Dee Dee Dee Daa Daa Daa


THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS OF A SUICIDAL WOMAN DURING HER MENSTRUAL CYCLE

Dee Dee Dee
Daa Daa Daa
an intoxicating tune
of a light touch
an even rhyme
cracking from the bone rhythm

The relish of walls is palpable
honey leaking through the cracks
I stick my hand in the intimate…

Blood through driblets of ink
have been poured in the negus to the top
negus is the drink of goddesses.

I’ll stick my head in the oven like Sylvia Plath
a smart woman did it when the time was right and now I have thirty
load it up with gas
don’t stick the nuzzle on while you choke
the red eye absorbs the mystical state of love

And you have miniature bridges for jumping off of
atop the morn where an injured bird peacefully flies
out in the icy air
voices twist around among the bridges
they dove into the mud looking for you

A suicidal person observes from atop the fence
while they’re looking for you in the water

Dee Dee Dee
Daa Daa Daa
an intoxicating tune
of a light touch
an even rhyme
cracking from the bone rhythm
twist the damn tap!

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A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WOMAN AND HER SHADOW, UPON DISBELIEF


PART 1. THE DAY OF INSOMNIA

http://mariannainsomnia.deviantart.com

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A hunt for me, then? It is adulterous to be part of

a woman hunt.

In the eyes of a cold-blooded fraud

two fangs
words of betrayal clad

in banal f(loe)llow-up

For all those ice-skating fans

A killer whose mum
is a foretold habit!

(footnote „Silence, the Habit of a Killer…“, half of the 777th verse…)

Killers kill too, do they not?

Prove to me, o Lord, that your

mercy is not a concocted sentiment…
That warmth isn’t a grave of

cad falsehoods
Let him prove himself to me!

Do you hear, God,

this blasphemeress!
(a hysterical  shriek in the background)

Prove it, show yourself, God,

you blasphemous coward!
No, I am not raising my tone, I am screaming!

Not one
mortal… no… no… he could never hear
the foretuned idiotic cackle,

behold where he says, that it is but

an insane woman, flayed.

And she does not know…

…. Where begins, and where ends the memory of

arrogance, of

the black, fateful, deadly act

Of mum

(stands silent without respite, listens without respite, ascertains from his throne, with virtuous hostility, pathologically scribbling with silence, the medical holy sacrament of misery)

I curse the day at the deathbed of anguished love
she is exhaling already, her fingers are exhaling…

And, how did she depart?

(does not reply, is convulsing)
I will curse the day when I met the freak who
for years has terrorized me with silence,

vileness and will write atop his head the date and hour

and will mumble: immorality!

immorality!

I curse your corpse, with all due respect

to the deceased

A nutcase less, but a new one lives
more complex, keen on skepticism and truths. A seeker.

I powdered myself for three days to make…
a catafalque for the deceived dead
lied down in the position of a temperamental countess
with rouged cheeks and no dental crown
is there anything else that is unclear in this report?

Do you have any poem where you’re not full of drama?

Oh, yes and she said to me:

I lied, I lie,

everyone lies, I killed,

they all kill,

God are you laughing!
Or are you bored?

A POEM FOR MY 40th BIRTHDAY


A POEM FOR MY 40th BIRTHDAY

On this day I will be tired, though still have belief in myself
in you
in us
I will read Kiš’s poem about the laystall
I’ve needed one since forever ago
for recycling
maybe next to the cake I can line up a gun
and furniture and books
and the gray hair which I do not have
I just made it up
to be pathetic
and to tell myself, like I’m Aurelius or something:
“Leila, stoically, we are done”
You are late at your station of horridness
I hurry towards my own…
over there are visitors from
foreign planets and luminescent brilliants
while you kill yourself
I will read Dostoyevsky
by the way, I invited him to the party, d’you mind?
Both him and Netochka and Sonechka
I will moongaze with Homer
when we burry you, it will be
a graveyard made of hairs fallen
from out of the crow’s nest
I will dance with Nureyev, and Mozart will hop all over the electric minipiano
hop hop hop
lilt, well-crafted melodies
the Turkish march, a crystal chandelier and a long-nosed ballerina
and you and your deadly disease
nerve fatigue, distress and a pedestal for the eyes
pack your bags, dirtbags, and into the mindless whirlpool with you
how lovely to go insane so early,
ahead of an early climax when turning forty,
and in Serbia no less
without any reason, without a care, a small cute hothead
and a brain within her for Hannibal and two wicked hearts, a misfortune
lurks, hesitates and looks at itself in the sapphire colored mirror that is your eyes
Hurry now and shoot yourself, you’re having guests.
A lament of sorts for a life before this, quizás?

