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COMO GOTEAN MOLINOS Leila Samarrai Predicción


COMO GOTEAN MOLINOS

Leila Samarrai

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Predicción

(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?

¡Sí!

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! Pronunciado

De la desconsoladora, desvergonzada, sarcástica profecía

Frente a los cielos clementes

Que en los pechos me apaga la candela

Proféticos

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 Si 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

la imagen: WINDMILL — HOLLAND — PALETTE KNIFE Oil Painting On Canvas By Leonid Afremov

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-Merna jedinica beskonačnosti: ljudska glupost!


LEILA SAMARRAI

AFORIZMI

-Neki naučnici tvrde da crne rupe ne postoje. Nisu bili u Srbiji!

-Ljudska glupost nema granice, sem one između Srbije i Kosova.

-Zašto si me ujela? Upita Srbin vampiricu. Obnavljam državne rezerve!

-Samostalna izložba srpske srednje klase, instalacije pored kontejnera.

-Do daske koje život znače, reče vozač i stisnu gas.

-Budi ono što nisi, i bićeš prihvaćen.

-Ne daj se psima, posavetovaše kostura.

-Bez brige, smislićemo mi već nešto besmisleno.

-Za razliku od mete, ljudsku sujetu ne možeš promašiti.

-Hvala Bogu, pa sam ateista.

-Za utehu, i u staroj Grčkoj stoka je služila kao merilo vrednosti.

-O osveti. U žiži sočiva koje sabira sunčeve zrake, svetlost se pretvara u vatru, vatra se rasplamsava i gasi žeđ osvetnika, kao voda vatru.

-Kocka je bačena, reče Cezar Antoniju, ne ljuti se čoveče!

-Od kad sam počeo da šmrčem, svi računi su mi blanko.

-Pomoz’ Bog, nazva đavo.

-Ovuda vozovi više ne prolaze, uzdahnu Ana Karenjina.

-Pismo ili glava? upita Henrik Anu Bolen.

-Dajem glavu da sam u pravu, reče Ana Bolen.

-Jedino je oproštaj put koji ostaje prohodan i za druge.

-To što sam paranoična ne znači da me ne prate.

-Nakon što se pokajala, Marija Magdalena je snizila tarifu.

-Umiremo! Bar u tome napredujemo.

-Majkl Džekson je crnčio da bi pobelio.

-Merna jedinica beskonačnosti: ljudska glupost!

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A bird I am, In Serbian, Spanish, English, and Hebrew


La Oscuridad del entender es… una colección de poesía inusual que no puede dejar indiferente, porque lo llama a confrontar a su propia “oscuridad”, esa parte borrosa e incomprensible de su propia personalidad. Y cualquiera que alguna vez se haya enfrentado a la oscuridad en sí mismo y en los demás sabe que a partir de tal experiencia no puede quedarse sin cambios …

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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

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Museo de Arte de Puerto Rico

1.

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

Después.

552575_163869130402371_100003378556183_223135_1335172012_n

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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 hemorrhage

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

 

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הצער מוסתר בתוך ראש מעוטר בדם

לקראת החכמה הקרויה ירושלים

אתה הורג את האיש שמקשיב למרחק

האם “אקסי הומו” באמת שם

ההיררכיה הגבוהה יותר של ספרד

בזמן שהזמן זורם ייאוש יורד לדימום

אף פעם לא מכאיב, לא מודה בכאב

ציפור אני

ציפור עם רצון למות בספרד.

אני אכתוב בדו”ח

היא מסתתרת בפירות רכים

יוליה בורגוס

זיכרון אחר מתקתק משש

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.

***

Mrak će razumeti(zbirka pesama), Leila Samarrai

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

2002.  ISBN 978-86-7398-010-2.

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Recommendation from a dog, “The Adventures Of Boris K.”, Leila Samarrai,


image found here

Recommendation from a dog

A not so brief review of the history of the letter that has never been read…

Letters suffer. And they have a soul. You don’t believe me? Are you shaking your head in disbelief? In that case, lock up the oak door with your rusty key and settle into a favorite chair in front of the fire. Don’t mind the sweat that will be pouring gently down the sides of your body by the time I reach the end of this story.

One could trust the opinion of Sofronije Sofronijević (also known as S.S.). He became so rich from writing his reviews that he bought a villa between Cannes and Nice, his own beach, a luxury apartment in Andorra with a minibar and a bedroom, and an indoor Olympic-sized pool, which was named the eighth wonder of the world.

Daily expensive massage treatments, with a focus on the deep tissue of his tormented heels, were something that went without saying, as well as his daily steak breakfasts with fresh squeezed juice under the light of a plasma lamp

After breakfast, he would put his slippers on and struggle to tie his robe over his ever-increasing girth (he grew larger with every review he published) before setting off to work. Few people knew that S.S. actually was a fake critic.

The real critic was actually Wolfgang, his rottweiler, who was so close to Sofronijević, he inherently understood his convictions. Unlike most dogs, Wolfgang knew not only how to read, but also how to critique the masterpieces of contemporary authors.

For years, instead of Sofronijević, Wolfgang criticized the timeless classic works from a radical canine perspective– he bites each paragraph of Anna Karenina that old about the harvest, and there were rumors that he ate “The Peace” in delight. He would have left “The War” for later, but he remembered the book could serve him as a chair to observe the world, with disdain in the muzzle, from the bird’s-eye view.

Sofronijević spoke proudly of Wolfgang:

“On the works of the Surrealists he growls, at texts of fiction novel writers, and any novels, generally speaking, he barks. When he remains silent, that is… something … ”

With this admission, Sofronijević would light cigarette, offering one to Wolfgang as well, while winking his eyebrows densely planted on his forehead.

Both dog and man, best of friends, were into all kinds of criticism, writing reviews for nine years together. However, after enjoying great fame and reputation in the Republic, something suddenly unexpected happened.

One morning, just at the moment when the dog and his master (and it was often hard to decide who was who) simultaneously choked on their beefsteaks, a mysterious letter arrived in Sofronijević’s mailbox. Instead of a full sender address, one word was written on the top left corner of the envelope: Hurghada. It is said that Sofronijević and Wolfgang reacted furiously after reading the letter.

Wolfgang, in his style, ripped off the first half of the letter with his teeth, destroying the half of it that was written in Phoenician, while the Egyptian part remained. The letter burnt his hands and screamed at him in Egyptian. Then S.S. dropped the letter on the ground but felt his mind beginning to spin. While he could still hold onto his reason, he called for the help of a well-known expert, Tuthmosis, the most famous interpreter of hieroglyphics in the Republic, to investigate everything about the letter that had arrived at this home address. But Tuthmosis was too slow and the letter wouldn’t stop talking, and it was redolent with the odor of carrion.

That’s how Sofronije Sofronijević finally fell off his rocker and went nuts:

“This letter is a curse!”, he proclaimed.

“Whoever reads it loses his mind. I must kill it! Ba-BUM BUM BUM!, he giggled, revealing teeth blackened from gunpowder residue. When S.S. shot off his gun, he simultaneously riddled the letter with bullets while also blowing a large hole in the window, and he and Wolfgang watch the letter blow out in the wind. When Tuthmosis arrived, he detected a strange odor in the air and Wolfgang barked to him some of the sounds he heard.

When Tuthmosis arrived, S.S. had already gone insane. It is said that Sofronijević’s great-grandmother was a distant ancestor of Cleopatra’s maid who refused to die from the bite of a snake, and like Cleopatra, was also cursed by ancient Gods. So when S.S. communicated with Tuthmosis, he suggested to him that perhaps the letter was a tool of revenge from those ancient Pharaohs. According to Tuthmosis, the letter was also soaked in poisons and all sorts of Egyptian herbs that possibly led Sofronijević’s fall into a state of fascination and infatuation. As such, he could not control his thoughts or resist the strong effect of the curse. Shaking his head, Tuthmosis headed back to his apartment.

Upon Sofronijević’s descent into madness, Wolfgang took over his master’s personal study. He would rise early in the morning, have breakfast, take a nap until the afternoon, and then he would write reviews after tidying up Sofronije’s mail. He would lick the letters and place a stamp imprint on the envelopes with his paws. In moments of leisure, he would stare at the Phoenician alphabet, whining, tilting his head to the side and thinking:

“If I could only get hold of the Egyptian half!” Then he would begin to growl.

Many years after the terrible events attributed to Sofronije’s neurasthenic crisis caused by the crisis in culture, there were speculations about the last place of rest of the cursed, Egyptian letter. Some speculated that the haunted letter traveled North to Hyperborea, to Ultima Thule, the land of eternal brightness in the far north, a sole nomen habens. Wolfgang, on the other hand, believed the letter had followed in the footsteps of Apollo, traveling to Greece, perhaps in the mausoleum of Alexander the Great, where the body of the magnificent deceased lay carved on a stone crypt. In fact, Egyptologists reported sighting the haunted letter in the Valley of the Kings, under the influence of moisture, completely destroyed, but still alive! At night, across from the Luxor, screams echoed.

