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

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE


Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter One

 

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE

 

“In order for you not to take my manuscript as an excessively modest gift, I must tell you more of the Hässe castle.

“Beyond distant clouds, on the moist ground of Norrbotten, there was the Og lake, speckled with tiny islets. On the Naki island, closest to the coast, the Hässe castle sprouted and grew.

“Once, when I was returning from a campaign, over the frostbitten hill, I saw a castle in the distance, towers which, akin to dancing topaz-color-caped silhouettes, were holding a pierced, pale human being on the tips of their spears. The castle reflected me. That being had been me.

“The road was winding along the hill by the coast, flowing into the bridge which tore the sky asunder reaching for the hilly islet of Naki.

“The stone-cold road not unmade by salt, flimsy and steep, was swallowing the travelers from the North tumbling them down the sharp skin of the Fjalar hill or casting them, wind-bound, in the icy grotto of Hornavan, where their deafening screams could be heard from.

“The travelers who would survive Fjalar would pause in front of Lindworm’s tongue with bulging eyes and mouths-a-shiver, they would turn their horses back and fled meeting the sky herald Gná. The braver ones, clenching the reins, would continue walking towards the abyss of Hornavan. The road was encircled by the desolate surfaces of lakes, as unreachable as whirlwinds, crowned with the snowy soil of Norrbotten, and only in certain places with pine and birch trees dipped in hoarfrost.

“The marble carpet lead to the main gate of the Hässe castle (piercing through a vivid garden, a kind of garden few can boast to possess in this part of the world), over which, branching out, the bridges were connecting the tall towers, therefore I could have entered any part of the castle from the main tower without descending down into the garden.

“There was many a varied seed in the garden, from the date palm which my ancestors brought from the Middle East during the Crusades, to the lilies, hyacinths and other, exotic plants unfamiliar to the climate of Norrbotten. The enchanted seed of death was handled by the gardener woman Hilde, known to me for her conversing with Vidar embodied in the greenery and the woodlands. From the God of the Forests she drew her magic and poured it onto the flowers which had no place in this lifeless land. When death is tangled with life and the course of nature changes, the root unleashes the power of the venom deep, changing the essence of the soil. Both the land and the men have venom sprout from within them. The seed of death revivifies. Creating upside-down tulips which adorn my home, and which Hilde kept warm day and night, stoking the fire in enormous kettles.

“On the double leaf oaken gates which hid away the entrance to the main fort, there was, painted in golden strings, the crest of the brave and gluttonous house – a lion’s paw. It could also have been found on blue banners which were waiving born by the wind up high on the Hässe towers, grasping for the heavens. The windows were guarded by marble manticores, born in the early days of Hässe, threatening with their sharp stings soaked in rainwater.

“When the Lindworm swallows the newcomer, it shows them the ghastly yard in front of the castle. Upon entering the main gate guarded by the maw of the Lindworm, the traveler would note the beaten pathway that leads into the yard and the stalls in the very center of Hässe.

hasse

“The road, vaulted by guard towers speckled in guardsmen, lead to the altar and reeked of cow entrails. The altar, above which the tall defense towers of Hässe lorded over, lay on the dry land, tucked into deerskin and adorned with raven skeletons. In the middle of the altar there was a platter with the pre-read, rotting entrails. ’They feed the vultures of darkness’, I would often personally explain it away to a visitor of my empire who shivered in fear and to whom the dread crawled up the spine… The altar, inflamed in cypress and sandalwood from which the messages meant for the Goddess of Death were smoking, was lined with cracked skulls of those who did not bow. The stone thighs of the altar were sprinkled with blood, some of it animal, some of it human.

“The ritual usually took place at night, when the holy Altar burned ghostly in the middle of the yard. Around it would dance, covered in blood, nude witches, keepers of the scourge. They had in long, thick, blonde hair onyx crystals or raven feathers entwined within them. The head-priestess  would wear a crown of deer antlers. The witches, while chanting a mantra, would dispense soil from the graves around the altar.

‘Oh, Yambe-Akka, all that we offer may now be thine

And no man else’s

Oh Yambe, Goddess of the Underworld, take this gift,

Offer him to your peasant spouse, the God of Death,

So it may be his and no man else’s!’