(zombies enter one after another, the party begins)

http://dunkelkatze.webcindario.com/bloody.html

jemg__despair__teaparty

LUCIFER’S BIRTHDAY WISH


An obscure curiosity. There was a power outage in my apartment after I wrote the last verse.

LUCIFER Costly is the music I write… CROSSES OUT WITH PEN
The bird I hath saved, then killed.. UH, NO.
To fly and to create is one NO GOOD, I HAVE NO TALENT.
Let me make a wish for my 40th birthday.
for my 40th birthday, I wish…[his eyes turn golden]
…to await the darkness with open eyes.

I no longer want to drink up my screams
like a heavy undefined heart shape
a sweetened saltiness of thirst akin to soot
resists in my baked mouth
While the hoof howled
I bit the day.

Palms sunk into the darkness of the armpits, 
claws are exposed to injuries, 
hooves touching the naked floor and pushing away. I am being born.

DOCTOR FAUST-Scalpel and kill the light during the babe’s Exodus onto the world…
SISTER ROSEMARY-Doctor, do not frighten the child…
-This is not a child.

DOCTOR FAUST-Madness aflame cannot feel shame…
SISTER ROSEMARY- But keep quiet
Shhhhhh 
The child can suddenly awaken in the dark
DOCTOR FAUST—A torchbearer? [manic laughter]

I went out into the dampness, in the rain, amid the stench. 
in blood, out of blood, hatred, fertility, nerves…

LUCIFER’S SHADE come come into the darkness…

LUCIFER’S PERSONA Do not even jest with the curse for I fear the dark.
There, merciful lady have mercy on my dishonoured self, far away your Heaven be

A trampled flower upon the midden I

A devil with a pitiful weakness…
a flaming storming tempest
light abandoned by fog
a moment’s thought
charm of a dewy garden
a smiling morning star with a foil
between the fingers
celebrating the fortieth victory
in unending silence
in the merry dawn of October

For I grew as strong as Samson when I heard
that my will shall be granted
for I made a flawless pact
but will not disclose what I gave up in return

A FIELD FLOWER PICKER EARLY IN THE MORNING tell me monster what glimmers in your eyes
LUCIFER it is a threat of living
me, disguised in man’s clothing, looking like this…
I shall outlive the darkness
but will no longer drink up my screams in darkness…

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“Roman bez imena”, uvod


Inspiraciju za ovaj roman sam dobila, nažalost, ličnim iskustvom sa osobama koje predstavljaju nešto… ovako (videti sliku)

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Poštovani mister Clunes,

Na kraju sam traganja. Ili na početku. Ko to zna? Ovo je prvi zapis moje tajne istorije. U njoj se nalaze izgubljene stvari. Možda neću uspeti da, u rasulu uma, pepela – oslepela i nakazna naslikam avetinjsku kuću, a da vi pljesnete rukama i u basu zagrmite: ah, sjajno, ah, vrcavo, sou mač parabolično! Da…

Koliko alegorično,  snoliko i gadno.

–  A realizam? Sve avetinjske kuće liče jedna na drugu… tako bi mogla da započneš zapis. Šta bi falilo? – rekli bi mi čitaoci. Možda i moji literarni junaci koji su mi oduvek davali instrukcije kako da o njima pišem. Znate, gospodine Clunes, i oni imaju pravo na svoje mišljenje. (autor osluškuje)

Da, to je taj glas. Avetinjski ličan. Mislila sam da ste to Vi, da čitam odgovor na pismo poslato vam ovog popodneva, ali.. (autorka uzdiše) To sam samo ja. Trgla sam se iz sna, sve vreme sam knjavala. (obično ne koristim glupi arg, ali neka, ne smeta. A ako smeta, vi recite, blaženi bili…) Zašto mi se nestvarno čini stvarnijim?

Moram da zapišem ovu misao, blistava je.

Samo tren, mr Clunes, samo tren. Sve ću reći. Na vreme. Ništa ne brinite. Neću vas izneveriti. Ta, zar mislite da pišem nekakvu bednu autobiografiju u klasičnom narativu? Dopustite mi da se nasmejem, mr Clunes. Ne vama, o ne vama, nikako.

To je… taj glas. U mojoj glavi, nikako stvaran glas, štoi je šteta. Makar bih se sa nekim sita ispričala, ovako sam sama,  pod budnim okom noćnog terora. Vi znate ko je Rabisu? Dobro je. Ponekad je utešno znati da nisi jedini… Ili ne?