“It’s Nefertiti’s mummy, she rose from the grave, unwrapped her dirty bandages and read the damn letter after putting it together with the glue”, whispered the tomb guardians, as their voices streamed upward toward the heavy white stars.

On one fact all agreed. The letter was unjustly accused of inflicting emotional distress on S.S. But still, no one could explain why it had been so cruelly punished and still continued to be victimized. The cursed letter bounced from the mummified wings of Neferneferuaten-Nefertiti who pulled it by its blackened ends as an ox is pulled by his tail. Despite the abuse, the letter could not be overcome because it had its own appetites guiding it: KICKBACK/LANDING. BOUNCED! LANDS!

The letter spent three years in the tomb of Hatshepsut, diagonally bouncing off the walls of the massive tomb while reading (some say screaming) itself to the queen aloud. Since these actions aroused a revolt of awakened pharaohs in the Valley of Kings and Queens, the letter briefly hid behind the 132nd pillar in the temple of Luxor. While there, it spent nine years plotting its revenge.

“This is all Sofronijević’s fault!”, moaned the letter to such an extent his sorrow plucked at the heartstrings of the innocent bystanders who were forced to watch the letter in an eternal game of KICKBACK/LANDING. Finally, the letter lands on the Sphinx’s head, who as a diligent guardian of Pharaoh’s dreams, shrugs the letter of his stone mane, bouncing him into the air and thousands of kilometers away.

41e14afa6add424d019d77069c5fed49--moon-child-poet

PART TWO

Boris K’s apartment, an emergency department for crazy (desperate) letters

Letter traveled and bounced around for nine years until it finally found itself lying on the table of expert hieroglyph interpreter, Boris K. He spoke the human language with a strong accent originating from the Lower Nile.

“I am suffering!”, wailed the letter as it folded over in pain. It was pale and exhausted from nine long years of wandering. Boris K. put on some gloves and removed the remaining bullet fragments from its pulp with professional finesse. He bandaged it with cellophane, saying:

“You will stay a few days in my drawer until you recover, and then I’m going to decipher you.”

Three days later, Boris K. gets to work on the long and weakened letter. It contains many pages, some of which appears to be written in Phoenician, while other parts seem to contain Egyptian hieroglyphics. As he studies the letter, he sees that it includes more than 7,000 characters repeating in various combinations of three letters, that when translated to English are: D-O-G. In addition, there are also drawings that mesh with the letters. He notices drawings of the savior with nails on his hands and wrists around the letter ‘D’. Then there are drawings of mesh capturing tropical flies around the letter ‘O.’ And then finally, there are drawings of what he thinks is a famous Literary Critic from the Republic… Sofronije Sofronijević, who is depicted with a dog’s head in the shape of the letter ‘G.’

The letter speaks to Boris K. in an increasingly demonic tone:

“Your task, Boris K, is to unify me with my Phoenician twin and return me to my addressee. If you can accomplish these tasks, I will be connected and completed and all will understand me. If you do this, I promise to stop buzzing in everyone’s heads. I just want to be reunited with my better half. With only my evil half present, I continue to suffer. I was bitterly attacked, bitten by a dog and shot full of bullets. And I haven’t even told you what happened when I was in Egypt. Please HELLLLLLLLLP me! I’m begging you! Decode me or kill me!”

With that, Boris K. starts to think, smiling to himself secretly.

Determined to accomplish this task for Letter, Boris K. sharpens his high-quality Graf von Faber pen that is a knockoff and begins writing his own letter…

an excerpt from the story

 

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AU REVOIR, ŠARLEN


sarlen.jpg

Kaješ li se, Šarlen
Stvarno nisam očekivala
a trebalo je, ne znam kako mi je promaklo
da se nađem u takvom sosu
stvarno si me zeznula
to nije samo tvoja greška priznajem
htela sam da se obesim kad sam saznala kakva si
to nije ništa neočekivamo
u mojoj porodici je bilo puno ludaka
nije neobično da ih srećem i ovako
ludaci me privlače, priznajem
i ja njih
obešenjaci, reklo bi se
ne znam… teško mi je da se odlučim
da l da me pregazi kamion ili da pratim tradiciju svoje porodice
pre nekoliko dana konopac je pukao i treba nam nov
a opet. možda kola.. i na to sam mislila
da me pregaze, ili samo da lenčarim i čekam da me neko
pokupi
niti kročiti u zatvor neće, to ćemo se dogovoriti
s njima ima dogovora
nisam još odlučila, a moram jer
treba brzo da se izgubim.. taj auto presvučen grimiznom svilom..
a onda sam se setila da sam ih ostavila na drugom mestu
daleko.. ta kola.. ne slušaš me? Pa da
Tipično za tebe. Baš si gadura
Šta bi čovek od tebe pa i očekivao
Ili žena
nežna, zamišljena, misliš da u sebi imam strasti
čudno ti je to
smeješ se
drago ti je što je neko umro, možda ja?
pa da.. ne bi se ti smejala uzalud
nestašno povučene linije studijskog portreta
tipino lirski, namešteno, prijateljski
tako sam sigurna u to
da to radiš
ne pratiš me, pa i kako bi
propala si ka naš građanski rat
ne ide to tako
ali, srećom da imam Memfis, želela sam da to znaš
da sam zato došla, da ti kažem au revoir
da ću odleteti u ružičasto nebo zore
dok ti.. opet se smeješ..mračni planovi među borama osmeha
znak da se ništa ne sumnja
ssigurna sam da je tako
u jednom trenutku sam te pustila da odeš predaleko
tako da nije to samo tvoja greška
konopac je pukao
ne da ti se
a taman si mislila a si sve isplanirala
praviš od mene negativca
Šarlen, kaješ li se?
Čuješ?
Konopac je puko?
Šarlen, jesi li još tu, ili.. razgledaš svetinu
tražiš me po Memfisu, ali me tamo ne možeš naći
odoh sad do svog štampara a tebi nisam dala knjigu
makar ne sa posvetom
u knjižarama je dostupna za svakog
nikad nisam želalea da znaš sve o tim stvarima
iako sma znala da ih znaš
izigravaš žrtvu, kriviš se i mučiš i trepćeš
samo si mi nevolja, brukaš me, pitaš se zašto ..
ja se pitam zašto se ja kajem Šarlen
što me sve to dotiče
evo, opet deluje na mene
deluje, postajem osetljiva
postajem
zašto me tako gledaš, pa ovde se radi teškom zločinu, tako je..
oduvek si izigravala žrtvu
kad te gledam nemam volje da živim
stidim te se
ubila bih se sad. evo
evo, daj konopac
odlazim iz grada
srećom, srećom da imam Memfis
i on me čeka
i apartman i oni mnogi vredni pažnje s kojima još nisam poslovala
a ne idu okolo kao prebijeni psi i zbog kojih se ne kajem
a ti? kaješ li se? ne
ja, da.
Takav je život.
Konopac…
Šarlen?

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Noćni posetioci, Skinvoker, kraća verzija


СКИНВОКЕР, odlomak, nastavak romana Bernardovi sati
https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/…/05/17/bernardovi-sati/
Fidbek bi bio dobrodošao i utisci s obzirom da je ovo početak rada na nastavku drugog dela romana, premda može da stoji i pojedinačno. U suštini, to su dve novelete…. koje zajedno mogu da čine formu romana.

