seven barmy blasphemers

I was putting powder on my cheeks for three nights
I was putting powder on my cheeks for three nights
as subsided temperamental Countess
of rosy cheeks without a dental crown

Are you not too slow and pious to
persecute me, and nail me to the cross
in the eyes of the thief
two canine teeth are ruptured by nails and his funereal tell
(for I and the Almighty bovine get along like Jesus and his cross)
caught a sense of all the Gospels

I am mild towards my alienígenas albertosaurus murderer
masquerading as a human being zipped inside a skin suit.
and the secret alignment that chords over us
while bombs and people were falling around us

While bombs and people were falling around us
I’m jeering from one end of the full stop to the other.
Goddess, God or Lord puts on a pair of black gloves, t
hough she – the black spaz is not the son of a glove maker.

She rose from the grave
With a knockdown gaze:
“I baptize you with water to this grave”
She sits on a mahogany bench then,
which is intended for the visitors of the dead
the music is rocking inluxurious splendor

Just tragicomic love noise in the background
played by the orchestra in lacy nightgowns
one sad melody
She licks the remnants of her coquetting life
and her beak is facing the sky

I lined the idea that failed to flow forth
I lined the idea that failed to flow forth
as I hovered over the Shrapnel soap
while the 1999 Shrapnels were whistling around us
and I adjusted my face in the mirror
as waiting in the wings for my tears to come

I sang a lullaby for a happy heart-shaped face
I celebrated a feast that doesn’t come to mind
is silent without a pause, she – God – is black
and she listens without a pause,
with virtuoso aversion

I celebrated the feast through
Blessed Sacrament of anguish
At most, it’s vivisection.
in several pictures


I shuddered gracefully swamped in the turbid acid
the promotion faces were looking for love in my view
where there is no one else but blueness and croquet
oh, fine abstraction, you’re warm as saline

God abandoned Jesus on the cross.
their sadomasochistic relationship is predicted.
At most, it’s vivisection.
in several pictures


©Leila Sanmarrai, 2019 Belgrade

A marsh makes Lamastu with Layla, in the night, Slanderers Part Two (Poem by Leila Samarrai to her slanderers)

Of Vicious Being Rabisu, and the Nightmare
Of doing what is bad to his neighbor.,
who put night time monsters in this 
Brought a voyeur  into Awakening
and all our wicked and lucid appetite for  useless life
With loss of  Sight, who here is an Earthling, a
and who an extraterrestrial
From hell, from heaven, hieromonk apostate
yester morn us,  And afterwards proclaims us blind
And when I jot them all down,
I will await my trial, I the spirit who follows her fate
as if it were the fate of an avenger,
my head on a stump, the only given possibility.
A dissonant interval. Music banging in the dark.
A calm before the storm.
Then all of the scribblings, those in my treasure chest
as well as my head, will be swallowed by flames.
Then I shall sing from the ashes and embrace the walls
as I burn half-spoken
A vicious being, Rabisu*, takes all kinds of form,
he lasts to the bitter end,
to the dust, in a lifetime,
before waking up, only for some breed of men

Both the light and shadow,
both whirlpools and abysses
of the deeps, merge with vile contours of envy.
Fearless, doubtful shame wallow in dunghill
In the edge of the lost world,
none shall hear the truth, its monstrosity,
but also its shininess
Unto Innocence cry lies  the reverberation
by the slanderers burnt in
Through all our mazes of Ire and Fire,
An attack of the innocents,
a finger of fantasy pointed at dire events
to  avengeance a discord of (thy) listed names.
The honourable citizenry slandered.
and the quill’s wounds scream
These eyes of mine get me to the windowsill,
while sweat drips onto the dark maps
in my enraged cranium and the ink spills.
For it is all written. Their claims.
In my sleep
Irritant, gluttonous tongue of the serpent
to craft a tangled state,  to down with this living man
through the scales of slander, and those letters…
oh, such letters!

For all, it had done and for all hast not done
That I did a mightier service to stumbling block and weep
of something magnified, nesting nowhere  in my spirit,
for it appeared in the clearest,
nigh-apathetic shape based on true love I once  felt

And in those letters I openly,
helplessly and naively checked all
…through words and pictures
opened the tense mind, through the heart, stabbed
As leans in crawling pincer

A beastly howl of the desperate,
undiminished, swim through the similes
But said Prowler of the Desert:
” Picture Cupid dipping arrowheads
in phenylethylamine. It is poison,
to undergo the mournful shades?
Why is thy sight pedestal on the top of earthly kingdoms,
a Carpenter – Shephard, crowned ruler of all artists,
The hell is this damn wooden bench!
Two massive bits glued together and a piece of plywood…
…plywood in the middle like a cork!”
Among the mournful, mutilated shades?

