Uskoro će sve biti gotovo. Prokletnici, obrtna optika ludila u mojoj glavi ubrzava. Više nisam žena, nego sam makroskopska čestica. Čigra. Zovite me Čigra. učiniću to tako naglo, tako grozničavo, a opet mirno, ruka mi se neće zatresti. Blago ću se saviti napred, noge u širini ramena, da.. Smiri telo. Naciljaj pažljivo. Povuci obarač. Udahni duboko. Naciljaj, povuci, smiri… Smiri…
I wrote a terrible poem. Always is like that when I want to write something optimistic .. I’d better get my attention on my bloody diaries about midgets.
Who could speak the language
of Gods, and remain forgotten yet
unloved, a sailor
who dreamt of bridging the wings
of the earth, the blind
man who survived the sirens
and remained aloof and well known on the shore.
I swung in the rain in Hades
and torched the warrior’s burgh in windy Troy.
I cried over the misery
of a stone forgotten me, a solitary
woman in solitary confinement,
the sun of a day askew, a skeleton
waving, a bird in the pink afternoon,
my sigh shimmering towards the horizon…
My chorus burst forth
and all wishes evaporated
into the all-knowing, faded margin.
Storm raging inside,
my head aching out
a grain of salt
in this driblet of blood.
Et vous… pagans who gnawed my manuscripts,
listen to the wind of centuries
tangling the strings of a gaggle of pissed off gods.
Unloved, peckish heart!
Rainy absence on the shore
become my name!
I saw these images
on the bloodied road:
first: me falling to my knees.
Second: back on my feet, struggling.
Third: the lips of Judas.
silence, not lust nor
in darkness, fragmented, apart.
My nothingness, announced.
Everything was said,
phrases like crushed glass in the mouth,
heard only as lies,
if heard at all.
As I trudge through the light-trickled night
I wonder why, is it just me,
my heavens, my uncalmed darkness.
“I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you a drachma!”
The landlady waves the electric bill,
eyeing me as if I were her lamb meant for slaughter,
but I am a she-dreamer of beautiful lips.
Jesus understands me, we speak the same tongue.
Amunet agrees, and envelops me in her generous embrace.
The cities understand, the blindness sees,
the blood of the innocents still flows as I cast
the curse of the fiery tongue on the Daemonion
after I’ve sacrificed myself to the world outside.
She burns at the doorstep, bills in embered hand…
O, how we do not forgive our debtors.
And glory be to the hellish tower of slaves!
Glory! Amen, oh Babylon!
I walk thy streets, bare and free.
Rabbi Isa, deliver me not from Evil.
May the cries echo.
the quiet will stumble
like a whipped
wild horse, a moment
in a deaf room
under deaf stars,
to the whisper.
After the landlady kicked Boris K. out onto the snow for unpaid rent, our hero, endlessly cursing the soulless Frau Susie, lit a matchstick to warm himself up a bit. Lights burned in the surrounding houses, for it had been Christmas. A powerful, very squally Belgrade wind was whipping away chilling our hero to his bones.
Roaming along the snow and ice Boris K. cursed the day when he forgot to bring the New Year’s sparkles, hence, when one matchstick went out, he proudly lit the next, and then another, and then one more, up until he spent all of the matches in the box.
With the last stick he set fire to his coffer, used it to transport fire to his pants and coat, only to finally lit his whole self on fire in order to keep warm. While the cold whirlwind scattered his ashes all over the city streets, a bright sun shone and melted all the snow and ice.
Sipping wassail at the grave
of the Russian mystic,
lunacy crucified in his eye,
I knit a wreath for the vixen
suffocating next to the shaft,
gnawing the grid with her teeth,
cracking joists, swallowing
sonnets. She rode the Lion’s gate
in a low-cut dress, separated
with her axe and tossed in the pyre
the heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.
Blindness tucks me into that bier
of ravaged marigolds, wounds
serenaded in shadows
and my body, reeking,
unlike one who never dies.
Lulled within the years
a bloodied sun rises in the west.