with a wax masque of a Summer rain


You,

with a wax masque of a Summer rain,
inconstant scatterbrain
Know:
the love of fathers is hell
on a st(ake)rand!
You, with your limb more stiff
than the dogmas of Lucifer.
Who have you forgot to permeate:

The Woman: who is a river
(for she flowed to you)
The Daughter: who is volcanine
( for she burned for you)
The Earth – which swallows you
(ultimate mistress)?
You, who are present but not present,

Know:

Hate has a heart!

The green heart of shot Lorca
and wrath of God!
He, alike you:

Does not love!
Does not forgive!
Does not kiss!
To gift the legal age
he rapes the Vestales

Bloodsucker!
Anathema!
Harpy!

You growl too loud,
desert fa(ng)ther.

I know you encircle girls before the door.
I know you flow down their thighs sweaty.
Like unborn milk flows from me to you.
Like chrome sand flows from my eyes instead of tears.
Like thorns grow within my body and not children.
You, who are a corpse in formalin,
the mute vocalist of the torn wire,
the chalice of poison before sleep.

Know:

My shadow takes you off the wall,
a wingless bird in the darkness of the room,
will skin the marble face and his smile of a victor!

Know:

Even hope at times answers to the mute.
The dug away umbra from the extinguished lantern.

Oh, Burn! Burn!
Flame Pompeii, die in anguish!
May the abandoned children clap their hands!
May the thrilled audience scream of laughter!abandoning

Like I . . .

Like I who screamed
When Creator waded over me with words:
Maasalam*, my Child!
Maasalam!

*ma’a salama good-bye in Arabic

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I am – Poetry


whether I shared this one before? I do not remember. It does not matter. I know who I am, for some lost straw floating in the open sea, to another I am – an awakened fear of eyes wide open, for a third pathetic muse with warm afternoon sun on her cheeks – wounds opened, which leaves me in burns, that’s what I’m, while burning at the stake, I – scarecrow for people, the one that stirs up the night and dies at dawn, quietly, in the midst of a dream.
That’s me, that is who I am – Poetry.

poetry

****
Calderon said: life is a dream
A deceptive escort between two awakenings
Neither life nor death
Nor something third
Neither life after death
Nor death before life
And it dies among hour hands
Before it spends the night in our bodies

Segismundo chained by precarious stars in vain
Announces a great illusion
And circles of mute dreams

After one thousand and two hundred nights
I see my bones peering in the gardens
If eternity would rule before the dawn
Perhaps it would cure the loneliness

Boris K. and Wig Heil


 

The minister of culture and minority rights Cris Is Evayzhun was walking along the Phenomenonpublic boulevard with parliament member Iana Goatson (of GOAT – Government Approved Thou-shall-nots, as well as CleronationalVoxPIOUpuli ), his wife, and he plucked away from the rich history of Germany.

As the minister was shifting from one Nazi topic to the next, from the Big bang onward, out of the darkness crept Boris K. and with a swift “SiegHeil!” he tripped the minister who lay prostrate on the golden pavements of Phemonenonpublic.

“The minister is down!”

“They killed the minister!”

A trudge of steps ensued. A mass of people stood around the minister Cris Is Evayzhun,

“Help! An urgent republic matter! Dial 333-222. Assassination!”

Xavier, a gypsy youth, who begged for money in the graveyard shift, pulled a moist towelette from his bag with a swift motion and applied it to the spot on the minister’s leg which was sore.

Boris K. took a photo of this touching scene with his Motorola. The minister’s wife was thrilled.

“If I had a son like this, I would dress him up in the style of Albert, prince consort of Windsor”, she thought and much to her husband’s dismay she loudly blurted out:

“I want a son like this.”

Xavier responded:

“Ah, if only I had a mother like you.”

Boris K. remembered and told a touching story of the love one father had towards his son – one of the many tales he picked up somewhere during his life – as the foreign minister tried choking him.

The story went on for hours, until the Emergency vehicle came with a stretcher and took away the minister who was howling in pain and cursing the very name of Boris K.