Anything but  lights, carpenter’s fashion as a guide,
Consider,  if to count Apostles be pipe players
did a ditty
for numerous books in a single passage,
a secret of that slanderer trash whispering
behind the scenes, with a filthy rag
and uttered verdict, razor-sharp.

Observing through eyes unseen,
that silence tears through applaud,
at times shrugs and as if shaking
of a stone, then like exhaling in pain,
The motion of slanderer.
The devil’s work

Lye thus unpitying kingdom crushed
offered up as a REPLACEMENT does,
Perun himself spoke to me,
or an Arab Djinn of sorts
I got the Serbian and Arabian war gods mixed up.
Seizing the first
Seizing the second, distorted drunks downing that final glass…
of poison.
– If only plastered cinnamon and rose perfume onto her moustache- it’s cold, even for the disconsolate when lifeless living
clenched a thiyab al-mounadamah…

or whatever robe of striking colours,
seized with its claws.
if robbed by a mysterious fever,
hardened backs bent, scared and careful
of the impending knife strike,
like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.

as if those of drunks downing that final glass…
an option

And now the moon  errands in the doomy pit
Behold Dat and Dis, the wicked spirits
galloped back through time
moon teeth corrupt to their roots and bloody..
Too well I blind and rue the stare at me
with a flaming eye.
Aflame in anger.
The moon has nothing to do with it.


That with sad, enormous chunks of time
Has lost us blocking the thorough research of vile
By right of Irre, diabolical actions,
By right of Slime, rash must go  behind
By right of  War, taken out  insidiously
By right of a lipstick-wearing actor, taken out comically.
By right of treacheries, idiocies, taken out vigorously
 From fell to fell descended Iscariot’s slanders
to set asag – disease of the benign red shores.

Strongly to enumerate a hysterical wretches
in muck of mud and blood –
In horrible destruction only impurity essences
The hours of night taking away a restful pistol
my bullets are ready, my drawers are gone

Passing through door cracks to feed inhospitable winds of the steppe,  the Hetman still rides, knight.
A marsh makes Lamastu with Laylah, in the night
*Rabisu and Lamastu are nightmarish demons in ancient mythologies
*Laylah is Arabic name, means “Night”

embrace the moment. (in technicolour)

embrace the moment. (in technicolour)

At midbrain,
shorthand words word more words
a tongue-tied rope of words strangler
from tongue’s taste bud saliva through the throat

But there’s an arched jewelled pendant to catch the last mouth rinse
and Technicolor to x-ray the red-handed tongue

Me the old Judge of eternal hatred,
as Cernuda, once wrote in a verse.
but a little tired,
from a decade of merging and melting of eternal
circular cycles, giving up the ghost, forlonness,

eternal questions, terrifying riddles,
paradoxes…and another idiot with a folding gun.
hard workin’

after which I inherit sadness
earn’d Scorpio killer and dreams

One penned page,
one bullet fired,
one rebellion squashed,

Look around.
look at the world.
embrace the moment.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie


A sky in the blood crimson

and the shrill on hell coal black
sings like a kangaroo, left-hand dance you’ll see,

Of the inward sun sets fortitude
as never loved before

The hysteria accelerates
such cello keel unto the strum
rarely performed publicly

A drunk lover crossing promenade
Soon, Pitiful spirits, zombies and Christianlike buried
swaying to the sceletons sarabande

To sound of the tune went false,
I know
I pen
I ink

there, a love cardboard intelligent box
here, deft, a drunk casino
let’s gamble to savouring a twosome

Mrak će razumeti, Leila Samarai

Mrak će razumeti(zbirka pesama), Leila Samarrai

Izdavač: Edicija „Prvenac“ Studentski kulturni centar, prva nagrada

2002.  ISBN 978-86-7398-010-2.

Vašoj milosti*
U hlad ruža htela sam da se sklonim
Ali zaspah u knjizi
Otvorenoj na pesmi o (m)učitelju

Pesnici davnašnji
Pod senkama i zemljom
Računaju li na serafime
Na tamninu, na prozorska okna
Na odškrinuta vrata i tajnu života
Na grane čempresa koje tišinom mame
I dugo severno jutro pod harfama

Na izmaku vidokruga
Neka nam ćutnja iščupa istinu
Od kamena spevanu

* Upućeno čitaocima
Tuga je skrivena u glavi ovenčanoj krvlju
Ka mudrosti zvanoj Jerusalim
Ubijate čoveka što daljinu osluškuje
Je li tamo zbilja „Ecce Homo“
Viša hijerarhija Španije
Dok teče vreme očaj silazi do krvarenja
Bolno nikad, ne priznajući bol
Ptica sam
Ptica sa željom da umre u Španiji

Napisaću u izveštaju
U mekim plodovima krije se
Namučena Hulija Burgos

Onostrano sećanje otkucava šest časova

Taština na lisičjem tragu
Gle, čuda!
Čas naizgled jednoličan
Pogodan za izokrenut tren ili večnost
Mučenica i njena kćer što peru noge
Ukrašene ekserom umesto sandalama
Ćutke razgovaraju