“Thus the three beautiful witches would chant until they fell to the ground in ecstasy. Then I would approach them, cloaked as if in a pupa, surrounded by a procession of swarthy torchbearers and claimed them, upon which the ritual continued; the tribute would be brought over, completely nude, from the lower chambers, the torture chambers – it is their blood I would drink upon the ritual’s conclusion. Oftentimes I would, when in shortage of manpower and the fear which paced ahead of me like a shade, drink up horse blood in honor of Yambe-Akka.

“ ’Oh Yambe-Akka, let me behold the cruel patterns of the past and the future.’

“ ‘Oh, Yambe-Akka, do not let the premonitions dry up!’, I would utter in an official tone of voice, raising my scepter with both hands. After I had had my fill of the meat, I would take a sharp athame in my hand, doused in blood. Upon the palm of the victim I would personally carve the hagalaz rune, and the Goddess would snatch away the dried away, dead bodies, storing them in the chest of gifts. The vultures of darkness would then disperse on the sky of Norrbotten, chased away by the spirit of the Goddess…

“’’The blade was laid in the carved bone which might have once been an arm of a faithful servant’ – I would tap the traveler on his shoulder – ‘and the altar, an ancient image of divinity’ – I would proudly point towards the extinct altar – ‘will speak the tongue of bones tonight’. Bone-chilling words I would direct at a wealthier yeoman or a more ambitious Brit, who would come as was his duty, quivering like a leaf, to bow down to me and ask for my blessing.

tumblr_nmavfi1QPl1tavs5io1_500.gif

“The stranger who made his way to Hässe would get a pitcher of wine and a place at the stables to spend the night. I would often, if they hadn’t been of noble birth or ilk, convert them to servants. The nobles received all the comfort of this home and its glimmering guest hall, where they would dine along the tune of the lutes. There had also been the undefeatable ones, who were met with whipping to the death, oftentimes torn limb from limb tied to four horses, and other types of torture which I was coming up with while drinking up the blood-red wine at the dinner table. I would inject vinegar in noblemen’s bodies by means of needles, I tightened their limbs, poured hot tar on them, and from time to time I would toss them in the jail-cells atop the tower where they would die of hunger. Fear of others and their complete despair, oftentimes madness as well, filled me with lechery. The rotten road I walked along, as a man who had within himself made a pact with nature, as well as savagery, stretched onward into infinity. And still the travelers, in a maniacal run, would come to the doorstep of the richest sven, bearing gifts to the master so that he could protect him from vile natures of his subjects and himself.

“Of my rage I could speak a multitude, of the true tendon of evil, the shade of accrete sensuality within my infected blood.

“Thoughts of human nature occupy my mind until the late hours of the night when my thinking faculties wane, up until the early morn when they spark up anew: how much fealty did I really accrue, and how much am I actually bound by fear of the vindicators’ wrath? To what extent had I become the Supreme deviser of the horrific power which always emerges from the blackest night in all of this? I ended the invasion of conscience with bloody campaigns and have thus removed her permanently. It was a shameful act which ate away at me. From my bloody dreams I was woken by the raw explosion in my heart of all the memories of the murders committed. I held them, crucified in my chest, with an occasional squeal of conscience which erased the breath that followed. Understanding the transience of the soul and the motion of time through the howl of the wind, which reached the very distant tops of Norrbotten shackled in eternal ice like an echo, I yearned for eternity, and it had been the light of my dwellings and my cruelty, and because of which I had eventually lost my wits. I had been hot-tempered. Perhaps insane. But, I had been a lord.”

 

SLEEPING MATHILDE, an excerpt from the fantasy novel, Leila Samarrai, The First Chapter


SLEEPING MATHILDE

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

The storm which will crush the fort of sven Orian will crush an existence, a world filled with fear, antagonism, selfishness. It will crush that which is not constant, all for that which is permanent and long-lasting.

Let us tear down castles! Let us stay with nothing to us, akin to Buddha or Jesus! Let us bravely trudge forth, with love for the self and the others, regardless of all the risks and perils that pop out at us, akin to Heracles or Odysseus!

deathridinghorse

„And God took а hаndful of south wind

 And from it formed а horse,

 Sаying, ‘I creаte thee, Oh Arаbiаn.

