvetom preteći da će otkriti najbudalastije misli – često sedim u mraku i razmenjujem koju s njima, zureći u okean njihove moći, iscrpljena,  iznurena)

Tad napisah svoju priču po kojoj me još pamte u kojoj razborito, sažeto i sve suprotno od Apolinera..  vidite kako se ja nejako izražavam..   odlučih da ako propadnem, učinim to kako valja i propadnem do kraja, udesih na svaku nesreću koja me zbila  po koji latinski citat da potkrepi istinitost dovoljno da čltalac shvati da san svoje mane dobro promozgala i da mi na um ne pada da se pera ponovo latim,  a da zazvući opasno i teško, besomučno i nerazumljivo tek toliko da čitalac otreska bunt papira o glavu., te me ne liši nadanja da se na putu životnom koječemu naučim i otkrčivši svaku poteškoću svom izražaju, peru ponovo vratim.

Ali, umesto, toga, odlučila sam da odem.  Događalo se brzo, poput epifanije, u trenucima koji nadođu kao pokajanje nad svetom i umom sveta, kad sve postane očigledno, isuviše očigledno i iz neba izraste munja u obliku raspukle ruke, uperi kažiprst, dok munjevito saznanje obgrli mučenika ili oslobođenika (dođe mu jedno te isto)gorućim oblacima, oblizujući ga crvenim jezicima.

Taman da stavim sve svoje stvari u retro kožni kofer, skupa sa, Orlandom, sestrama Bronte i bežičnom tastaturom ne verujući da radim ono što radim,  da se zauvek okanjujem majstorisanja oko rukopisa, da mi je dosta pisanja i brisanja, suprotstavljanja književnim konvencijama, te da one nisu ništa drugo do maska ludaka, taštog i arogantnog,  cirkusko – zabavljačke karnevalske lude koja priča besmislice ogrnuvši se oreolom iracionalnog načela. Bila je to  maska kazivanja, intelektualno deficitan tekst, ljigava salata od reči, dar umnobolesnih koji pišu isto što i ja, samo s većom lakoćom, rekoh to, proglasih se javno neuračunljivom putem elektronske pošte u nameri da obavestim bezazlene, vesele i vedre pisce, urednike i one koji se osećaju tako, s malim trudom iznašavši osobitosti u svakoj rečenici koju bi izgovorili ili nadrljali,  ti gorostasima napisah i izlistah priču u kojoj sam samu sebe servirala u fusnotama, kao freniju šiziku kojoj samo čarobnjak ili kakav drugi veštac može pomoći, zdrava ja bila, da o svom krivom putu zborim pravo, a još uspravnije kičme se po njemu krećem – ukratko o svemu zabeleženom u niskosti svog dela i svoj truleži što je iznađoh u srcu, drhtureći na rubu propasti, na margini, ako im je tako draže

Izvestih klevetnike, neka popucaju od smeha, poljubih zmiju, a i samu bih sebe poljubila u bezumničko čelo kao što se ljube mrtvi i sve to sročih što sam učenije i rečitije mogla,  rešena da napišem grčevito, ali izražajno pismo zveri ljubavi koja me je mučila, da upitam zašto mi je život zagorčan, da zavijam u mukama, da me skoliše noćne more i da boravim u podnošljivom stanju podanika koji mrzi svog gospodara, te da san sve svoje strasti davno pripitomila kao divlju životinju.

“Želim samo mir. Vraćam ludilo nazad bogovima i da…  imam puno vremena, možda isuviše mnogo vremena da popričekam da mi se razum vrati, a dotle, spoznajom sopstvenog nesvesnog, spremna sam da se otisnem u bilo kakvu avanturu, pa čak i s tobom, s priručnikom o ludilu, Erazma Roterdamskog kroz život da me vodi.”,  ni sama nisam mogla da sebi osporim snagu i odlučnost u rečima da svoj jadni položaj dokusurim jednom za svagda,  jer kako dodah: “Bojim se da je nemoguće, u ovako jadnom stanju, iko ikoga da poštuje i voli”


Kad se malo pribrah, obuze me mirnoća potpunog očaja i bi mi lakše, kad najednom…