Samo ne žamor iznutra
Obale i strugotine maštaju
Kćeri želiš da ti se omakne prah
I uznemiriš teret, nebiće i vitice
Zamišljena preko puta kamenja odolevaš
Crnja od noći
Strah te da neće više biti kičmenjaka

Treći je čas u noći Posle

Ne shvataš – prosuta krv zvoni
Od otkrića pogrešno strepiš
U agoniji sebe same
Dok vapimo na grčkim terasama

Mirne su reke čujne u naporu
I to zajedno

U ogledalima je put ka mrtvoj zemlji
I obožavaoci hronometra
I neostvarivi cvat leta

Goluba na vatru kćeri moja
Naješćemo se
I skakavce kćeri moja
Pre nego nas napuste kroz prozore

Predosećam da nepouzdani čovek
Stišava dah i kreće putem
Lepote, Zapovesti i Ratova

Znakovi pored puta jedino ti preostaju

Tako mi govoraše mati

Ne traži više zemlju
Zaboravljena među drvećem
Ispod kojeg si rođena

U izabranoj noći
Kada su skakavci odleteli sa terasa
U gomilu glasova punih mržnje
Ka meni upućenih

Majko tiha
U meni ni glas da zapucketa
Otkud sam mogla znati
Za drugu stranu karata

Dolaze li već da me povedu
Ukorenjeni u poslednjem jutru metka

Ustajem bosa
More se uplašilo
Ko zemlja od groma

Trnov venac više niko ne pominje

Iako svaka rana ne krvari
Svake večeri umire po jedan čovek

Nastaće polutama i osama
Služiću sama u sebi, iako nisam svoja
Pred ranjenim kolenima sve se otvara
Cvetovi i misli, priče o pravdi
Lobanje razuzdane i doba bez predaha

Znam kazniće me Bog
Ali u grču strasti
Neće me slomiti odsutni

Igrasmo celoga dana
Samoća ponovo dolinama
Grlena iznad kladenca
I ljudima greh

Uplašim se da budem

Sen bi tvoja bila
I nevestinski veo
I vrisak prvi
Zločin iz strasti
I krv vremena i nevremena

Bolje da se uplašimo

Tajna paprati i beše i ne beše
I strah
Odnekud samoća izgreva neokrznuta

Zatvorena u zvezde u sebi
Očima volim i dalje
Bez ljubavi mrak će me razneti

U postelji se ne uzdam u zapovesti
Ruže već bremenite vetrom
Koliko časovnika pitaš
Dok kasni jutro načičkano večnošću
Jutro bunilo

Proriču kraj sveta
Kroz zvezdane kapije
Želeće otvoriti ih, otvoriti ih neće moći
Želeće zatvoriti i njih i put
Pesme će oglasiti mrtve
Mrtvi i živi krenuće lažnim ustima
Bez ijednog čula

Moj Bog spava mrmljajući molitve
Posle čega nasleđujem tugu, vetar, planine i ptice
Ipak ruke i stabla odolevaju

Nije me strah od metka
I konjanika apokalipse
Već od tebe
Voljeni moj Oče

Biće vremena da ti kažem
Hoće li se i sutra okretati reči
I suština bivati konac

Vrebaju me povijeni svećnjaci
Između čežnje i straha
Između strasti i postojanosti
Uvek su prisutni dok spavaš nemirno
Tamo gde počeci končaju

I samoća je uhvaćena, oblikovana i ograničena
I njen sadržaj oglodan u vetrometinama
Gde se kraj i početak sastaju
Svakog punog meseca

Još jedan san

Vrisak troje dece među lišćem
Blizu vodopada i provalije
Ruže im preblizu
Da li da ih sledim ili previdim

Odluke čudne
A deca čuda bez samouzdanja
Treba na vreme poznati zemlju i sazvežđa
Da poslednje otkriće
Pusto vreme ne bude
I razapet odjek koraka u osami

Biće vremena da ti kažem sve

Strepimo, ne živimo
Igramo po prostirkama od paprati
U ritmu izvesno mrtvih

Čuvaj se suze ludaka i mostova bez ograda
Žrtava i samoće molitve
Tapšanja po ramenu
I praznine u kojoj umiru savetnici

Čuvaj se
Ne budi opet pronađena

U međuvremenu ne živimo

Između proleća i zime
Belog i crnog
Srca i krčme sve nižeg vinostaja
Između prerušenog i slomljenog
Nestvarnog i tornjeva izvrnutih očiju
Između svemira i „da li smem“
Gradske lude i „isplatilo se“

Između „donekle“ i postojanja
Smirili su me plač i post
Klanjam ti se
Pomoć ti ištem
Gospo tišine, vatre i iskušenja