Nekad bih volela da je Rabisu samo moj. To bi laskalo…

“Rabbi Isa… Rabi..sss….” Baš tako govori. Tako voli da me prestravljuje pred san.  Oko 22h, otprilike. Ranoranilac je.

I onda me izudara, dobro me izudara da zaspim.

Kunem se da je ovo istina. Ne pišem bestseler pa da pokušavam da pridobijem čitaoce jeftinim trikovima. Ne bih se usudila da izreknem laž. Ipak pišem umetničko delo, mr Clunes.

Dobro. Priznajem. To je slika laži u prečistom sjaju istine. No, ima tu i malo istine. Tu i tamo prozborim s nekim. Kao na primer s ličnim savetnikom i probačem hrane za mačke gospodinom Hakimom, a on mi na tečnom sirijačkom kaže:

“Nema krošea. To je magija. To nisu pesnice, već Džebrailova anđeoska krila.”

Ali ja znam da to nije tako. Svako govori iz svoje perspektive, mr Clunes. I vi biste, iz plamene hijerarhije anđela izabrali najmoćnijeg, najkrilatijeg, najjačeg i najpoverljivijeg za zaštitu, kakvog Gabrijela. Tvrdim vam. SVE OVO je Rabisuovo vampirsko delovanje”

Znate, mr Clunes,. svesna sam da ne postoji nikakav Hakim Sirijac i da možebitno sanjam i Vas i da me je neko u snu skoro pretukao i da, opet jako verovatno, bežim od ološ – jave kakogod umem i znam, na taj način prodrevši u ultimativni smisao eskapizma.

Ne, ja nisam ta, ona mala žena koja je započela veliki rat, ona Harriet, nisam to ja, mr Clunes. Nisam ja taj tip. Ja se samo suočavam kroz eskapizam. Potirem. Dolazim do suštine.

Rabisu često govori: “Postoji drugi svet. Načinjen je od senki.”

Rabisu priča isklišeizirano. A ja? Ne, ne mogu razumeti sadašnjost, a da ne govorim o prošlosti.

A tako bi bilo divno tuliti o sadašnjosti. U klasičnom narativu. Novinarskim stilom. Bila bi to beskrajna tugovanka u noveli, sačinjena od vanredno jasnih i lepih oblika.

Istovarivala bih, ispovraćivala. Kako ko shvati užase (mog) postojanja. Ovako bi išlo: sedim u tuđem toaletu, buljim u četku za ribanje toaleta koju bih opisala, onako po američki, u sitna crevca, ja, Amerikanka u literaturi, veća Amerikanka i od Hilari Klinton…

Da ne pominjem gorki dim upaljene cigarete. Kakve on samo za pisca mogućnosti pruža! To bih gorko opisala, sekla bih u tananost, udrila bih opisom u goloruka prsa kakvog detalja na podu, plafonu, izvan, unutra, u ono što jesam, u ono što nisam, pre u stvarnosti nego u sećanju, uglavnom obrnuto.

Kad bih samo pušila! Kad bih samo mogla da nađem  reči koje su od mene pobegle, blebetala bih o mračnoj pećini sadašnjeg i strasti prošlog i nečeg trećeg (a to ne bih imenovala, misterioznosti radi), no, opakog, što uvek se u smrti okonča, sačekavši smrt sa svim raspalim stvarima da se u grob stameni ujedine.

Opako biće, Rabisu, poprima raznorazne oblike, on traje do gorkog kraja, do prašine, tokom života do buđenja, ali samo kod nekih, tvrdi Rabisu i dodaje: “Ti si odabrana.” Dodaje da je polaskan mojim izrazom lica nakon buđenja, “Tako divno obrubljenog strahom, lice luzerke u kojoj se nastanilo celokupno iskustvo ljudske samoće. Autorko, ti si arhetip!”, oduševljeno će demon. “Fascinira me tvoj opak i lucidan nagon za nastavljanjem beskorisnog života…” drži me za meso i kosti kadgod poletim da se bacim kroz prozor  nakon buđenja. “P0lako… Ne tako beskorisnog. Pred tobom je zadatak koji moraš ispuniti ma koliko ga mrzela. Moraš rečima, onako hilarično, da ukleseš u stub srama (javiću ti u snu tačnu lokaciju gde ćeš da staviš spis kad ga dovršiš) o čudovištima kakva ni sam eonima nisam video. Monstrumima većim od mene samog. Prokaži ih i uništi. Postoji samo jedan Rabisu!”, mrgodno će on. Tako on prkosi mojoj zlobi – “Ti si zlobna, ponosna I opasna. Tvoja zloba puca visoko.. Kad sam video kakvi te demoni na javi obilaze, shvatio sam da nikako ne možeš biti obična i da si i ti.. neka vrsta Rabisuovke, na svoj način razume se”.