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hello, Readers. If I am not asking for too much, I see you are all too busy cherishing your own worlds, but I do have problems with some sort of cult… knowing how it does sound, I transformed it into a short story. A comment will mean much to me, and sure you can try to ask someone enough insightful and not too scared of books to comment it too. #praying_for_feedback
From a distance, I suppose it’ll seem funny, this butterfly game of THEM I did not want to know and whose goal is to take me to the bottom.
It’s their only role, an awkward, desperate purpose, motivated by nature or nurture.  I’m not the only one. It is their interest, it is their absurd display, in fact, to destroy, not only writers but also artists in general.
Especially in humans.
I’m not sure why they do it – I believe that’s because, when they recognize something and especially someone they badly want to be and cannot, they have the urge to especially assailed a true creative.
They round upon a surprised individual like a pack of wolves devastating them like avalanches devastating the slopes every winter.
“We will seal your fate, you…  Creative!” – it’s in a whisper. So tangible…
In my case, it doesn’t work that way.
I have long ago said goodbye to those thousand tangible whispers a and I  found a place to launch a church, in the eternal vortex of discovered and permanent creation. It houses a stage for me, as for other actors, it’s a theatre in sacred time, with new games
which are destined to be lost and found simultaneously.
Reptiles do not know that.
I have seen through them, therefore we know their ambitions, it’s my comprehension, a responsive chord as the keynote to my success.
What I got is the confidence that makes me laugh at them. Their predicament makes me laugh.
I am laughing at the idea that they would ever get any idea on controlling a clear whisper, they, eyeless spectres of the abomination, hidden among uncomfortable shadows, those… germs. *
Thie hidden plot is the place I crucified and revealed their true nature until they are praying in public gathering places.
My understanding of them, as the pack of germs, makes them weak, until I, as an individual, grow stronger.
I see them twittering on a heating plate, sie zwitschern, zwitschern! they are floundering underneath the dampening pads, thinking they touched me. Admirable is simply how hard they try.
By the way, I know that they hacked me WordPress and email. Why did not I report them to the police? Who says I didn’t …
They are safe now.
*germs, their heart so blackened with depravity, their very existence such a web of violence and crime 
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MAJKA, SAN, 5. Maj 2018 “Svi na okupu”

MAJKA, SAN, 5. Maj 2018


Sablasna svetlost  obasjava ravan pločnik, dok se nebo plavi kao najplavlja merlinkina haljina. Na Adi smo. Iznajmile smo vatrene bicikle. Odkaču po trim stazi kao vatrene lopte. Gume vrište, grabe stazu, adrenalin raste “Leki gledaj ja vozim,ja umem da vozim.”

“Leki, nisam znala da vozim ni trotinet, a gledaj me sad, Trobrzinka, petobrzinka, jebemliga!”, smejem se i dozivam iznova, kao mantru: Leki, gledaj, Leki! Stani, sačekaj mamu! Pašću!”

Nije me čula. Urlikala je zajedno s vetrom. Znala san da su to misli u njenom umu. Pun pogodak.

Izađosmo iz vrtloga Ade, krcate snobovima, kurvinim sinovima, leeže na plaži, izloženi suncu, pocrneli od sunca, raskrečenih nogu, pogleda uprtih u zaprepašćenu ispraznost neba.

“Dođavola, daj da pregazim ovo leglo. Načiniću od njih svoje kamene biste! Znaš kako to činim? Znaš?”

Obuzela me je jeza.

“Znam”, rekla sam.

“Kako to činim?”, zarežala je jače.

“Zašto me ispituješ?”

“Zato što ne razumeš! Nisi me slušala! Imam svoj park mrtvih kipova, razumeš!”

“Misliš li da san pošla da se rekreiram, šta..?”

“Uzmeš kašike za vađenje sladolednih kugli, zahvatiš sladoled, očne jabučice kao savršene sladoledne kugle. Tako pravim svoje slepe boginje Justicie, bele boje sa belim postoljem. Imam čitavu aleju. Onda se smirim, kad to vizualizujem, to je dobro.

“Kako kog Stvora vidim, s roščićima, strelovitim pogledom rospije koji vreba da mi načini štetu, tako donjim delom uma uzmem kašike za sladoled i u mislima… . dletom klesati bele duplje i izvući ostatak.. ”

“Poštedi me detalja.. Skreni u drugu stazu.”