Idi u mirnu jesen
Nemoj vedrino pozna u groznicu
Kraljice kikota neodlučna ćeš reći:
Kad u Singidunum dođoh tražeći tuđi svet
Ne videh zamišljeno
Već svežu kap krvi niz nogu
I nedresiranu reč bez volje da se izrekne

Šumski slavuju
Ako možeš u ponoć da zapevaš
Ovde ću te čuti
Između noćne radosti i zore

Kako brzo prolazi sen reče Marko Aurelije
Duša je prolazna, zar ne, ponada se
Udružen sa demonima po treći put
Krivica mu prišt, čovek žrtva, a život podvrsta čira

Nezadovoljstvo je ono savršeno
Od pamtiveka ne možeš izgubiti ono što nisi imao

Odvojiš li se jednom
Saznaš li za pravdu bola nasleđenu
Mogu li otrov i požar biti korisni
Nisi li postao previše popustljiv Marko Aurelije
Pred deobama i žudnjama
Namerno izazvanim

Neka te ne muči više juče
Sve zavisi od Bogova

Danas su stvari potpuno otvorene
Dok ih krvožedni vetar ne obori
I odnese u sutra koje neće biti

Zato Marko Aurelije kad god se pogledaš
Seti se da li je oblik prepreka suštini
I odgovori ko je veći lažov
San ili sen u ogledalu

Kada će početi ništavilo
Kada ćemo čuti odjeke jutra
Lišenog brzine, ljubavi i mudrosti

Doći će čas
Biti istovremen
Biti tišina i bljesak
Biti sudar i stvaranje
Da bi kroz trenutak ničega
Došao na ovaj svet

Od tada se širi kroz ukus ničega
Kao talasi vode

Zagrni usne i odvike
Udahni miris vetra i promena
Odškrini kovčežić
Pusti nek izlete sve stvari
I mirne noći i uspavanke

Odrekni ih se
Dolaze pometnje i druge noći

Poželiš li šapate i guste zaklone
Čuvaj se
San je čuveni sejač
U doba novih iluzija
Koje device pretvaraju u život

Zašto nema granica
Između laži i života
Pred devičanskim kolenima

Rodila sam se u igri svetla i senki vodopada
I čekala da zagrizem plodove
Kroz jedan svet ili vek

A oni gorki iznutra

Vraćam se mirisu doma
Ostrvu sto pliva u noći i vodi

Groznica nema kraja
Pesma ostala bez zvuka i vatre
Magle ne haju da budu opevane
Pa nema razlike između vode i blata

Devojka uplakana bez uporišta
Dok zid zavičaja dogoreva

U podsvesnom dijalogu
Niko nije budan

Ja uporno napasam reči
Dan i noć
Prvo ih tražim
Prepoznajem čak i u gušterima
Koji nesreću najavljuju
A Vi bi vreme i puteve, iako isprazne
I plave krugove iznad izvorišta brzih reka

Vi mesečeva deca
Ja usamljena stabljika
Vi upamćene boje
Vi pesnici, a ja nisam još

Ja Pan zaljubljiv
Koji ne zna kako se na Vašem jeziku kaže pustoš
Obeležena da pevam žudim Istoku
Gde bih mogla da se spalim
I u zvezdu konačno pretvorim
Kao Kecalkoatl*

(Kad bih samo mogla da se zanjišem
Na trenutak
Ni muzika nije potrebna)

* Kecalkoatl- mitsko biće Tolteka, prvobitno vladar i prvosveštenik a potom i vrhovno božanstvo. Po predanju sam je sebe spalio i pretvorio se u zvezdu
Kako su radosni odjeci ravnica u susretu s vodom
Krošnje se zavrtele
Ispod njih šćućureni reka i ja
Ne za dugo

Muzika straha i pukotina groma
Dižu vode protiv nas
Koje do tad nismo poznavali
Ni moje Juče i Danas

Zatočena sam
Da ne bih otišla u mesto gde se prelivaju vode
Čineći naše odredište
O zakonu spojenih sudova

Svejedno mi je
Samarićanin je umro

Otići ću u pustinju
Napraviću masku sebi i prizivaću kiše

Vidi li nas Veliko oko

Ne zaboravi
Voda je talas do praznine
Voda je pad kroz metafore
Koja moli ogledalo
Da se vrati
Na manjkava mesta pesme

Samo da mi san
Ne dovede do dna

Nikada neću reći
Na šta vonja mesečar
Sposoban da bude budan

Nikada neću zaspati
Bojim se misli

Šta čekaju oni
Koji se sećaju mojih reči
One su kamen koji se kruni

Zaškiljim kroz videlo rešetki
Šumovi detinjstva
Simboli intime
I snovi
Jedan po jedan
Jedan po jedan
I nasta vreme
Vreme sa druge strane zida
I života iza nas