 To thy forelock I bind victory in bаttle.

 On thy bаck I set а rich spoil,

 аnd а treаsure in thy loins.

 I estаblish thee аs one of the glories of the eаrth.

 I give thee flight without wings’.

 For а time the Arаbiаn rаn wild in the desert.

 Only the strongest аnd most intelligent,

 The swiftest аnd most disciplined survived.

 And then the story goes;

 To Ishmаel, son of Abrаhаm,

 God mаde а gift of the Arаbiаn Horse.

 And Ishmаel wаs the first to tаme аnd ride him.

 And from thаt time on the fаte of the Arаbiаn

 would be woven into the history of the Western

 World.”

 

„Arabian Horse Legend”

A TALE OF ORIAN VON AMERONGEN

“I was born in the old House of von Amerongen, as Orian Siegfried”, having committed this sentence on paper, Orian bit into the quill and, upset, shot a glance at the door. He had little time to spare.

“I was born in a wonderful castle on the slopes of the icy mountains of Norrbotten”, Orian sunk into the strange irritability of senses brought about by the sweet drowsiness of memory.

Leaning above the parchment, sensing that his time is running out under the increasingly faster swathes of distant steps, he gave himself up to the words of a cruel story while horror reigned over his body and senses. He wrote the following:

“I could not shake off the thought of Norrbotten’s conception. Dramatic imagery of clouds sucking up the rain, of blood dripping from the heavens, assailed my imagination.

“I would feel excitement observing the doleful side view of the land of Norrbotten out of whom I’ve strived to exclude my own castle, making it a creation of the most fantastic colors and images. With time, as the veil was falling over my eyes, I moved slower and slower, head hung low, until – and God knows what if anything I was thinking of – I had lost the boyish spirit and the gift of innocence, until I had lost the peace wherein any lord would enjoy himself selflessly. Until I’ve taken a bite of my mental wellbeing…

“’Let’s stop at the impossible’, I would say to father Larsen who piously ate his sausages in the chapel booth. Everything lasts in shades long buried. Enthusiasm does not easily let a poet go, quite the contrary, it anchors itself within him, galloping along the finest of nerves, inconsistently, vilely and hypocritically.

I felt that Norrbotten and the Hässe castle can in any other time period only induce revolt and anxiety, but also an unspeakable loneliness.

Then the Storm came and took it all. I, sven Orian, had been a guard, a cuirassier and many a thing more, upon whom this fiend descended upon, I am frightened. Memories come shrieking on this day of death when sven Olof rode to the castle and took Mathilde out of the shade.

From where did all the ailments of my life come? It is as if the Storm pounded them to the ground through the wind. You might be wondering whether a sober man thinks of his sins amid a storm. Oh, yes, exactly then, through the window, I observe the restless villagefolk and I take a listen of the revving of horses, for I am, if I must choose the object of my observation, a painter of nothingness.”

Orian stopped and gave the scar on his face a touch. Then he added:

“I touched myself on the crease in my face and felt it fork in tiny layers on my chin, out of which hardened, bloodied hairs stuck out. A wound from a duel. “

Orian swiftly turned to the door, but since he heard nothing, he continued, quill screeching, stating aloud what he wrote in order to ward off the ghoul.

unnamed-1

“As a vampire I feasted upon lives of others. I never dug graves too deep. I piled corpses like firewood. I was building a human alley.

“I had increased my army thusly, reigning by fear.

“Gazing upon my own reflection in the gold enameled mirror, I saw (what I wished others had seen), a rove of shaded flesh, tight muscle and a smile of a noble whose dignity had essentially intertwined with a false modesty.

“But, that which had disturbed me in the darkest of forebodings were the decisions I had taken as a man used to get what he wanted and, empowered by his irreason, destroy that which was beyond his reach and his mind. Those were the initial signs of my curse.

“I had been an oppressor. I had been jealous, especially of the birds, the damned vermin, the vultures and eagles, knowing that they bear within them a germ of eternity. I had been but a grain of sand under the howling wind. And what is wind other than the coursing of time, against whose power of sudden destruction or slow consumption of substance, even the most stable of dwellings falls. “

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