“Čudovišta,  praznim očima boje grobnice, bulje.. to golemo oko pauka, uštrcavali su pevajući pauci otrov koji parališe, sjaje im se ispupčene oči. Buljave!”

“Ideja je: Monumentalni niz Justicia postaviti na pijedestal, načiniti drevni park, čitava soba mi se obelila kipovima –  Zlokobnu prazninu isklesati kašikama u Bele biste!”

“Zašto oči? Zašto ne nosevi? Bulje, njuše.. Slepi miševi s nosem u obliku mača”

Preletesmo u drugu stazu. Bila je prava kao pun pogodak. .

Odjednom, stvori se lavirint u obliku kukuruzišta – otkud?

Kukuruz je sazreo, spreman za branje. Klatarao se pod naletima vetra.

“Hajde da uberemo neki”

Siđosmo s bicikala, kad ugledasmo autobús bez krova koji nam je išao u susret. Taman da pomerimo bicikle, kad on skrete, naglo i uspaničeno.  Spustio se strim bedemom.

Pojurih da vidim šta je… Vozile smo još brže. Krilata vožnja, brzi bicikli, spremne na sudar. Barem Leila. Nije se zaustavljala…. Vozila je kao metak. Kao da je đavoli gone.

A znam šta ju je gonilo. Gomila ludaka.  Žurila je da ih stigne, da ih ubije.

“Gde ste? Gde se krijete, mamicu vam jebem?”

Zaboravila je na svoju živu, namučenu maštu – katkad bi govorila o dva štapa, o kojima ne bi detaljisala, te da je bitno da dleto odradi svoj posao, jer onda nema potrebe da zašiljene noževe od obsidijana umočene u otrov zabada duboko i snažno u oči Buljavih i vadi sadržaj oka, probijajući zidove očne šupljine dok ne iscuri očna vodica, i nosi ih okolo nabodene na štapove…  ako je to već učinila kašikama. Slično tome, okom uma kidala je u  iskucana slova sa teksta u Wordu, čupala ih rukama s ekrana, dok ne poteče krv… Takve mentalne slike su imale sopstveni um i volju, često prisilni, slikoviti pejzaž besmislica u koloru koje su je ometale u svakodnevnim, prostim radnjama. – makar samo zbog distrakcije, ludaci su bili dobrodošli.

Pogledah u nebo. Osećala san nejasnu, neodređenu, mokru jezu.

“Leki, stani, sine!Zaustavi se!”, žurba u glasu.

Autobus naglo skrete ka bedemu. U njemu su se koprcali užasnuti putnici. Spazih da ga niko ne vozi.

Dok se autobús spuštao niz bedem, siđoh sa svoje bicikle, nemoćna pred neumitnim.

Ponovo je dozvah, panično, glas mi je treperio kao zapaljena sveća.

“Stani! Stani!”, glas je derao glasnice.

Okrenula se tek toliko da joj vidim profil. Bilo mi je jasno. Znala sam zašto je autobús skrenuo. Lice joj beše maska užasa na kojoj je blistao bes. Od straha. Od straha su skrenuli. Neki putnici poiskakaše iz autobusa u punoj brzini i zamakoše u kukuruzište. Od straha pred izrazom sablasti koja noću kuca na kapiju, pod svetlošću varljivog meseca.

Ona naglo zakoči.

Poterah svoju biciklu, približih joj se i pođosmo zajedno ka bedemu… Oblio me je znoj, kad videh da od autobusa nema ni traga.  Nigde ga nije bilo. Pogledala sam u nebo. Nije ga bilo ni tamo.

“Videla sam ih!”, glas joj je drhtao od besa. “Našla sam prokletinju”

“Sve njih?”

“Da, to su ONE. Iskočile su iz autobusa. U kukuruzištu su. Hajde da uberemo neku!”, okrenula se licem iskrivljenim od naslade.

“Ja ću napred, ti idi u suprotnom pravcu”, rekla sam odsečnim glasom.

Učini mi se da je nešto promaklo. Moglo je biti bilo šta. Produžih. Šaša me je draškala po telu. Dodir joj je bio grub.