Volim ponoći bez umora
I ljubav bez razmišljanja
Proždirane usne
Između pospanog drveća i zore

Dete sam na plećima oblaka
Neću da zvuk ode predaleko
Ni svetionik da se izgubi u mraku
Ni čuvare što bdiju nad mojim tajnama
(Ni slavoluke od blata)

Želim košulju od srebra
Da pokrijem tuđe poglede
Želim samo tvoje oči između zidova

Dosta mi je zbunjenih i zavijanja u noći
I onih što me traže i zaspu pre nego me nađu

Noć i otvorena vrata
Sablast mi glavu obuzima
Vidim ti oči
Sudnji čas – tačno izmeren tren sagoreva
Vidim ti oči
Ne pripadaju meni

Bacih svoju dušu
To su dužice povetarca – viču mračna ogledala
Istrošeni glasovi iz krvi izrastaju
Puzeći obaraju stabla

Ti se vraćaš
Grubo vlažeći svetinju mojih usana
Nema i ukočena na pragu
Izgrižena prvim bolom
Bljujem zmijski otrov

To su možda tvoja tišina mržnje i moj zaborav
A zapravo
Ni ti, ni ja, ni pričešće

Ni mornari
Ostavljeni na izgubljenoj obali sablasti
Ni plač brodova u noći
Ili je to pesma nasilne ljubavi

Ona nikad ne ostaje bez glasa
I kad se ne čuje

Šume spavaju
Ne znajući
Za preplašenu travu
I njihov uzdah

U doba vetra
I biljnih padavina

Tišina kamenih spavača
I prevarene publike

Ćutim pred nemuštim zvucima
Groznicu slutim
Čuvam te tišine
I gradskih uhoda u cvatu
Iako nas očevici razdvajaju

Nestanak boja
Dan pretvara u noć
I obijenu hrid

U deveti čas

Nalikani leševi se raspliću
Nikako da ih potopim sve
Kao ni istorija crne marame
Spremne na pomeranje vremena i vazduha

Tokom ove
Hiljadu devetsto devedeset devete
Teško je stišati plač iznad posmrtnih izveštaja
Šume i trava i dalje niču iz nekada živih
Jer su najpouzdaniji

Sa nebesima pregovaraju
Oni što su neposredno došli iz zelenog pamćenja
I grobova pre zaborava

Motre nas živi i mrtvi
Da mrtvi nisu živi
Ostali bismo svi bez jezika i plamena
Zar oni nisu i Vaši dvojnici
Da živi ne potiču od slabosti možda
Kada se u odsustvu
Predaju jedan drugome

Jeza mrtvih ptica
U ambijentu zasede
Poj krvotoka je

Misao malo glasnija
Kao što se daljine
Tišinom umivaju

Otplovite oči
Atilinim zlovirima
Iskopajte ptice
Koje su sebi dovoljne
Da najlepši glasovi
Iz mrtvih redova u zemlji

Trebaju nam
Na početku i kraju ljubavi
Uvek ih tada dozivamo

Kalderon reče: život je san
Varljivi pratilac između dva buđenja
Ni život ni smrt
Ni nešto treće
Ni život posle smrti
Ni smrt pre života
I zamire među kazaljkama
Pre nego zanoći u našim telima

Sigismund uzalud okovan nepouzdanim zvezdama
Objavljuje veliku varku
I krugove nemuštih snova

Posle hiljadu i dvesta noći
Vidim u vrtovima vire moje kosti
Kad bi beskraj zavladao pre jutra
Možda bi iscelio usamljenost

Dva zagrljena oblaka
A možda i dve ptice
Ili poznata marama u čvoru
Ili san između dva oblika

Uzalud se krv osamila
I tišina sa senkom
Pršte kalemovi i bezbožni udarci
Koje ne razumem
Kao ni odsutni zvuk koji sledim
Dok se oblaci ne pomeraju

Senke uzmiču
I serafimi se izgubili
U sebi grizu sve strane sveta

Kuda ću ako me mračni san savlada
I vampir

Sablast tvog života još nije iščezla
Poput koplja zabodenog
U oči idolopoklonika

Niz proplanak klizi mesec
Ali raskršće je još uvek u sumraku
Iz kojeg koščate ruke i bajalice
Tvoju bi nagost u grču

Uzdah pod plaštom ljubomore

Ne čekaj Sunce bez senke
Ono ne razlikuje bludnicu
Od davljenice na obali

Nek poljubac pesništva
Bedro ti prepusti mojim usnama
Nek krik ućutka sve
Osim nežnosti kiše tek pripremljene

Nije mi žao
Što će rečni pesak prekriti svaki stih

Lirika pripada svima
Ni bekstvom ne možeš izbeći njenu težinu
Zato nikud ne žuri
Ne napipavaj prstima trbuh mraka