На почетку сам сан -путовања. Ноћне море су ужасније него икада. Хуле на мене гласови ужасних анђела, шаљу ме у пакао. Можда је то казна за почињено убиство.. Хрле ка мени језиве руке..
Балави ме неко.. то је одсечена коњска глава. Врти се на рингишпилу око ког обигравају деца. Црн је то, снажан коњ. Рингишпил држе четири одсечене ноге пастува.
„Никакав си јебач“, Барни. „Не! То је глас оне курве што сам је убио! Нисам морао!“
„Нисам морала да умрем!“, схватам да савршено подражавам њен глас, непробуђен, слепљених трепавица док ми се зној слива низ чело и орловски нос. „И ја сам имала право да живим и умрем и то не природном смрћу, неизбежно, како кажу, већ.. Била сам планирала да се убијем. Од своје руке! А ти си ме у томе спречио!“
Парче море попут пламена заталаса се, осетих како ми се у сну читаво тело загрева и изгара у ватри.
„О, Барни, ја сам отац Бојл, црквени поглавар цркве светог Патрика од Северне Ирске. У блад енд гор жанру си, сине мој. Твоји греси су ти досањали снове, довршили маштарије док се париш међ вриштећим ватрама пакла. Покварен је то јаук у теби, скврчен тако, јер Господа за милост и покајање ниси молио усрдно. Твоја невиност се одлива попут менструалне крви корумпиране девице, демонлине Ханту Копек.
„Ханту Копек! То си ти, демонко ноћне море преузела лик оца Бојла, нееее!“, вриштао сам, док су се шапат и самоћа спајали у намученом, мозгу пратећи уз урлајући осмех и кикотави плач моју патњу, слинећи као бесно псето од задовољства ме гањајући кроз мору од мог јада до бескраја.. Трчим, трчим ка хоризонту. Чујем милозвук. Хоризонт је плав, живахан и радостан и по њему плешу девице. Ширим руке ка њима. Хватају ме у коло, преливају се преко мене и уливају у мене своје сокове. Наткриљују ме телима, лагане су, очи им дрхте од суза. Плачем, ридам, држим главу међу шакама, све док не схватим да ме сустиже нечији снажан додир, да мекани гласови израстају у гробни глас као да допире из дубоке земље..
„Која није грешна нека прва баци камен!“
„Све смо безгрешне, сестро по Богу.“
И камење од некуда, с облака хита ка мени. Каменован сам на хоризонту наде. Девице то учинише, а ја схватих да то не беху свете деве но салемске вештице и да једна од њих има пола главе..
„Не! Оне ме дробе у месо! Живо месо! Помозите оче Бојл, кајем се, кајем се, убио сам нечасну жену, ишамарао нејако дете, убадао сам људске душе, злочинство ме допуњује и кад се каже злочин моје име ће вечно ићи уз злочинство, сломљене ватре ме облизаше, горим, горим..!“
„Од срца ти се мисао родила или какав други мотив те нагна да грлиш невиност слађу од усана женских, па макар и у проститутке. Знаш ли ти да је твоја жртва под заштитом наше свете патронашице, Исусове апостолке Магдалене чију светињу увреди, жабо крастава! Ниси управљао својим бесом на тај начин повредивши онемоћалу остарелу продавачицу љубави која те је изнајмила на сат, усхићена облацима, цвећем, знањем и шармом сједињеним у теби. О филмовима си јој говорио, крила јој вратио, славу јој женску вратио, а онда је разголитио у убио, но она је васкрсла у Господу.“
„Марија, ох Марија.. Узалуд за опростом жудим!“
„Зарастао си у грех и он те нагриза као коров. Одувек си маштао да одеш грешан с овог света. Безгрешан умрети, страх те је било.. сад сазнаде звер да пакла има и да ватре… ватре.. – замуцкивао је ноћни посетилац у магли сна – обучен у одежду протестанстког бискупа, с роговима на глави. Какав клише, сањиво сам помислио.
„Морам под хитно да се пробудим. Пре него што дођу..“
„Не тако брзо. Стижу.. корали!“ – загробни свештеников глас поприми још нељудскију ноту ако је то уопште било могуће.
„Не, не, корали..! То је сан о фонтани! Не могу.. не не.. Сутра ме мучи с фонтаном, новчићима и базеном, док ја…“
Крикнуо сам и пробудио сам се. Око себе угледах сабласни хор духова. Прекорише ме:
„ „Не вришти пробудићеш комшије, маму ти јебем!“
О, врата пакла, затворите се, па то је нечија рука на мојим устима.

Како то изрекох, окретох се ка зиду и наставих да спавам.

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СКИНВОКЕР, odlomak, nastavak romana Bernardovi sati
https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/…/05/17/bernardovi-sati/
Fidbek bi bio dobrodošao i utisci s obzirom da je ovo početak rada na nastavku drugog dela romana, premda može da stoji i pojedinačno. U suštini, to su dve novelete…. koje zajedno mogu da čine formu romana.

На почетку сам сан -путовања. Ноћне море су ужасније него икада. Хуле на мене гласови ужасних анђела, шаљу ме у пакао. Можда је то казна за почињено убиство.. Хрле ка мени језиве руке..
Балави ме неко.. то је одсечена коњска глава. Врти се на рингишпилу око ког обигравају деца. Црн је то, снажан коњ. Рингишпил држе четири одсечене ноге пастува.
„Никакав си јебач“, Барни. „Не! То је глас оне курве што сам је убио! Нисам морао!“
„Нисам морала да умрем!“, схватам да савршено подражавам њен глас, непробуђен, слепљених трепавица док ми се зној слива низ чело и орловски нос. „И ја сам имала право да живим и умрем и то не природном смрћу, неизбежно, како кажу, већ.. Била сам планирала да се убијем. Од своје руке! А ти си ме у томе спречио!“
Парче море попут пламена заталаса се, осетих како ми се у сну читаво тело загрева и изгара у ватри.
„О, Барни, ја сам отац Бојл, црквени поглавар цркве светог Патрика од Северне Ирске. У блад енд гор жанру си, сине мој. Твоји греси су ти досањали снове, довршили маштарије док се париш међ вриштећим ватрама пакла. Покварен је то јаук у теби, скврчен тако, јер Господа за милост и покајање ниси молио усрдно. Твоја невиност се одлива попут менструалне крви корумпиране девице, демонлине Ханту Копек.
„Ханту Копек! То си ти, демонко ноћне море преузела лик оца Бојла, нееее!“, вриштао сам, док су се шапат и самоћа спајали у намученом, мозгу пратећи уз урлајући осмех и кикотави плач моју патњу, слинећи као бесно псето од задовољства ме гањајући кроз мору од мог јада до бескраја.. Трчим, трчим ка хоризонту. Чујем милозвук. Хоризонт је плав, живахан и радостан и по њему плешу девице. Ширим руке ка њима. Хватају ме у коло, преливају се преко мене и уливају у мене своје сокове. Наткриљују ме телима, лагане су, очи им дрхте од суза. Плачем, ридам, држим главу међу шакама, све док не схватим да ме сустиже нечији снажан додир, да мекани гласови израстају у гробни глас као да допире из дубоке земље..
„Која није грешна нека прва баци камен!“
„Све смо безгрешне, сестро по Богу.“
И камење од некуда, с облака хита ка мени. Каменован сам на хоризонту наде. Девице то учинише, а ја схватих да то не беху свете деве но салемске вештице и да једна од њих има пола главе..
„Не! Оне ме дробе у месо! Живо месо! Помозите оче Бојл, кајем се, кајем се, убио сам нечасну жену, ишамарао нејако дете, убадао сам људске душе, злочинство ме допуњује и кад се каже злочин моје име ће вечно ићи уз злочинство, сломљене ватре ме облизаше, горим, горим..!“
„Од срца ти се мисао родила или какав други мотив те нагна да грлиш невиност слађу од усана женских, па макар и у проститутке. Знаш ли ти да је твоја жртва под заштитом наше свете патронашице, Исусове апостолке Магдалене чију светињу увреди, жабо крастава! Ниси управљао својим бесом на тај начин повредивши онемоћалу остарелу продавачицу љубави која те је изнајмила на сат, усхићена облацима, цвећем, знањем и шармом сједињеним у теби. О филмовима си јој говорио, крила јој вратио, славу јој женску вратио, а онда је разголитио у убио, но она је васкрсла у Господу.“
„Марија, ох Марија.. Узалуд за опростом жудим!“
„Зарастао си у грех и он те нагриза као коров. Одувек си маштао да одеш грешан с овог света. Безгрешан умрети, страх те је било.. сад сазнаде звер да пакла има и да ватре… ватре.. – замуцкивао је ноћни посетилац у магли сна – обучен у одежду протестанстког бискупа, с роговима на глави. Какав клише, сањиво сам помислио.
„Морам под хитно да се пробудим. Пре него што дођу..“
„Не тако брзо. Стижу.. корали!“ – загробни свештеников глас поприми још нељудскију ноту ако је то уопште било могуће.
„Не, не, корали..! То је сан о фонтани! Не могу.. не не.. Сутра ме мучи с фонтаном, новчићима и базеном, док ја…“
Крикнуо сам и пробудио сам се. Око себе угледах сабласни хор духова. Прекорише ме:
„ „Не вришти пробудићеш комшије, маму ти јебем!“
О, врата пакла, затворите се, па то је нечија рука на мојим устима.