Začuh cviljenje. A onda ugledah Prvu: sekutići Pacova štrčali su, pogled pravo uperen, drsko, oprobana metoda. Pacova je za ruku vukla loknasta spodoba ogromnih sise kao kod krave koja doji tele.

Treba namiriti stoku.

Pacov je šepao brže negó inače.

“Videla sam je, Niki, Videla sam je! Leilu! Protčala je onuda, u onom pravcu je protrčala! Nosila je nešto! Moramo da vidimo šta je to, pa da javimo Lazi!”

Za njima je razgrćući kukuruz, pogleda usmerenog u pravcu kretanja osobe koju je želela da sustigne.

“Stani, stani”, vikala je, otvarajući usta više negó inače. Ličila su na zapaljeni krater ispd kog je počivala najcrnja tama. Toliko je balila da je mogla da navodni pola kukuruzišta…”

Bile su to tri prilike, od kojih su sve jurile četvrtu, čija se izdužena senka stopila s horizontom. U stvari, sve su se dale u beg.

“Razumem..!”,  do ušiju mi je dopro glas plavuše čije su kovrdže odskakivale  u taktu s prevelikim grudima. “Ali, moramo da JE  nađemo pre Leile… Rećićemo joj za knjigu, da joj je ukrala, nas neće da dira. Mene posebno. Meni je obećala! A ti se snađi, već kako ti to znaš! Ionako si me uvukla u sve to, a da ti nisam tražila”

“Kako nisi, kad si tražila!”

“A ti se samo usudi da tako nešto kažeš! Nikad me nećeš niti videti niti čuti!”

Za to vreme, telegrafski stub trčeći lomi kukuruzne stabljike  I očajno doziva:  “Amra! Ne trči, ne bježi! “Moram ti dat savjet!U bjegu su kratke noge, kao I u laži!”

Bale su curile na sve strane, boje bosanske bare.

“Gde si? Ne skreći sa staze! To je tvoja staza! Ne zaboravi! Tu se ti snalaziš! Uz moj savjet sve će biti dobro!”

Staza se zaklopila kao sklopka. Uhvatila me panika.  Taman da se vratim nazad, kad ugledah izbezumljenu priliku koja istrča iz šaše i kako me spazi, ukopa se u mestu. Ne beše to strašilo već prilika, učinilo mi se, pristojno odevenog mladića. Nosio je vijetnamsku vetrobranku, svetloplave naočare i kačket, duboko povijen napred.

“Izvini, dečko, kako možemo da izađemo iz ovoga na put, hoćeš li reći”

Počeo je da skida vetrobranku i dao se u mahniti beg govoreći, u galopu reči: NEĆU. NEĆU. MA NEĆU!

Razbesneh se. Potrčah za njim. Iako spora, Nije bilo teško sustići ga. Bio je trom, smotan, visok i kilav. Klatarao se kao da je pijan,  spoticao se tankim nogama.. zapeo o nekakvo granje I stropoštao se na tlo. Mogla ga je sustići svaka baba, pomislila sam, uhvativši ga za rame I okrenuvši ga ka sebi.

Naočare su mu spale. To nije bio mladić.

Bila je AMRA  – ustuknula sam, trgla se, a ona je prigušeno vikala, dok je stiskala nešto ispod košulje, grozničavo, izbuljenih očiju. Bila je preplašena.

“Šta nećeš, majku ti jebem, ukrala si… ispuni me plima besa. Ona me prekinu:

“Nisam htela, nisam lopov, nisam ukrala, – uspaničeno je nabrajala – samo mi je bila potrebna gumica, samo to.. da izbrišem..  pa da vratim.. Recite joj.. recite joj da izbriše ONAJ DEO, to mi toliko znači, molim vas!Ja nisam ružna. Nisam prakljača. A tamo piše dajesam! Recite joj da izbriše, jer ja.. . ja ne mogu da živim s ovim – znojavim prstima stiskala je predmet njenog uznemirenja – bio je to Leilin rukopis.

“Vraćaj to kučko! I to si htela da joj uzmeš!”

“Nisam, nisam, vratila bih!”, krkljala je. Molećiv pogled joj se ogledao u mutnoplavim očima. Brazde okolo usana se produbiše.