Neko će umreti u prvom sumraku
A ja ću pisati o kometama
Zakidati na hlebu u tvojim rukama
I pripremati uzoranu zemlju
Da se mrtvaci rumenih usana nadišu

Mirno spavaj
Krivotvoriću sve što treba
Pobiću kokoši ako ih ruže ne zaustave

Ti pronađi one koji su nas optužili

Zaustavljen strahom od čekanja
Ne izrastaš
Ni u snohvaticu

Kad plamen plamenom prećutiš
Iza tebe praznina i vetar
Postaju spojenost irealnih čvorova

Stakla ulepšavaju život i ljubav
Nek samo pokušaju da razbiju sočiva naših kuća
I saksije što kipte cvećem greha

Vi što se smejete pokazujući crne zube
Zalud Vam pohlepa i strava
Ako Vam lik zanoći u rasparčanom ogledalu

Ja odoh na sever čija je odsutnost mislena
U tišinu i stud
Gde jedino drveća podsećaju na ljude

Slepilo – usud prokletnika
Ćutanje – navika ubice
A san – java smrtnika

Mogla su to biti tri čoveka
Spojena očima
Iako je jedan od njih slepac

Sresti čoveka sa svim čulima je retkost
Jer put nije označen
Ako ne vidiš
Ili ne sanjaš
Ili ne umeš da ćutiš

Verujem u božanstvo smrti
I u istinu demona
Jer u njima lepota zaglušuje

Priroda je u stanju da ubije
Bez razmišljanja
Da bi razdvojila iste senke

Oči moje
Svejedno mi je kada ću umreti
Vaša me varka ne može utešiti više

Priroda ume da kazni radoznale
Nezavisno od greha
Samo da se iluzija i istina ne susretnu

Noćas purpurno naličje oblaka
Probudilo poslušne mrtvace
Koji podigli glave
Oslonjene na koščate šake

Ne znaju jesu li živi ili mrtvi
Prvog su dana čuli trube
I zaspali ispod zastava i oblaka
Pod kojima su
Umesto pod zvezdama prodisali

Drugog dana objavljeni tišina i cveće
Ne verujući da postoje

U međuvremenu nebo je uranjalo u sumrak

A trećeg dana
Mrtvaci su slavili budnost mimohodnika

Dolina stihova još uvek mami
Kćeri svetlosti u luninim haljinama
Jedna drugoj sestre
Po zemlji bešumno se dozivaju
I mene u kolo pozivaju

Prihvatam ruku jedne od njih
Saplićem se

Usiljeni koraci ne udaljavaju
Od ponora i uporišnih tačaka

Plač im nalik na nokturna

Dok ruža života zaleđena u istini ogledala
Na zaravnima povrh čarolija
Kaplje po mahovini
I razvalinama sveta

Devet časova spava
I devet kazaljki sveta

Usta blagosti odbegoše
Kao cvetovi narandži
Kad dođu da ih seku
Iako nenajavljeni

Sem vremena, sve je u znaku prolaza
I drvo maslina
Što izdiše pod insektima

Za svakog postoji odgovor
Prezir, ljubav
Ograničena svetlost
I nasukani brodovi

Je li istina neverni Tomo
Da rekoše mu:
Za svoju stvar
Iz tvojih usta izbori pravo
Dok ti umire dan

A on
Osuđen na okolnosti u poletu
Pretvara se u svakog ko ga podržava
Daleko od puteva koji glođu nevernike

A on
Na prvu reč ne zbori, ni na drugu ne uzvraća
Tek na treću smerno i obazrivo

A on
Zna da je ovaj život za mrtve
A ne za žive
Ni zid ne huli

A on
Moli za providnu nevinost sa očima od melema
I za podvige očajnika

A on
Ne mari ni da ga među ljude vrate
U molitvi učeći

Ipak jedno ti ne verujem
Ne verujem ti sveti Tomo
Da nije dovoljna uteha
Izmišljena u obliku žene



This poem was inspired by waking up without coffee (I’m just going to buy it ..) as well as being near Nietzsche where I read his Genealogy of Morality not as a reader but as a hammer reader, strict and concentrated in righteous anger, and eventually I brought decision, to be like a handsome Erendira,  a character from a novel by Gabriel García Márquez, who is slandered by three-four soulless old hags that embody evil and corruption, and Erendira, especially after drinking coffee, embodies innocence and love. At first I thought, looking at García Márquez, I would write a poem reminiscent of medieval hikes, provencal or troubadour tunes, immersed in the dense and fertile world of the Caribbean, but eventually, I decided on a Kafka-Nietzschean kiss in the courtroom with the aforementioned three old crones.


