1976s Laughing Little Girl Swinging High on Outdoor Swing

image: 1950s Laughing Little Girl Swinging High on Outdoor Swing


I opened the door to my intimacy ajar,

At the end, a tatter thrown to the road is left.
A fable interesting to none,

the secret in the service of the one who scares and enchants. 


Lo for Algol smacked me at the birth

    The path of the past burst forth

The path of rebirth is frightening

   The infant must burst forth

Expanding, expanding, expanding

   I art in a red heat glow

Colored in oddity

   Colored in oddity

Colored in oddity



I survived poison.

I was four… 



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
Très tremendous!



Numerous books in a single passage,

a secret whispering behind the scenes,

even Perun himself spoke to me,

 or an Arab Djinn of sorts, I

 got the Serbian and Arabian war gods mixed up

I do not agree with either Dem Serbses

 nor them Allahu Akbars

The kids are kicking a can

The kids are kicking me like I am a can

I ran the street in great fear,

but kept seeing them everywhere.

 Blind eye. Clap of hands. ‘Kick the arabian bastard.’



I grew into those wrinkled kids. At times I kick cans.

     The numbers mean fate.

I became so old and superstitious.

   I’m forty two years old. 


You, with a wax masque of a Summer rain, inconstant scatterbrain
You, who are present but not present,


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!


I will devour your summer’s ashes.





My shriek hummed together

with the wind towards the timeless ocean of temporality

on the shores of cursed waters

where dead faces grinned, like this one here, and she kept cursing me.

 – May evil see you,

black tooth bite you…..

May you be buried alive.

She was drunk.



..with a whip…a poker.. on my back…and…

Please, grandma, don’t!

BUT she arose in the beer bottle

In her – are worlds – of rakia

She is a painter.

She arts in heaven.

By forgiving her..  I am a miracle!

The forgiveness itself was posed as a violent

Vision, light, unbound, round, spherical

And searing –!



Indeed, it’s all bones, skulls, rib – vaults

Places, places, next to possible perhaps…

-beneath of multiform pits of corridors

Please, uncle, don’t!

He is a painter.

pantera legged, mustached,

Yelled out at me from behind

Filled with the substance of nasty virtue

“You will all be up shit’s creek,

a bathroom attendant!”

Far less then geniuses
Who lead the fools
With fornication, cunningness and booze
To hidden thoughts.

He still waits

For all my anathemas.

and fumes his pungent breath into your soul!

Motherfucker is still alive.



… while my lip flesh quivered,

and teeth dropped, I…I…

An all the children around me all with aging faces,

 teeth corrupt to their roots and bloody

, and each of then growled at me

, for they were not kids,

 but Algol’s demons summoned at me for a cause.



Your knife cut through all the conditions of disorder.
It’s entirely safe in my hands.


I sat in

The centre of


Too holy to pray 

For a decade

It was the go-go Serbia ‘90s.

A tremendous sacrifice




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!


Spartacus is beautiful

Beautiful enough for me…

 Stab them all!
Stab them with a spear!
Remember the dungeons and betrayals!
Remembrance is death for repentance!

Stab them, Sura and live free! 


I sit here quiet.

Nobody visits me, I visit nobody.

I know nobody.

I guess I killed them all.

When I eat I do not take the food at the table.

Books of wisdom make me feel nauseous.



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

I do not weep for the lack of life.

I made peace with being knotted in,

removed from the arrogance of worms,

into my own hole, dark kitchenette and all…



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

Like I . . . Like I who screamed
Maasalam*, my Child! Maasalam!

*ma’a salama good-bye in Arabic

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