12.54

Кад небески јахач ноћне море одлепрша, обично се догађа тако да први зрак сунца објави прогонство ужасног, тад се будим, облачим, дозвољавам себи луксузе оних који се усуђују себе звати нормалним људима, али они то нису, они су, СВИ ОНИ, укључујући и курву коју сам убио.. (срк кафе) разгрнуо бих завесе, али се бојим да се сунце не уплете у моју рашчерупану косу и МОЈЕ зидове.
Испијао сам кафу док су ми главом јуришале буновне, полусмислене мисли. Натраг на посао. Ноћ проклетства је прошла. И још многе ноћи. Да ли је неко тражио курву, какав непристран, страствен истраживач? Јављала ми се каткад у сновима, посматрајући ме неодређено, без мржње, тек исплаженог црног језика. А ја бих је запиткивао: па, како је тамо? Дочекивало би ме ћутање. Поставила је препреке, она, антистварност, свемир, бог и његови демони, свет досаде и немаштовите море кроз које сам пролазио.
„А како маштовите да буду кад у мени нема ни трунке кајања?“ Ипак, магличаста светлост би опстајала неколико сати након буђења. Чинило ми се да кроз светлост, попут зноја, капуцка крв. Кап..тап.. кап… тап.. Скупио сам зене крволока. Мора да је осећала детињи страх док сам је давио…
Била је још једна, можда је време да сад признам. Назвала ме је шверцером.. Аааах! Након првог убиства, три дана сам лежао у бунилу и грозници. Очи су ми дрхтале, гризао сам јастуке, пена ми је шикљала на уста, савијао сам труп напред и назад као епилептичар, испрекидано дисао, а четвртог дана сам отворио врата антикварнице потезом звери и закрвављених очију сам се загледао у свет. Ја, шверцер?
Мада сам пуно знао о њима. Гадили су ми се. Ситни препродавци са својим импровизованим тезгама на којима излажу картонске кутије препуне робе. Зими, стиснути испод тезги тапкају по расквашеном снегу не би ли угрејали ноге. Лети се шепуре својом робом на узаврелом Булевару. Крај њих су напирлитани купци у улози немилосрдних моћника, ах како они воле да окрену нос од понуђене робе. Шверцери за то не маре. Гађају се трговачким досеткама, између псовки. Тако сам упознао и њу, док сам обилазио… Зашто сам обилазио? Да бих могао да их презирем, па управо зато!

Свугде ме има. Излазим из најгушћег мрака и из најдаљих предела осамљености и забачености. У потрази за… неким. У потрази за оним најређим, а то је људска доброта. Зашто о овоме говорим? Време је да отворим антикварницу… Шверцери.. Хм… Била је лепа, као пролазећа звезда која заблиста и нестане у неком кутку свемира без обличја. Волео бих да се све завршило на том првом убиству, јер чак није нити била курва, само жеља коју сам пронашао у својој нејасној потрази. Нашао сам је и убио.

Да ли бас крајолик моје прошлости плаши? Тако је то.. Путовао сам прошлошћу као необуздани путник и чудовишне су знам ове ископине, за оне који ће их пронаћи.
Свугде где сам био, свет се показао ружним и прљавим. Гостионице, барови, бордели, моја бивша антикварница чији су зидови на смрт премлаћени од стране мојих мрзитеља, деце која су на МОЈЕ, СВЕ МОЈЕ бацали камење и гомила која урла за њима, сви на мене.. и сви имају лица боје суморности и сивила.. Моју антикварницу су затворили, а онда су је дали неком другом, то је неки постарији човек, можда пробам с њим да уговорим ствар, пишем овај спис и трљам модре, промрзле руке, на Булевару, скупа с уличним лешинарима, дилерима картон ситија, уличним харамбашама који окружују пролазнике и добацују им.. грозничаво, набацују им се, као блуднице, маме их, покрај тезги, баш баш као дроље избачене из јефтиног бордела на улицу.
За мене говоре да сам нервозан, црномањаст човек, налик на оне из чеховљеве футроле, каже ми Професор, он продаје шалове и рукавице, а некад је студирао философију на Сорбони док га нису преварили.. Ту се искључујем, не слушам га даље, не знам како су га преварили, помиње некакав старачки дом у који га је сместио син, а онда се заборави па каже да је и он неког убио (а ја сам се Професору поверио на шта се нацерио откривши црне зубе) и да се сам пријавио, али му нису веровали на реч. Говори да ужива, ох да ја уживам у свему овоме, Барни, јер ме овде не могу пронаћи, нити мој син, нити они из масонске ложе – ад би ме злослутно погледао – Дошло ми је до ушију да су и тебе шронашли и зле вести се чују по овоме крају – наслонио се на картонску кутију облепљену нетачним ценама с нажврљано – нечитким рукописом, како тврди Професор, на латинском је, све је или на латинском или француском, и шапуће ми:
– Барни.. Скресао сам ја у лице тим хуљама све шта мислим и знам да и они мисле да сам луд, а ја сам као и ти, човек у футроли, ја се страствено разликујем од свију.. и.. – ућутао би се – вести брзо путују по овоме крају, а мој син… И он је радио овде. Барни, мој син, то је неоплаћени ђаво. Нико не верује, нико не зна да је зачет у древној Персији, и тамо сам био, мисле да сам луд или да је старачка ћуд моја.. Ишчекивао сам његов долазак на свет, а напокон кад се родио, пригрлио сам га..
Насмејао сам се. Питао сам га како то мени може доказати, да сам распарач и да ме се то нимало не тиче.
„То је зато што си ти он“ – рођен из великог страха и мрачнога пакла, нашао си пут кроз врата овог света у онај други, црни.. – мрмљао је Професор. – И ја сам те поново нашао сине мој на стравичном месту, без страха. Ти си без граница, ти си без граница, свет је твоја разбојничка мапа, кад би само знао.. а ја тражим само једно, да кад умрем, да ме покопаш на хришћанскоме местугде су нацерени крстови и нахерени помало.. укосо!“, на неком запуштеном гробљу, ту метни крст… ти, чија је ђавологија само једна карика уз ланцу до последњег, најбитнијег преображаја у звер, груба карика у духовној зими твог постојања“, он устаде и отплеса уз махнити смех до једног половног старинског клавира, заигра крај њега валцер, закука потом, настављајући да изводи гротескне плесне фигуре.
Тезгароши праснуше у смех, а онда ка њему нагрнуше и бесним рукама га гураше „Тераш нам муштерије, псето.“, а професор раздра изношени капут дозивајући неког Павла Балаша, „јер ти си за мог сина капут сашио и за краља, а све шалове и рукавице остављам ником другом до свом новом сину, јер се једини он сажали на беду његовог рођења, пакосници, трговац душама међу вама седи, идите и поклоните му се“ и још додаде: „Види види сине мој како ме ударају као логораше док раде склекове хи хи хи, аонд акад ме буду претукли, ставиће ме у хангар број 5“
Напокон га оставише кад се старац онесвештен срушио у снег, пузећи полако према мени и дозивајући ме: „Змијо, змијо…“, док је у руци држао кухињски нож који је однекуд извукао, а трговци се вратише својој роби, а старац нагло испусти нож, зајеца и потом се сав зацени из плача. „Тако су побуњеници пресрели и разрушили спровод мртвог краља и покрали му посуде, све у злату и сребру и кад све однеше од тад луташе, као војници Христа, баш као и мој син по свету.До сукоба ће доћи!“
„Ене га, опет лег”о! – запали цигарету без филтера мушкарац погнуте главе у рамена ког су звали Вођа – надувеног лица које се белело спрам сумрачног неба и тамних подочњака док је мотао ситно сецкани дуван златножутебоје- Нисам дошо овде да вучем будале, него да преживим, да радим, своју породицу извучем на пут“.. О, госпоја, ви сте! Имам нешто за Вас – извади две паклице цигарета – Ово је за праву даму, а овај сецкани може и баба Перса преко пута. Тад су жене навелико пушиле. Неке крадом, неке јавно…“

Nastavak sledi…

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‘But…we are ARTISTS!’


The Artists

‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Wagner, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Wagnerian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

Mary Lynne allowed herself a minute smile and crossed her legs at the table.

The man tried his hardest not to look at her lovely, thin legs.

‘You start the text off strong, with a title that cuts to the chase, that doesn’t wander. The readers think that you will…that you’ll…’ His frowning face softened. ‘As early as the first, then the second paragraph to expand upon, to provide arguments to the qualification you laid…laid out, oh dear, I’m losing myself…in the title, yeah, that’s the word, IN THE TITLE! He gathered his wits for a second and started banging his head on the table – and yet nothing.’

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Vincent D’Onofrio (Cholo) with Mathilda May (Stephanie) in the movie Naked Tango the end of the film.

https://www.etsy.com/il-en/listing/276627324/black-and-white-nude-acrylic-painting

‘You say that he bullied his colleagues, and also that you cannot cite a single example, because there is nothing written, or disclosed. Funny, one would wonder: where did the daring claim come from that the man was a witnessed sadist when there are neither examples nor evidence of this? ’

The man extended his hands towards her. ‘Oh, Maryyyy…I will strangle youuuuu! With a wire string, dude!’

The man panicked. He grabbed her throat. He screamed. ‘I’m panicking! I’m panicking! I have to jump!’

And he jumped at her mumbling how truly unhappy he is.

‘Look at her, how easily she gives herself to me! You are no longer so prideful! Get yourself up, you low-browed dunce! Oh if only a wind could blow right now to lift your skirt up, and here I am having to put up the effort, they’ll even call this rape!’

‘And it would’ve been romantic’ Mary Lynne said coquettishly.

‘Right, like in Tannhäuser. Sing to me, sing to me, be my…Wilhelmina Schroeder!’

‘Is that like Venus?’

He lifted her leg in lieu of responding as if he were plowing a field. He flung it over his left shoulder.

Venus sang.