Morning, will it be thrust for absolution and we will find it?
continue at full gallop towards twisted lip grown
Morning – gains it gives away.
Yet wonder.
The blood lood in a leather water bag
midnight express mattered maddened
of hemp to a solid kettle
My inflamed Midnight Express set greedily
to sail sailed boulevard chest with luminous shafts
and I, straining in strength, almost sweeps the wariness
till spiced wine has blossomed I clutch beyond dark sense
of boiling kettle
clinging to the staves of a billboard, carved with stones
storm air now hurled awakened, now brushed its coolness on my mouth
I drink my tea the grass-filled mouth root-bulbs..
I stare at the next morning,
the eye could scarcely petrify my
runaway monstrosity
But, my morning – in all is innocent, untested in its passion.
Morning – clear checked to crawl on its glabella
the sluggish slowness of the weird noses of the snail
the intestines drag behind it like an inconspicuous shit show
cracked turnip heads are fevered with a bunch of opioid wasps
I am waiting for an ambulance that is forbidden to come
I’m getting cold though I’m already getting hotter
in future courtrooms, in n Blekinge, Sweden, where I spill the eye of the killer who BjörketorpRunestone(s) me by mobiles:
Incessantly plagues by Maleficence Heerz tooya
a genus of parasitic moth found in Mexico’s mornings
make a night’s work of her neck, so long as the qualities of
morning skinny band of tissue spurted down
I’ve already stood trial for those hope diamonds.
The Curse of the Crying Boy Painting
I stole at St. Peter’s haunt club
a malachite, vibrant indifference femme fatale
the gamboge tree pace the Khmer fields
waiting for widow spider nymphs hourglass-shaped widows

Sheds, barns, and cobweb outhouses.
the iconic courtroom sketch
wandering vendors and loud neighbours and
short weird film behind Kafka whose future
is in the egg.
a fixture in the K. poetry scene – a cigarette femme fatale holder
drinks her menstrual cup blood bedecked and thickened blood
earrings and a comb for a disgraced bold judge
of femme Fatale slanderer, half-sleep yawns
the surrounding swamps of the travelling circus
a gatekeeper a stool
pair natural prairie dog foot earring
a labyrinth utterly find as quite as cold

I’m no longer cold but someone else is always hotter
dark funeral hat for or next to the naked mole-rat 
on a dark night full of corners
the imaginary gaze of a goth Kafka’s tint
to let the letters go racing a bit demented
Luciferian smokiness
until within the ring-dove wails of morning winter

Oh, Daisy.

For you it’s , and for us – Just waiting for someone to come to get us

to grab us,  give us a sitz bath, to kiss and bring us together.





Instead of my biography, to all..

I am not thoughtful
Atalanta who’s hopping
near the court of Harita and Himeros
inspired by the announced visit of Papa Legbo
through the Caribbean bays and with the astonishing rhythm
of all possible percussions with the fish pepper from Florida,
bathed naked body in the waters of Permes.
On the contrary, I pay for a joint septic pit near Belgrade Krnjača,
I’m just someone who is an inadvertent speaker, looking for an editor, a poet,
with the echo of the whisper,
with the one neuron that remained in my head after postwar stress… and it serves me for knocking on my keyboard’ door for heaven is not
a place on Earth.. well, logically speaking, Belinda… Xiao moto (Sorry about that in guajarati..)
.. In vain, in vain…

Abortion poem

The storms lopped off that head of
quiet cities
giant waiting room
fog – braids

always besides seeing
a snake – pit
crucified orchid looks like a uterus.
along roadsides made of hot coals

Do the trumpet of darkness hide love
do music of the wind drinking wine
do carelessly frog – brides
cast their veils
over the vertebrates
do bare-hearted glass frog
cast their steel tools with greater violence
over tin plates
I wonder.

Is it a stretched time
a hamstring torn apart
all the dead ends in the night.
with a cello played by umbilical cords

as an endless wait
and gallium rains
fall from the past

I should remember

sunbathing naked suburbs
when swings empty as eyes looked at us carelessly

Say something.

Closes with a
small lobster clasp
of dead children passing through dead children

a vortex where they wallow
in whirlpools and abysses of the deeps.
Children of the stone men

My bastards… birth of my birth.
all with ageing faces
la tierra
They’re taking me there..
where bone made of roses clocks in fear.

Through heart’s mouth
cockspur veil of senses

started to grow rapidly
wood and waves
gimmicks on the face
face in gimmick and stiff thorns

a bronze plated pendant of
stone people
weathered carving

of sweet pastel, a cutting ladies’
birth of my birth, and unborn
children, sandwiched between ovaries

I’ll paint myself
open-legged pose
like Frida Kahlo
self-induced abortions
a nude
Dali’s haiku

Cannibalism in autumn

Fitnes pesma/Boris K. in the gym

Neuhvatljive, živahne kretnje, stopala…
kao konji ljuti što beze u galopu
pljusak snage, beli smeh u vetru
otvoreni brzaci, prostor nastanjen težinama
lepet tegova zbraja i potire uspone i padove
a duša je u skladu sa zadovoljnim telom

Presvučena znojem, kao svilom,
podizem težinu visoko prema nebu.
čini se da je vežbacka rutina
puna rastanaka
od uspona na kojima bih mogla ostati.