“Neka ona piše, meni to ne smeta! Naprotiv! Ali, neka piše da sam lepa..  Znate, ja volim njene knjige, ja čitam..  ja sve njeno čitam” – prodorno se zagledala u mene. Na trenutak se zbunih – “Recite… Vi mi recite.. – stanka –  Da li Vi mislite da sam lepa?”, upita ozbiljno – tihim glasom.

Pun pogodak.

Pogledah u to jadno, patetično stvorenje iz kukuruzišta. S gađenjem odvratih.

“Jesi. Lepa si… “

Lice joj se ozari, jer beše zaneta mojim rečima, u slatkoj obamrlosti zadovoljene sujete.

“Stvarno? Lepa sam? Ali – nećkala se – da li san lepša? Jesam li lepša od nje?”


Ne možeš da budeš lepša od nje – ti nemoćno, bolesno, pokvareno, jadno stvorenje!

Ona zavrišti.

“Ne govorite tako! Efekat Vaših reči.. NJENIH reči na mene je smrtonosan!

Ali sam lepa, jel da, lepa sam?


Obuzeo me je gnev. Počela sam je drmusati, jer bejah izvan sebe, a ona se migoljila, no nije imala snage u sebi do da stiska rukopis silmim strahom da joj se ne oduzme dok se ne dopišu magične reči, koje je dočekala dahćući, da joj je od uzbuđenja usta ispuniše gustom maglom i ispusti neobičan zvuk nalik na škripu avetinjskih kapija napuštenog zamka:

“Vratiću ga, obećavam! Samo da se izbriše, pa dopiše, meni je to sve! To je sujeta, znam”, bila je opsednuta, fiksirana na ideju da bude lepa, da je Pisac tako opiše, te me upita da li i ONA misli da sam ja lepa – dok je posmatrala nebo, skupljenih nogu, u fetusnom položaju, s rukopisom u ruci koji joj je značio sve. Makar jedan deo – reči i hvalospevi istkani o tome koliko  (i da li?)je lepa” iz velikog, neiscrpnog izvora povređenog samoljublja.

I dodade: “Ako bi ostalo ovako kako je napisano, da san škrapulja, da sam ružna, ja to ne bih mogla da podnesem. Ostatak rukopisa mi ne smeta. Ne smetaju mi lukavštine”

S lica joj nesta panika. Svetlost je obasja. Pogledah je kao u nakazno cirkusko čudovište.

“Vrati rukopis”

“Ne dam!” Drhtala je od same pomisli da joj se rukopis oduzme, puzala po zemlji, palacala jezikom,  mlatarajući rukama, a molećiv izraz smeni ubilački pogled.

Bila je nalik na divlju zver koja se boji.

Trgnu se. Osluškivala je. To se neko probijao kroz zasenjene redove kukuruza. Nebo je bilo obliveno u krvavocrvenu boju. Podsećalo je na pokrov.  Čulo je šuškanje. Neko je dolazio.

“Znam put van. – glas joj je bio vedar, odlučno – vatren nalik na usijano podnevno sunce. -Samo da dovršim posao”

Pun pogodak.

Amra se okrete, obuzeto zureći u pravac iz koga je dopirao glas. Lice joj se skameni. Jače steže rukopis.

“To je ONA. Odlazi da te ne vidi. Ubiće te. Iskopaće ti oči. Ili onoj koja te je kupila. Onom ruglu koje te je učinilo ruglom.”

“Ubijte me, ali rukopis ne dam”, na licu joj je bila grimasa užasa -“Ja sam dečak, ja sam nevaljali dečak, ja sam LEPA!”, ona odskoči I dade se u trk, s rukopisom, nestajući sve dublje u lavirintu senki, dok su tri paćenički prestrašene prilike jurile za njom, probijajući se kroz kukuruzište, ispuštajući uzvike očajanja, tešeći jedna drugu da je izlaz blizu, da stanica nije predaleko.