‘Do forgive me never more will IIIIIIIII

Come to me if fortune’s what you seeeeeeeek’

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Sophie Koch as Venus in Tannhäuser

‘My fortune…’ He uttered between heavy panting and then flung her left leg over his right shoulder (where the other one went, he wasn’t sure). ‘My fortune lies in Mary!’

And he added:

‘I also think that the text would have had more impact if Hitler hadn’t been mentioned. What, there’s no bloody way that Stalin, who was none the lesser a monster and a murderer than Hitler, didn’t love Glinka or Borodin, or more likely Mussorgsky. That does not mean that these composers were vile men. There is a sizable possibility that Idi Amin loved Tartini or Paganini, why not. There are counterexamples as well. Beethoven loved Napoleon for years, he even devoted ‘Eroica’  to him, after which he got disappointed, gave up on Bonaparte.’

‘There.’ Mary said, after an explosive finish a la Eroica. ‘Now, will we do some Wilhelm Friedman for me, sweet lover?’

‘Start!’ With Mary’s dress at an arm’s reach, he quickly put on a dress and made-up and groomed in a manga style he lifted his hairy legs up high, swearing that the Cliven depilatory cream was not handy.

‘You know how much I care for hygiene!’ He wept.

‘Cold waxing is the best with the Tiger tire glue.’ She smiled. ‘Now have a listen…’

‘Oof…’

Between Expressions by Hamish Blakely

‘Wilhelm Friedman was spat upon to the point of pain. A boozehound died poor…(SIGHING) They then admit that he was the greatest instrumentalist of his age. The dude hit the clavier, not a single person could challenge him. A biography that on the surface looks like the buckish bios of notable rock musicians. Oy vey, there was a movie as well, I think the title of it is, in fact, Wilhelm Friedman, where he, apparently, suffers and struggles (SHE SIGHS LOUDER AND MORE PASSIONATELY) as a gifted son of a well-known father. The catch is that his father was nowhere near as noteworthy when Friedman was playing, and his problem was neither living in his father’s nor in his brother’s shadow (Mozart said about Carl Philip Emanuel: ‘He is the father, we are all his children’ (OH GOD!!!!), which reckless historians transposed as Mozart talking about Bach, and he didn’t.) (BOTH SIGH AND MOAN), but with all those flies, fleas and planktons that make up life and make up us humans, like a living organism, dead center in that life itself. Leopold Mozart, Wolfgang’s pops, picturesquely and colloquially described the habitus of Friedman Bach. ‘A remarkable musician, an unrivaled composer, but a heavy, heavy drinker.’’

He was panting. ‘I love Händel a lot. I have some undocumented version of his Water Music, therefore I do not know either who performed it or when, and the version is, just, it’s the balls, it tears ass… I listened to various different versions, but most of them are shit, can’t even come close to what I have. Händel and Telemann, by the way, I view as bigger composers than Bach. ’

Lars von Trier’s Antichrist was playing in the background during all of this. An erect phallus added to the magic and romance of the two. Candles were too much with all of these other stimuli. At the peak of arousal, they were slapping each other, arguing which composer is better.

antichrist

‘Boozehound, spendthrift, died poor, boozehound, spe…e…eh, dear husband, I think that will do for the evening.’

And while he was putting on man’s clothing, Mary Lynne sang Messiaen: Turangalîla-Symphony (Joie du sang des étoiles) in front of the mirror, the director of the Artist’s Trilogy Ron Gabe Bonester went upsy-daisy and with a ‘Camera, cut!’ he marked the end of the shoot.

‘I gave you too much freedom! None of that was in the script!’ He paused for thought. ‘Now you, kid, get Mary a gun to blow your brains out!’

The actress went upstart. ‘That wasn’t the deal!’

Bonester shouted in response to this. ‘Nobody questions my authority! For two hours behind that there…glass compartment…the Australian minister of culture is sitting and waiting for the script which will present his arduous devotions at the Art Conference focusing on non-profit management. Our country cannot develop economically without innovation in that particular field. And education! Who do you think you are? Who bought me this Canon EOS 6D to shoot you guys? Get serious, woman, and continue the oral, along with Chopin and your husband.’

‘But…we are ARTISTS!’

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‘An overrated term. I do not exchange my ideas with the personnel. We directors laud a vibrant and growing creative economy!’

Then both He and She approached him and pounded him into the ground, while Bonester slid on the floor in his oversized suit.

‘Shall we continue where we left off?’

‘You mean…while the Minister Behind the Compartment observes?’

‘And then a gun to the head, like Romeo and Juliet. Or was it poison? But let’s not split hairs.’

‘That would probably be a mistake, but…as I said… we are artists, dear colleague, and a happy couple in Art. We cannot live on without the drama.’

‘And voyeurs,’ someone whispered, sat in a chair where the now unconscious director lay and followed this up with a thunderous applause.

Then the trio continued the show agreeing that the Husband should be given any old name.

Mary’s gaze flew up and she said: ‘He will be named Frederic. Like our unborn son.’

Nobody objected, therefore Frederic could begin.

The Minister, who physically reminded one of the head electricians, would record something with an expensive video camera. But under the condition that he played Chopin.

‘Bah bah, the Best Boy.’ Both send passionate kisses to him. Then, with an erotic play, they embraced.

‘Artists, such artists,’ mumbled the Mysterious Traveler, the Spectator, the Third Without Whom You Can’t Go On, from the artistic Kingdom of Heaven.

But Mary Lynne and Frederic were in their own world, wreathed in music and gifted with a gift worthy of the Gods.

The camera buzzed. Reflectors flashed.

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SCENE 25:

‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Bach, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Bachian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

SCENE 26:

‘…as far as the Bach family is concerned, I love Wilhelm Friedman and Carl Philip Emanuel, they rule, each in their own way, but I dug up some other guys as well – for instance, Johann Bernhardt Bach is also excellent. In the classical era, Johann Christian Bach stood out. Imagine that wondrous family tree, this beast of a family, which branched out during a good hundred-and-so-year period, and bore nothing but interesting musical fruit. Crazy.’ (SCREAM)

CUT.

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MASK, a fairy tale for adults


MASK, a fairy tale for adults

written and translated by Leila Samarrai

It happened in an empire, in the mountainous Balkans. Its name was Serbia. And like any other empire, this place had his Emperor who was just, wholesome and kind-hearted and above all he loved beauty. He did everything to keep his subjects happy, especially children.  He responded to their needs and further than anyone could think possible. He wanted them to enjoy the beauty, games. So he built a castle in dark crimson, furnishing the rooms by filling it with some special mirrors and toys like Judas Cradle, Cat’s Paw, Guillotine, Iron Maiden. Children had been playing with  Emperor’s toys to adulthood.

By all accounts, he was a good Emperor, a man of great stature. But if he had one shortcoming.  One single flaw.  He had an awful, disfigured face, all covered with scars, with scary side effects, caused by skin changes caused by leprosy.

The scars were terrible. Scars never went. It was an extraordinary ugly head instilled horror to anyone who would see such a thing if it wasn’t for his mask,  made special for him. He was removing his mask only at night when he was all alone, hating his people vigorously.

“Why is everyone so pretty here? Everyone but me! Others have had similar disease all those years ago, in 1999…  Then again, their faces are chaste and pure,  no sign of a terrible disease. There’s some devilry there!”

As a result, the Emperor never married. Although he was wearing his mask, nobody seemed to notice, thanks to the craftsmanship of the greatest scientific minds in Serbia. The Scientists took a strict vow of silence, in fear of Emperor’s wrath.

In that way, The Mask was no different from other human faces, hiding a face out of a nightmare, with full lips, a long nose and And the blossom in his cheek, made quite an impression. a pretty face and such a pretty body, fit for the Great Emperor!

All the women were crazy about him, hoping he would marry one of them. But he was looking for his bride in other empires, someone who is like him.
However, in spite of a massive search, roaming, and wandering,  searching was pointless. He couldn’t find his equal.

But one day, rumors spread that,  in a far away Empire /- land, in Sweden’s north, an ugly princess does live there, with a disfigured face, eaten by some terrible disease…

“There is a God.”, he thought – I won’t grow old alone! Finally, I can share my soul with a monster like me! Just like me, Disfigured and alone.  I can  take off my  mask in front of her, finally, finally!”

And every day, The Mask had put him under painful pressure, burning his monstrous face like fire, tormented him.

It was all material the Mask was made of fault! The top secret ingredient is known but to an honored few Scientists.

Emperor was also born with a rare genetic condition that made his head growing every day, more and more.

His mask  was stuffed terribly, while Emperor was yelling, screaming, howling like a dog, in a lot of pain.,

One day he realized that his mask has grown back into the flesh. Emperor couldn’t get it off.  He looked even more cruel,  more grotesquely evil, more than ever before!
The Emperor has called an urgent Science meeting.

Scientists, All of them fell on their knees, full of stress and fear, their arms in the sad knot.

“O great and magnificent Emperor, spare our worthless lives… The mask can’t grow with your head. We found out too late… Everything was in place when you were a child.