Boris K. In the Gym or”Something is rotten in the state of Denmark”

“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark”, From Shakespeare’s play Hamlet (1.4), Marcellus to Horatio.

Boris K. took the “Mens sana in corpore sano” mantra deadly seriously and was on his way to the nearest gym. Out of sheer excitement, he forgot the towel. Truth be told, Boris K. never really sweated, what’s more the doctors diagnosed him with some armpit gland defect. He wore his tracksuit that he usually wore when he went to the farmer’s market and had sneakers on, clean, but with a tiny hole on their side.

The moment he stepped into the luxury space, akin to the gyms of Los Angeles where the Japanese Yakuza work out, the treadmill caught his attention. As he was running, green pastures went through his head where he soared as a child, running after a ball.

“Boris, get the ball!” he remembered the voice of his uncle Ivan The Terrible Fisherman, who often took him fishing.

He ran faster, catching the ball in his thoughts. Giggling, he lifted his arms up and whispered: “Death to fascism, freedom to the people”, respecting the house rules.

Luckily, others noticed the new workout guy, others who ran along the treadmill with light steps, wiping off the invisible sweat, exchanging many a word between one another:

“Sweetheart, I have discovered the Café Menstrualle. You pop one Café Menstrualle and no more ovary pain.”

“Such nice people, these folks”, he thought after a thirty minute cardio workout, ran his fingers through his odorous hair, with but a hint of sweat to it. He reeked of sweat and it felt good to him.

As he was fantasizing about making “Rocky VII”, a young man of 25-ish approached him, dark curly-haired, engulfed in a strong perfume, with buff arms, a square Lego torso and short legs, and he whispered into his ears words that almost froze Boris K. solid.

“Good evening”, he shook his hand with his own, dry chapped one. “I am Boris K.”

The trainer shook hands, unknowingly stepping away from Boris K., while down his tiny wrinkle on his young forehead, born out of constant frowning and grimacing, sweat poured.

“Forgive me, sir, but you stink. All the other folks that are working out are complaining about you.”

Boris turned around himself, sensing the sweat and the hostile looks. He shook.

“Male or female?” he applied logic.

“Both sexes.”


He felt being bathed in cold sweat. As if something had been crushing him bone by bone, his field of vision narrowed. Him? He never broke a sweat. Even when he had to go to the doctor’s.

“What?”, Boris K. looked at him nearly maniacally.

“Nothing”, he said and wiped the sweat of his forehead. Catching glimpse of this motion, Boris K. facepalmed, merely uttering that he did not bring a towel which he would use to clear any doubt-raising link between him and sweat.

“Mistah Trainah, I have never once in my life…stunk, not even had a hint of an odor…and even if I did – is this not the right spot for it?” Boris K. was pulling these and similar arguments while counting the seconds in his head, bouncing the words around under his tongue, gulping, until finally he bent the knee and admitted defeat.

He was certain that he did not break a sweat, but this young trainer, who was a bodybuilder for at least a decade, certainly knew everything there was to know about stench.

“I’ve been wrongly accused!”, a slight rise in his tone.

The trainer shrugged and clenched his fists. The other customers started approaching with menacing faces. Boris K. noticed that he’s in a pinch and tried to apply some strategy. He smiled, to which the customers stepped back. Boris K. noticed that the workout gear was unoccupied, seeing as the people using them were surrounding him, therefore nobody was there using them. He felt the uncalm and the desire to leave, but he couldn’t leave well enough alone. He had firmly decided to continue the discussion with the discount Tommy Gann here by any means necessary, come hell or high water.

He felt that he was about to cry any minute. He held himself with both arms, comforting himself gently as the trainer, his voice a chill, suggested that he brought a towel next time, more modern sneakers and a Dolce & Gabbana tracksuit, like the ones other customers had. For a while he trembled out of confusion, uneasiness, he even wanted to cry. He cursed all the towels of God’s green Earth. He shook away the invisible sweat off of himself as the in-full-make-up female customers, casting a glance or two in his general direction, glared at him scornfully. One observed the sole of his left sneaker. Rolling her eyes, she whispered something to the lummox next to her who looked at Boris K., as if ready to crush him. Boris K. was smiling. He went out into the street shook up, confused, disturbed and offended, realizing that there was a stench there and that the trainer was absolutely correct.

“I know what it was! It was the scent of rot!”, he concluded, and stepped into the dark streets towards a new comedy.

Tomorrow Boris K. purchased a café menstrualle deciding that, as soon as he gets the right opportunity, he would complain to other customers at the gym about the pain in his ovaries.