A month later, coming back from the WIG Heil general tryouts, the minister and the minister’s adviser for the rights of minority  Boris K. looked at a Gipsy woman sitting in front of the firecracker store and some cheap Chinese pyrotechnics.

“This Republic is going to pieces. An open market to any and all crap”, minister Cris is Evayzhun mumbled, looking at the Gipsy woman in a manner – was there any other, really? – not unlike that of a Nazi. “Nobody can control the quality of the merchandise (and people) which flows into our beloved Phenomenonpublic. While somewhere up there in Germany Berlin is on fire, I see everything around here!”

“Calm down and extend your palm”, the Gypsy woman smiled to the minister who was dreaming that he had his own panzer divisions in the Kriegsmarine. “In your past life you were a crazed SS commander”, the Gypsy woman started. “Now you are just a bozo whom an adopted child will make feel happy”.

The minister waved his head in disbelief. How can she know all this? He didn’t even giver her his palm.

The Gypsy woman continues palm-reading as if she were in a trance.

“We have to move to the front door ahead of a dangerous gang”, she spoke with a cracked voice. A few moment later there were gunshots. Boris K. and the Gypsy woman and the minister went into the front door, until the street situation calmed.

Six months later, the minister, his wife and their son – little Xavier – were walking along the boulevard.

Boris took the money from Iana Goatson, since she hired him to trick the minister. The Gypsy woman, Xavier’s mom was disguised as a fortune teller, got an apartment in the name of her remaining ten kids. Boris K. soon paid the fellows who were reenacting a mobster showdown, he purchased a luxury three room apartment for about a year and continued nailing the role of Hitler.

 

Calderon said: life is a dream


Calderon said: life is a dream
A deceptive escort between two awakenings
Neither life nor death
Nor something third
Neither life after death
Nor death before life
And it dies among hour hands
Before it spends the night in our bodies

Segismundo chained by precarious stars in vain
Announces a great illusion
And circles of mute dreams

After one thousand and two hundred nights
I see my bones peering in the gardens
If eternity would rule before the dawn
Perhaps it would cure the loneliness

УСПАВАНА МАТИЛДЕ – ПРИПОВЕСТ О МАТИЛДЕ (одломак из романа) Из пера Матилде вон Регенштајн


Након што би завршио са мном, отварала бих очи у тами. Кад би свануло, опрезно бих растворила надувене капке према светлу. Тада бих поново утонула у сан…

Након неколико недеља, насртаји би престали. Ипак, осећала бих нечије присуство у соби. Налик на шум… Покушавала бих да устанем, али би ме задржавале нечије нежне руке. Биле су мале, танке…. Терор трпљења прожео би ме леденим знојем и почела бих да дрхтим под женским прстима. Ослонила бих се на изранављене лактове. Ото Регенштајн је ме дивљачки силовао и пребијао… колико? Колико дуго? Сувише дуго.. А мајка? – грозничаво бих размишљала – да ли ме је подводила?

„Полако, господарице Матилде“, рекао би глас сличан мом… „Ко је то?“, питала бих се сваки пут.

http://casopiskult.com/kult/krik/uspavana-matilde-pripovest-o-matilde/

American Dream Team


PAPA’S LETTER: (written in Serbian) ja sam ti rekao pre da treba prvo raditi da bi sakupila pare za put , ja bih voleo da radis u Ttripoli a nije tesko naci posao u Tripoliju jer ti si intelektualac i brzo ces naci posao ako budes na licu mesta kao sto kaze Tanvir , a isto tako ti ces biti blizu mene da ti pazim iako iz Benghazi ide se u Tripoli avionom ( jedan sat avionom ) ali to nije tesko za mene . WRITTEN IN May 31, 2010, in Benghazi 
ME: Sad cu da zovem Surcin i da pitam koliko kosta put za Tripoli i Bengazi i da li mogu da putujem sa plavim pasosem, da pitram u Libijskoj ambasadi.
I da, sve dokumente moram da menjam u Kragujevcu, a to je procedura, jer svi sad menjaju pasose i 2 meseca kazu da se ceka!