Now that you’ve turned 16.. (for, It was a young emperor), it can’t take any bone pressure. Not to mention scars and..”

An Emperor ’s hellish scream cut them off.“

“I want a new mask. A new one. If I don’t get it, I will cut your heads off! their heads chopped off.! a whole kingdom!”

In an instant, they ran to fulfill Emperor’s commission, shivering.

The unfortunate Emperor hurried on to the table, too, grabbing a pen and a paper to write off a letter to ” to my dear, beloved Alicia”, to complain about a deep suffering, breaking off their engagement:

TO BE CONTINUED

written and

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‘Open The Gates.’ Sleeping Mathilde, an excerpt


‘There are many wild animals roaming around.’ She had a bloodthirsty smile on her face. ‘But this is not reason enough to explain you. Amerongen never cared much for hunting.’

‘The deciding factor was me being Gol’s best friend. He was an excellent swordsman and had taught me skills few guards know.’

‘Gol’s friend…’

‘Yes, mistress Mathilde.’

‘Gol had no friends.’

She approached him very closely and never had I seen in this long life of mine, me, Jonas Sverker, such effort in anyone, man or woman, to keep at bay their desire to slit someone’s throat. Her gaze went wild with unbridled rage, and her chin was twitching. Still, she all but whispered the following.

‘I know all the guards Orian ever spoke to. You were not among them. You did not follow a single command I issued. I know what you did with the trenches. You buried them, and in them you’ve buried the bodies of my many loyal guards. You brought your own men. Do you think I am unaware of the dagger at my throat and that the tower guards’ arrows aiming at me, or of the gate being unlocked? I wonder who dragged you here to begin with.’

‘Almric, Olof’s brother.’ He smiled and lunged at her with a dagger.

She grabbed the sharp end with her hand, confusing him for a moment, then giving him a powerful knee kick to the crotch.

The guards pulled out their arrows and tightened their bows.

‘Stop…’ Tamson gurgled, but I could no longer hear him, for I went numb out of fear for our fates.

At that moment, from the highest point of a tower an arrow pierced the rebel’s leg, and then the other went into his palm. The mistress grabbed him and blood covered her long, white fingers. ‘Almric, you say?’

Dark shadows were dancing on her face, while the guards were returning the arrows to their quivers.

‘Are they dead as well?’ Tamson asked. His confused look was aimed at the archers, many of which, as he knew, were hidden in the deepest parts of the tower. It was the last line of defense, therefore it had to have been heavily guarded. ‘Where are my men? Maybe in that trench you mentioned?’

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Mathilde burst out laughing.

‘Give me my sword back, you damn Norrbotten witch!’

The shivers that had overcome his body up until that point were gone completely, which she noticed and whispered ‘Almric…’ anew, adding ‘I can understand that. I would have done the same myself. Raise an army of monsters and crush Amerongen, bathe in his blood under the light of the pregnant moon. But where is the wretch now? There he is chanting to himself in the solars begging the serfs to ride him. There are no living here, not anymore.’ To this I, Jonas Sverker, quivered in fear, but Mathilde had already sent away the guards that wanted to shackle Tamson. There was a tumult in the air from all the rage. Tamson looked at their faces, but they were cloaked. ‘This is your army?’ He laughed. ‘Yeomen whose blood you drank?’

‘How poignant.’ She laughed and tossed him a two-handed sword. ‘I like your courage. What else can you do besides being brave? Since you cannot fight, which we’ve established during regular training.’ She turned her back to him, giving him the chance to cut her down. ‘I can hear the trotting of feet moving to the gates. The monster is here, to lay the beast to rest.’ She spoke without rhyme or reason.

Tamson stood on his shaky feet, the sword in his hand equally as shaky.

‘You wear the robes of Amerongen, giving out the same commands he would, drink blood far more greedily and suck the life out of Norrbotten more rammishly and passionately than he ever could…You are Amerongen. Your soul is rotten, words vile, innocent blood rests on your hands!’ He shouted, swinging his sword to Mathilde. She swiftly turned and he landed on the sharp end of her blade, his heart pierced.

‘You should have killed me first, then give a speech,’ she said, wiping the sword on Abaddon’s back. She turned to the guards.

‘Open the gates for Almric.’ She uttered this verdict under the flaming ball burning away in the open sky, for it no longer was the sun, but rather a burning monster, a flaming torch about to start a wildfire.

‘It’s as if lava is about to run from the sky, followed by blood. Then fire comes and swallows all,’ the Undead one concluded.

‘You are right, my love,’ none other than my undead daughter Laetitia added, dismounting Abaddon, and then, hand in hand the two moved through the garden, along a narrow alleyway to the castle gates which closed like a maw behind them…

The entry fortress was open for Almric’s army to enter on their lavishly clad horses. The infantry threw boulders at the defenseless towers of Hässe. Almric’s knights rode through the gates armed with spears, swords and maces. One part was made up of simple peasantry clad in animal hides, armed with axes and pitchforks.

This was how Amerongen was abandoned by his gods. Alfhild, goddess akin to our immortal mistress Mathilde, joined forces with Loki’s daughter Hel, ruler of Niflheim.[1]

The Road of Death, a bridge stretching over Hornavan, joining the isle of Naki with the surrounding mountains, was Amerongen’s concoction just like the Bifrost connecting Midgard to Asgard.[2] We decided that, if we were to survive the wrath of gods, we would ride out of Hässe, the realm of eternal cold, the miniature Niflheim of Amerongen’s tenebrous mind, which started burning under the swigs of flaming swords of Surtr, the god creator of stars and Bergelmir.[3]

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Hässe was disappearing, under the rain of flaming arrows, in a fiery vortex. I saw a strange apparition at the tallest tower up which, along the ladder, the enraged villagers were climbing, howling wolfishly.

‘Amerongen is here!’ Taken by anger, they cursed his name, called on him to surrender the ‘bitch of Norrbotten’, while the great sven looked at them cold, tall in a long gown, cloaked.

A sword flashed which he held in his hand steadily, calmly, as if he were in a world of unnatural coldness. Too far for me to notice any other detail, it seemed to me that he stepped forward, as if he is about to dive into the fire at any moment. The curses and begging of the villagefolk were interrupted by a whip cracking in his other hand. Some fell from the ladder, pierced by arrows from the opposite tower, the ‘Eyes of Hässe’, fired by surviving guards of Orian. I listened in carefully. I heard his mumbling and a whisper to nobody in particular, except to one…the Sun!

‘Let me see you now.’ I was sure he was talking to the sun, for his entire body was turned to the flaming mass in the sky towards which he seemed an alabaster statue, solemn in his motionless stupor and lack of interest to the battle behind him. ‘Mock, shaman, keep on mocking. I will see you there…any second now!’

I could clearly see his skull grinning and his skeletal hand (‘Is he even alive?’) that he held up his sword with towards the sun. En garde, he started moving along an imaginary line along the edge of the tower, measuring up the opponent up in the heavens. I was certain then that he had lost it. ‘And now a lunge at the opponent!’ This he said, blessed Thor and jumped, laughing maniacally, into the fire.

After the master’s fall, the remaining guards charged and clashed blades with Almric’s army. Through the smoke, sword clinking and the all-devouring fire, I spotted a distraught Hilde with unkempt hair and torn garb, running towards me, so I took her into my arms and threw over one of Orian’s Arabian horses, defending myself along the way with an ax I took from the battleground, and I rode the horse to save us from certain demise in an insane trot.

The flames shivered around our heads, but by the grace of the gods, or some other miracle, we were unharmed, and what a miracle it was, I gave myself the task of finding it out after I had found myself on the other side of the Death Road, for I knew the shortcut that lead into the hills specked with muddy village huts that during the rebellion, I believed, were abandoned.

As if reading my thoughts, to the noted above Hilde said to me. ‘This Arabian horse was gifted to us by our mistress Mathilde. She is already in Valhalla with our daughter, Jonas – they dance with the Valkyries.’

No other option remained for me but to hold her words as true and that the mistress sent her this message from hell itself, for we rode the battleground filled with cries of those fallen from the towers, that dropped, with deafening noise, one after another, in a fateful battle and clash of two-handed swords with axes and iron bars. Not one bit of that touched us, nor were we seen – by either Almric’s troops or Tamson’s infantry made up of the Norrbotten village men – as we rode past them. At one point, the shaitan-horse passed through the body of a guard in armor. ‘See? Not a regular horse,’ my wife said triumphantly, the moment before the horse flew over the drawbridge and into the fire which we then left unharmed.

Hässe was convulsing and breathing its last breaths, while I prayed to Odin, begging him to send the Storm, to have at least a flower or a rock remain of the castle, to which Hilde bumped me on the head, and I thanked dear Odin that my head had never been filled by unsightly thoughts, to which my wife laughed heartily. ‘The mistress gifted me as well, not just you.’ I looked at her, spurred the horse far away onward, as far away as possible from the castle that the devil himself claimed.