“Čista duša pade mi u krilo. Nešto kao anti – Rabisu, no still opaka.. Uživa u senkama. Ni za šta na svetu te ne bih propustio. Vidim, nisu ni oni. Ti ćeš mi pomagati da lociram nove demone, ako ih ima još…”  Čini sve Rabisu ne bi li mi se približio, začikavajući me da sam jutrima anti – demonka, a negde pred ponoć okorelo zlo ili.. obrnuto. Naši razgovori se odigravaju tokom REM faze. Ako pripovest tvoja ostavi mesta, ako tvoj duh na tren, smiren umukne pred nastupom strasti da se sve potanko iskaže, ispripovedaj, ne sa manjim ushitom, u kurzivu naše tajne noćne susrete. kao pravi Pehovin svedok!”, Rabisu je u telu demona čezn uo za šalom. Često je tvrdio da redovno sedi pored mene, nevidljiv, mada mu ne bi palo tepko da sebe pohrani u dubine moje duše i tu se nastani. “I tako mi redovno, znala ti to ili ne, živimo i najavi, zajedno gledamo Penny Dreadful”..

Rabisu me je prestravljivao do mere gubljenja razuma. No, uvek je znao kad da se zaustavi. Očito je želeo da me upravlja mojim odlukama u svoju korist jer mu je do napisane knjige jako stalo. S druge strane, kakav bi on demon bio da me ne muči bez preke potrebe. tek žalosno priviđenje. Možda i plod mašte namučenog uma. Rabisu je stvaran!

“A onda neće ostati ništa do hrabrosti da se bude svoj I izgradi istina i unutrašnja tajna. Tako ćeš i pisati. Smrt bez žurbe. Čežnja da rastočiš mrak, da u naručje vekova rečima ukleseš zločinstva što su ti načinili. Da od njih sačinjih odsanjane nule. Nema većeg monstruma od Rabisua i ako to učiniš mojim konkurentima, ja ću te pustiti da spavaš mirno, kao zaklano čedo… ” Sve dok ne prokažeš te male demonske gnjide, malaksaćeš od straha, opkoljavaću ti bol, iznova ćeš proživljavati vriskove iz tame, vrištaćeš i urlaćeš nalik na zapaljenu vatru bićeš. Komšije probudićeš!” – grohotom se smejao Rabisu i sam pomalo zbunjen smehom usled pretnji koje navode prokletnike da se ne nadaju ničemu boljem do bezbolne smrti, načini pomalo tužan izraz lica, umoran od mnogobrojnih izrečenih drevnih pretnji. Više nego bilo čega, Rabisu se bojao klišea, ali mu je retko umeo umaći. No, bio je strašan, nadvijen nad samoćom i bolom. “Dok to ne učiniš i spis ne sačiniš, uskakaću ti u san”, zapreti glasom promukle vrane.

“Imam li izlaza?”, upitala sam ga jednom, dok sam se ogledala u njegovim crnim očima, tokom jedne more, hodajući među ruševinama  starogrčkog polisa, grozomornog izgleda, po Rabisuovom odabiru, ljubeći čeljusti reke Nestos.

Muzika

Eskapizam

Radost

Tuga

Sve.

I ničeg ljudskog nema pod suncem.

Aphrodite’s seed


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.

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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 Hades

Fate Of Two Young Lovers


You will go blind soon I think
Like the dead that squint
Near strong light
The victors at the end of all suns
Who brought forth the octopuses on the shores
Usually rising
With a finger on the lip
whispering.

The dead are hungry on flame
Joy is their power
By the vermilion of shame
Each new morning is provoked.
The sign of shame before the living
Is achieved by watching:
Roams the eye oblique onto the elbow
And the sharp taste of the living.

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Tell me what I merely remember
And what haunts me in the dream to remember
Uncertain is the speech
The hush curses it.
You get the sun used to dieing
On the place where I dissolved
Speaking and hushing,
I hear only that which
Echoes
With barking silence.

Who extolled the dead
Who sang,
Ash or fire?
Do I hear a voice?
Or is it just the falling of the leaves?

I no longer hear you
Nor is my throat strained by vessels.
So have the dead decided
Young lovers
With tongue under the throat
Flung back
towards the twisted death of the living.