But there she pops into father – daughter long – awaited reunion, after 30 years, right on the dot with this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Libyan_Crisis_(2011%E2%80%93present)…

KILLARY HITLERLY CLINTON!

:stickeeeeeer!: bum. bum. BUM! Bang?

http://www.globalresearch.ca/hillarys-crime-sheet-five-reasons-hillary-clinton-should-be-in-prison/5554529

Hillary Clinton bears more responsibility for the ill-fated war on Libya than anyone else. Even Barack Obama has admitted it was a colossal mistake. The war has turned Libya into a prosperous state where terrorists were jailed into a failed state where competing groups of Islamic terrorists run the show. The war did not have authorisation by the United Nations

Benghazi

Not content with destroying Libya as a nation, Hillary Clinton’s woeful and questionably premeditated lack of security at the US diplomatic compound in Benghazi, one of the most violent cities not just in Libya but the world….

hillary-clinton-mad

Do you have comment? I do. Oh, yes, and: how long can you endure watching directly in the eyes of the evil without even feeling uncomfortable but ready to fight? I put this picture od this “female” demon for the sake of practice…

***

Saddam Hussein (I’ve never met my father because of the Iraq – Iran war (1980 – 1988) I was only 2 years old when he went to war) DEAD. Slobodan Miloševic (I think the explanation is not necessary…) DEAD, and the bombing of Serbia by the United States in 1999, the then American President Bill Clinton). The Lost opportunity to work with my uncle, a plastic surgeon at the hospital in Dubai, in 2002, due to the Gulf War, when the Ground and Air battles were fought in Kuwait, Iraq and the border areas of Saudi Arabia.
President of America was George W. Bush back then.) Hillary Clinton – – the aforementioned “project Benghazi,” for which I have not met my father after 30 years, when we got in touch, accidentally, via internet, in 2010. Maybe he is dead now…) Here’s the”dream – team”.

30a484d800000578-3419982-image-a-28_1453931815706-e1478002071226-1

Still alive.

 

Still alive.

Now I am stucked here in Serbia and I am watching this. Prime minister of Serbia, Aleksandar Vučić. Very sad. Tragic, indeed. Those that don’t understand Serbian, just turn off the sound and watch his facial expressions…

A little digression: In March 2016, I was an important part of the poetical project POETRY AGAINST TERROR, I wrote reviews and a poem – A tribute to the victims of terrorism in France. Kindle Edition: 64 Poets from 43 different countries.

I emphatise with French victims. In fact, I adore France. She is a part of my cultural european heritage and holds a special place in my heart. But, are some human lives more valuable than others?

I state that its hypocritism. Where are the poetical tributers for the children in Aleppo?, in Iraq, Lybia, Yemen, Bahrain, Egypt, Tunisia…

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

 

 

 

SAMIRA’S COMFORT


You bite the poem under the tongue and words which made reminiscences into dust
They do not understand you, actrisa.
It is time for aktshluss

You were chewed by the populist phenomenology
Of verses devoid of poetry
In the band of false troubadours you cannot be actor primarium patrium
Aristocrat among poetesses do not forget that the Arabs divined your fate with arrows

Do not worry, Leila, I enjoyed reading your verses,
I Samira, the trade woman from the satrapy of forgotten empires
On my breasts I bared the burden heavier than the grandiose pillars from Hatra
Forever banished from the cradle of two folk I belonged to by the disfavor of Alan and Beog who found a dying city

samira

Do not worry, Leila, with you are Greeks and Sarmatians and your name is nailed into the Grecian affiches
Announced by Sophocles on fliers and billboards of alternative theaters
And Caligula dances with your Greek single act dramas on Palatine games

Do not worry, Leila, unpopular poetess in a world which you overcame
With the miracle of discovering the secret home in which you mastered silences

Do not forget everything is a matter of injustice because there is no justice
Do not forget the world became a mine field and an insult
Do not forget another world will be chiseled by your verses of immortal longing

Do not worry, Leila, there will be time for all those who hotly growl on the mention of your name to understand

The unbearable ease of existence and the feather of your French Alexandrine.