Odin split the gut of the sky asunder with his thunder and smacked the ‘Eyes of Hässe’. A lively colorful fire burst over the decorated tower. Hässe was moaning amid its death rattle. Dying slowly and finally exhaling one last time, leaving no man alive, for Hässe belonged to no one other than Yambe-Akka.

I tell all of this in your mercy, chaplain Larsen, so that you could take pity on our fates and, considering our knowledge and fealty to the masters while they were alive, take us into Västerås to live in peace and pray to one god.

Captain Larsen coughed reading the scroll written by the unskilled hand of a simple serf.

–         He writes like a king or a monk would…There must be an explanation for this as well.

He scratched his head and started reading the stableboy’s writing in pure Latin.

–         ‘And mistress Mathilde, with our daughter Laetitia Sverker, came to our dreams these past days, forcing us to plead with you and explain what really happened in Hässe during your absence.

Wishing for her will to be done properly, she greets you, chaplain and Father, and she hopes not, for your sake, for an upcoming encounter.

Your humble servant,

Jonas Sverker.’

*

 

– I am Ishmael.

– Umar told me of you.

– Have you read the history of Hjalmar and what had happened?

[1] One of the Nine realms, the land of the dishonored dead who did not die heroically.

[2] Home of the gods.

[3] Giants living in the fire realm of Muspelheim.

 

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A Shaman’s Curse, (Serbian original included), an excerpt


At it’s core, this story is about an altered perception during any creative endeavor. (author’s note)

Posted on the website Ljubitelji i autori sf/f/h umjetnosti u BiH

Dediicated to Plato

In medias res

#horror #satire #parody #psychedelic

Why murder? Because of vanity? – an unimaginative mind would say. Your shoes are salted with it and you walk around bloodied like that. You! The author, under the veil of suspicion! There is something fascinating, I speak while I shake and hit a pole, then another, dazed, probably under influence of the spell from that diabolical fiend and his Halverson – I laughed wildly, then growled – something obscenely fascinating in falsifying the work of another. Within the success of an average mind, without cleverness, that which is adorned by incompleteness, that which loans all it has from the Complete one. He is a voyeur, this plagiarist and falsifier. He peeps through the keyhole of your overflowing imagination. He uses voodoo magic! He walks behind you with a smile while your statement, your bleeding, your desperation flows…Or is this a simulacrum, an exaggeration, an illusion, tension caused by a simple fact that Lucius and Ignatius have similar, if not the same surnames. Fact that in the Zerynthia novel one of us was a literary character, and that the other one wrote it. (This secret, dear reader, I’ve kept from you until the very end)And that the literary character dies in a puddle of blood, just like this, with a knife. So who was I? What soul? The one of Zerynthia? And who here is an Earthling, and who an extraterrestrial? TURBAN! – that was my final mad IDEA after which I passed out…

While he’s dreaming…

“Two mad loves”, hahaha, Ignatius. Oriental poetry is not the current trend with us Scandinavian folk.

“Not true. The influx of Arabs in Sweden is growing on a global scale. They have houses, are covered socially…”

“But you’re saying that Zerynthia is east of the Moon.”

“I say that her hair is, which is how he sees it, like the treetop of the Canadian rhododendron. The Moon has nothing to do with it. East – that’s just a direction. From hell, from heaven, was it not already written… But, then the oriental directions have enlightened the people, now hell and heaven and east and west, even the rhododendron and the Moon just confuse them.”

“Who is he, Ignatius, who is he, and who am I”, the publisher with a turban on his head asked.

“Lucius. He gets into different situations where his behavior turns abnormal. If he is even capable of love, that love is damaging, mister publisher man. Still, his work is finally gaining traction. Words are becoming more picky amongst themselves, they defy each other, they even defy publishers and the public, as blind as Homer the topic of reading a good book, the provincial taste over which Lucius reigns inviolably. Margarita agrees with him and once, at a Georgian terrace where they were at in the Bedford Park villa, she confesses to him that not only will he become the new Aki the Pig, but an enlightening reformer in the age when Zerynthia alongside China will be the sovereign ruler of the world – she confesses to him and speaks…ah, speaks and this is one of the most powerful parts where her role shifts from a supporting to a main one, at least in his head, where she speaks to him on a personal, intimate level. The novel becomes novelist-ish, so to speak…”

When he heard this, he, the publisher, a man of quite noticeable facial features covered in yellow feathers and with a flat head in the shape of a hammer, jumped on me and rode me, starting to grind me…down to dust. His body was that of King Kong. In his hand he had a baseball bat and he whack whack whacked into powder, whack into one nothing nothing. YOU ARE AWFUL, IGNATIUS HALVERSON! AND NOW YOU ARE OFFICIALLY NOTHING!

Serbian original:

ŠAMANOVA KLETVA ili O IDEJAMA
Posvećeno Platonu
image Shaman ~ Jeff Wood

#horor #satira #parodija #psihodelija

Čemu ubistvo? Zbog sujete? – rekao bi neimaginativni um. Njome su ti posoljene cipele i tako krvav koračaš. Ti! Pisac, pod velom suspicije! Postoji nešto fascinantno, govorim dok se tresem i udaram o jednu banderu, potom o drugu, ošamućen, verovatno pd dejstvom čarolije onog dijabolika i njegovog Halversona – divlje sam se nasmejao, potom zarežao – nešto opsceno fascinantno u krivotvorstvu tuđeg rada. U uspehu prosečnog uma, bez pameti, onog što ga krasi nepotpunost, onoga što od Potpunog sve svoje uzajmljuje. Voajer je to, taj plagijator i krivotvor. Viri kroz ključaonicu vaše nabujale mašte. Koristi vudú magije! Za vama sa osmehom korača dok teče vaše kazivanje, vaše krvarenje, vaš očaj… Ili je ovo privid, preuveličavanje, iluzija, napetost izazvana pukom činjenicom da Lucijus i Ignašijus imaju slična, ako ne ista prezimena. Činjenice da je u romanu o Zerentiji jedan od nas bio književni lik, a drugi ga je napisao. (ovu san tajnu, od tebe čitaoče, čuvao do samog kraja) I da književni lik umire u lokvi krvi, baš ovako, sa bodežom. Ko sam bio ja? Koja duša? Da li ona sa Zerentije? I ko je tu Zemljanin, a ko Vanzemaljac? TURBAN!– bila je moja poslednja mahnita IDEJA nakon čega sam se onesvestio… ,

Dok sanja…

„Dve lude ljubavi“, ha ha ha. Ignašijuse. Istočnjačka poezija nije aktuelna u nas Skandinavaca.
„Nije tačno. Priliv Arapa u Švedskoj raste na globalnom nivou. Imaju kuće, pokriveno socijalno..“
„Ali ti govoriš da je Zerentija istočno od Meseca“.
„Ja govorim da joj je kosa, a on je tako vidi, nalik na krošnju kanadskog rododendrona. Mesec s tim nema nikakve veze. Istočno – to je samo pravac. Od pakla, od raja, zar ne beše napisano.. Ali, tada su istočni pravci prosvećivali narod, sada ga i pakao i raj i istok i zapad, pa i rododendron i mesec samo zbunjuju“.
„Ko je on, Ignašijuse, ko je on, a ko sam ja?“, upita izdavač sa turbanom na glavi.
„Lucijus. Zapada u različite situacije u kojima je njegovo ponašanje abnormalno. Ukoliko i voli, ta ljubav je štetna, gospodine izdavač. No, njegov rad napokon dobija zamah. Reči postaju izbirljivije međusobno, prkose jedna drugoj, pa i izdavaču i publici, slepoj kao Homer kad je u pitanju dobra knjiga, varoškom ukusu nad kojim Lucijus neprikosnoveno vlada. Margarita se sa njim slaže i jednom, na gruzijskoj terasi gde se nađoše u vili Bedford Park, priznaje mu da ne samo da će od njega postati novi Aki Svinja, već prosvetiteljski reformator u doba kada će Zerentija zajedno sa Kinom suvereno vladati svetom – priznaje mu i govori.. ah, govori i to je jedno od najsnažnijih mesta gde iz sporedne uloge prelazi u glavnu, barem u njegovoj glavi, gde mu se obraća lično, intimno. Roman postaje romansijerski, tako reći..“

Kad to ču, on, izdavač, čovek izrazito markantnih crta lica prekrivenog žutim perjem i spljoštene glave oblika čekića, skoči na mene i zajaha me, počevši da me drobi.. do praha. Telo mu je bilo kao u King Konga. U ruci je držao bejzbolku i udri udri u prah, udri u jedno ništa ništa NIŠTA NE VALJAŠ , IGNAŠIJUSE HALVERSONE I SAD SI ZVANIČNO NIŠTA!