Crvena boja neba bila je krv. Kapala je po njihovim licima. U daljini se čuo pucanj. ONA ih je lovila, krećući se brzo, prelazeći preko njihovih tintara muklim, snažnim udarcima, dok su Progonjene naizmenično plakale i smejale se, rasprostre bi se po tlu, a onda bi se nanovo dizale, histerično podvriskujući i dozivajući siluetu koja je ostavljala užarene tragove u kukuruzu, a ONA je išla za njom prateći trag slomljenih stabljika. Papiri rukopisa su zajedno šuštali sa stabljikama, izdajnički.

Nakon toga, začuo bi se krik očajnica.

Nekoliko visokih stabljika zacerekalo se od smeha.

Trgoh se.. Izgleda das am zadremala dok sam čitala rukopis. Nemo je počivao na mom trbuhu, a činilo mi se, možda pod utiskom sna, da zuri u mene ispod spuštenih, podbulih kapaka.

Oh, bože, kakve ja gluposti sanjam… ! Kakve mi samo misli nadolaze, pa to ti  je…!

(pun pogodak)

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Široka katedrala sa zvonikom
nakon deset minuta ćutanja u snu,
na deset načina me doziva svesti.
Probudih se tako sto sam se lecnula
obrisala znoj između grudi, na spoju rebaraca.

Čuvam snove, iako su oni kao vreme,
zarobljeni u kakvom staklu poluispijene čaše.
Snovi vrve sačuvanim predmetima i bićima,
noć u njima je i ništa i sve,
i verujem i ne verujem u simbole
neiskorišćene ljubavi.

Takav je San, kao ploča što ponavlja,
neprekidno objavljuje uzbunu,
parodiju na ponavljanja.
to je san koji uzdrma živce i ode, neobičan,
staklast, erotski poput mrtvaca
ubačenog u sanduk sa postavljenim stolnjacima.


Umirem na ostrvima kojima nisam mogla verovati
i baš zato me privlače i baš zato se u njih zaljubljujem
zbog kula I zidina koji deluju kao utvrda.
zbog daha karnevala I erotičnih strujanja.
miris Venecije dekadentnog I raskalašnog
u istom času smelog i introvertnog okusa.
Venecija, mirođija koja nudi i čini živim.
tamna I teška, zatvorena, zimi i promiskuitetna leti.
žena zarobljena u muškom imenu. I obrnuto.


Vi ste bedni ljudi
bedniji od starinskog ormana
veliki u mrenom obloženom oku..
pomicaj naslepo na jastuku, sve maske će spasti.

U ruci držite maramice jer kijate i slinite bez prestanka
i volite belu boju, kao i golubove koji šetaju bezazleno
ispred vratnica ludnice.

Okolo mene na vas zaudara, a ja sam prokleto lepa

u praznini škrinje
soba mi je grobnica
u Snu
gde kraljevi i hulje
zagledaju u krvave stope
koju prati moja golotinja
pobediće golotinju
u koju bulje
kraljevi i hulje
beli I stameni kamen oblaci

Džinovski divovi prohujaće nebom
rasplamsaće olujnu vatru
vetar kraj otvorenog prozora
nek’ iskrvari svojim tokom

U crvenilu strahote pene se sivi kumulusi,
na zemlju puštam
oluju, kišu, sneg i zmije
i svuda će popadati zmije I razleći će se po blatu.
a blato je gutalo zmiju I zmija je gutala blato.


Golgota se razlistava kroz vreme
izbrisano iz svesti, savija put dalje
oskudno – žednima, teturaju se u pravcu stada
mrtvi na nogama
i njihovi pastiri

Zemlja je mala, umrežena, prava mesta plasiraju, prave ljude.
samo treba biti tamo i ne verovati nikom i ne voleti nikog.
tek tada su mogućnosti za uspeh ogromne.

Nada je kič koji hoda, ali časno ju je imati
po skerletnom zakonu bede
(zaglavljena u oštrici sekire dželata Henrija Osmog,
malo izguljena od čvrstog stiska

Ipak ću danas izaći
izložiću sebe pogledu, pustiću da me vode i pričaju
na lice ću ugraditi izraz uverljivog slušaoca
oni će misliti da je to zbog njih
ja ću znati da je to zbog mene
i pre nego što se umotam u novi, nadolazeći san,
opet uznemirena

Došla je Golgota
da me probode
da me vaskrsne