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Inscriptions in the darkness, Rabisu (“the vagabond”)


Inscriptions in the darkness, a little paragraph
written in Serbian and translated into English, by Leila Samarrai

image: “Le cauchemar”, huile de Henry Fuseli

A vicious being, Rabisu*, takes all kinds of form, he lasts to the bitter end, to the dust, in a lifetime, before waking up, only for some breed of men, claims Rabisu and adds:
“You are the chosen one”

He adds that he is flattered by the expression on my face when I wake up, ““So beautifully lined with fear, a face of the loser, the being bearing her cross with Christian fortitude, the cross built of the entire human experience, Ms. Masters in the art of loneliness. The archetypal example!”, the demon said enthusiastically. “I’m fascinated by your wicked and lucid appetite for your useless life”, Rabisu grabs my meat and bones whenever I I’m ready to jump from the window, after awakening.

“Whoa whoa, okay, easy. Take your time, author. Not that useless. You have a difficult task ahead which must be fulfilled no matter how much you will hate it. Using only your words, you must, in a hilarious way, to put night time monsters in the pillory until it reaches hangman! (I’ll contact you with the exact location of your future ancient tome whereabouts, soon as you’re done with them… Monsters! It’s been years since I’ve seen that kind of monsters, so twisted, it’s… quite disgusting, even by nightmarish standards. Expose those clowns, throw them into mud pits and ensure their eternal destruction. I do not tolerate rivals. There’s only one Rabisu doing what is bad to his neighbor.!, an old demon frowned. : Who do they think they are to compare with my malice, those vicious monsters!. My malice is going for theatrics. Seeing them circling above you in the physical world, I realized our encounter was no accident, right? I received word of you… that say you were.. you, in your own way, my Morrigain demoness of the corpses, my Mora, my queen of the nightmare.. We’re exactly the same. Ah, I cannot tell more But, now I believe.. In intentional encounters! it’s almost like a one-way love affair.”

*In Akkadian mythology Rabisu (“the vagabond”) or possibly Rabasa is an evil vampiric spirit or demon that is always menacing the entrance to the houses and hiding in dark corners, lurking to attack people. The book The Religion of Babylonia and Assyria by Theophilus G. Pinchesdescribes the Rabisu as being “the seizer” which is “regarded as a spirit which lay in wait to pounce upon his prey”.

Chapter 4 of Genesis lines 6 and 7 reads:

So the LORD said to Cain: “Why are you so resentful and crestfallen? If you do well, you can hold up your head; but if not, sin is a demon lurking at the door: his urge is toward you, yet you can be his master.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabisu

 

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Adagio


Adagio

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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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

Purely.

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

Carcasses

Stone leaden

Out will rise

The golden Phoenix

We await you!

— Raj Pranav

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Safo, Poetisa de los frágiles


Safo

(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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FROM THE DIARY OF A MAD WRITER AFTER LOSING A LAWSUIT


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.

***

WAITING FOR MORE TRANSLATED CHAPTERS!

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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.

Fools

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

Beasts
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.

Traitors
Scared dogs.
Skilled at stuffing bones.

I raise my right hand and swear on the darkness of
Legitimacy
With an unburdened mind and a truth in my heart
Within the light dewy with the ability of
Mankind
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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THE PUNISHER


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

Invocation

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 – 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


image:

https://www.deviantart.com/menoevil/art/Untitled-454877036

https://www.facebook.com/Menoevil.Photography

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
Forgiveness
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
Remembers
Progenitrix
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!
GOLD GOLD EVERYWHERE.
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:
YOU KILLED MY MOTHER!
My knife quivers above the sparkling sink water
Come out deep fish
Octopus, crabs, snails!
The chicken wants his gizzard back
COME OWWWWWWT!
(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! ”
RED RED EVERYWHERE. DRIPPING.
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!
7d9b2858f24e164af3d7f84c467ab036.jpg

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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

1

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.

2
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.

3

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
Infected.
Holy kunt. You were the Bringer of Sun!
You!
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

4

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

pervasively
violent
flowing
spurting

 

5

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

6

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

Pureness.

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

Painstakingly

quivering with fury… stammering and iced

moments,

(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!)

 

BLAST

 

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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POEMS FROM MY TRAVELS, EGYPT


image:

ankh symbol Painting by Liana Horbaniuc

1

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

Breathing.

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.

 

2

”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:

 

e72f27a8da5facba36331ed99258b8e7

3

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.

 

4

Traveler,

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)

 

Traveler,

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,

Forever

 

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

Helen,
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


2

KRALJICA EGIPTA

 

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

Reč Autorke

Hermangdar

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.

2

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..

 3

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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PO DOZVOLI IZDAVAČA RUKOPISA “ZAPISI U TAMI”, REČ AUTORKE, u znoju pera svog


  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…

2

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.

Zvonj

Zvonj

K’o klepalo kad bije na radost uskrsnuća.

 3

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

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Leila Samaraj

 

Kaecilius.jpg

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.

KOMŠIJE I NJIHOVI POTOMCI:

–    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

 (smeh)

 (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,

Vrisak

Buka

Cika

Radost

DEČJA RADOST!

 

 

Featured post

Birth of the Crabs


A THREEPIECE POEM

SMALLTOWN CHOIR:

1

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.

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1

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.

2

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.

3

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.

 

 

Featured post

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

VOICES:

Voice Of Almighty

Voice of Lucifer acca Bad Man With a Forktail

poto__ferryman_of_river_styx_by_cocokat-d39vaen.png

SCENE 1

RIVER STYX

(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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Featured post

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.

http://eckermann.org.rs/article/macke/

SCENE 5

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

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.

THE HOLY PARAMORE:
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)

Featured post

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)

Featured post

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.

Featured post

EVICTED


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!

boston_globe_eviction_color

 

Featured post

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.

ernst-seger-1868-1939-a-majolica-bust-adolf-hitler-portrait-head-on-BRFN21.jpg

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.

Featured post

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
God
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…

2
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
tearfully
I will honour the words but
I was never a believer
I don’ t…I don’ t… I don’ t
do you?

3

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

3
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
(crudely)

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

4
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

5
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
Amen.

Leila Samarrai

Featured post

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…

Eventually
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.

Featured post

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
1
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

2
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

3
Ne shvataš – prosuta krv zvoni
Od otkrića pogrešno strepiš
U agoniji sebe same
Dok vapimo na grčkim terasama

Kćeri
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

4
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

5
Iako svaka rana ne krvari
Ipak
Svake večeri umire po jedan čovek
Zašto

6
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

7
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

8
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

9
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

10
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

11
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

Strepimo
U međuvremenu ne živimo

12
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

13
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

14
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
Razmisli

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

15
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

16
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

17
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

18
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

19
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
20
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

21
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

22
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

23
Zaškiljim kroz videlo rešetki
Nadiru
Šumovi detinjstva
Simboli intime
I snovi
Jedan po jedan
Jedan po jedan
I nasta vreme
Vreme sa druge strane zida
I života iza nas

24
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

25
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
Ja
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

Naročito
U doba vetra
I biljnih padavina

27
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

28
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

29
Jeza mrtvih ptica
U ambijentu zasede
Poj krvotoka je

Postoji
Misao malo glasnija
Kao što se daljine
Tišinom umivaju

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

Trebaju nam
Na početku i kraju ljubavi
Uvek ih tada dozivamo

30
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

31
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

32
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

33
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

Oslušni
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

34
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

35
Zaustavljen strahom od čekanja
Ne izrastaš
Ni u snohvaticu

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

36
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

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

37
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
Još
Ako ne vidiš
Ili ne sanjaš
Ili ne umeš da ćutiš

38
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

39
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

40
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
Nezgrapna
Saplićem se

Uzalud
Usiljeni koraci ne udaljavaju
Od ponora i uporišnih tačaka

41
Nestali-sveprisutni
Plač im nalik na nokturna

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

42
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

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

43
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

leilasamara

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.

 

1.

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

Después.

 

2.

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

 

27.

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

 

28.

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?

 

29.

Repeluzno de las muertas aves
En el ambiente de la insidia
Es el canto de la corriente de sangre
Existe
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
Convencidas
De que los sonidos más hermosos
Llegan
Desde las filas muertas en la tierra Las necesitamos
Cuando empieza y termina el amor
Entonces siempre las llamamos

 

30.

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

 

34.

 

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
31.

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

 

32.

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.

 

33.

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

 

35.

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

36.

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

Igual,

me voy al norte, cuya ausencia es inteligible

en el silencio, en el frío

dónde sólo árboles parecen a la gente.

 

39.

Esta noche purpúrea antifaz de las nubes

ha despertado a los obedientes muertos

que sus cabezas han levantado

apoyada

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.

 

41.

Desaparecidos – omnipresentes

Su llanto a nocturnos se parece.

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

Inquieta

En los planos encima de las magias

Gotea por el musgo

Y las ruinas del mundo.

 

42.

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

 

43.

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

 

Predicción

(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?

¡Sí!

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!

Pronunciado

De la desconsoladora, desvergonzada, sarcástica profecía

Frente a los cielos clementes

Que en los pechos me apaga la candela

Proféticos

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

 

3.

(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

Vivirás

Y en sosiego respirarás y amarás.