a time without taste

I am not a blogger, nor a marketing expert who can promote mine literary artworks using on some flat puns, catchphrases even a personal legend behind the art of creation!
I’m not really interested so much in the art of selling and what am I selling that you could buy, eventually?
What my spirit’s become? That is what are you going to buy? On the other hand, I’m not squeamish about money, so just keep going. 
Have you any idea how abstract literature is? I mean, a good literature.
What tool am I using beside my own mind?
What kind of tool is that?  It’s really abstract for such a form of presentation! Not always in the right mood, not always willing to change its interior mind.  Under attack, indisposed, nourishing a being inside, both a creature who is rejoicing as well as the creating spirit.

I am aware that in today’s world there is a complete anaesthesia for the human spirit that creates. I feel I have to illustrate my story, appealing to visual interest, so the reader would pique their interest or continue to care about my story! These are my marketing powers. That is devastating and I will not do that anymore. I do not want to demean the Reader.
Of course, it is devastating when the post gets attention from some of the readers, mostly painters … exclusively because of the nice and eligible image associated with it. Thus my story is getting attention from some of the readers (I have some of them on my blog as followers and I despise them – this is not a painting blog, dolt!) mostly by painters…. It’s an insult to the Writer and disgrace to the Reader. ( won’t even go into his lack of manners and IQ issues)
It’s like if the genre painting or a painter would be praised solely for the fact that he aptly noted his artwork using verbal skills- “Oh, what beautiful catchphrases and verbs you use, dear! What an adjective! You’d made quite an effort in the interview!”

I know I live in a time without taste. Whether it is a good taste, be it a bad one.
I do not know who was waiting for repentance, but I’m waiting for the rehabilitation of my artistic coefficient.
Until then, I will let my stories to a slow dissolve for feeding the observers in the theatre, I will let the matter I am using to be translated to… everlasting change, let the time be the judge carrying the burden of value, aesthetically speaking, on Aesthetics scale.

Leila Samarrai, Belgrade, December 10th, 2018 a.d


¿Cómo uno se hace escritor?

 Después de que el centésimo erudito en la literatura dijo a Balzac que dejara de perseguir las quimeras, Balzac decidió intentar con la escritura. Al saltar la valla Le Pont Neuf, se dio cuenta de que el río era inusualmente largo y profundo. “Mira como Sena orillas suyas enlaza” dijo Balzac admirado y renunció a sus intenciones anteriores y se dedicó al trabajo de novelista.

Por otra parte, Camus atacaba al mismo centro seguido por una procesión de los campesinos de Argelia que todos se sentían como extranjeros en París. El editor vigésimo le vio acercándose con una cara de mal humor por el mismo caminopor 97ª vez. Editor decide llamar a Wehrmacht para pedir la  la protección. ¡La novela no se ha podido leer! – Y los de Paris – Soir afirman que van a hacer lo mismo. – se consolaba el editor.

– ¡He aquí mi cabeza que es así!

Entonces, Albert atacó a París con el movimiento de resistencia, irrumpió Paris – Soiry con los argelinos, se sentó en la Tabernita de Flore. Por el sol.

Justo cuando todo esto acaba de suceder a este gran escritor, estaba muriendo  (el año del que no puedo recordarme…) Harms. Por razones absurdas, a la espera de una muerte inminente, llegó a la Serbia comunista, con mil rublos en el bolsillo que recibió como la recompensa por el miedo sufrido en la batalla de Leningrado. Tan pronto como vio a editor, le pegó los rublos  en la frente y dijo: “¡¿Dónde estás, Pushkin?!”

En ese momento Harms cayó. Y el editor se puso de pie y dijo:

– Siéntese.

Recommendation from a dog, “The Adventures Of Boris K.”, Leila Samarrai,

image found here

Recommendation from a dog

A not so brief review of the history of the letter that has never been read…

Letters suffer. And they have a soul. You don’t believe me? Are you shaking your head in disbelief? In that case, lock up the oak door with your rusty key and settle into a favorite chair in front of the fire. Don’t mind the sweat that will be pouring gently down the sides of your body by the time I reach the end of this story.

One could trust the opinion of Sofronije Sofronijević (also known as S.S.). He became so rich from writing his reviews that he bought a villa between Cannes and Nice, his own beach, a luxury apartment in Andorra with a minibar and a bedroom, and an indoor Olympic-sized pool, which was named the eighth wonder of the world.

Daily expensive massage treatments, with a focus on the deep tissue of his tormented heels, were something that went without saying, as well as his daily steak breakfasts with fresh squeezed juice under the light of a plasma lamp

After breakfast, he would put his slippers on and struggle to tie his robe over his ever-increasing girth (he grew larger with every review he published) before setting off to work. Few people knew that S.S. actually was a fake critic.

The real critic was actually Wolfgang, his rottweiler, who was so close to Sofronijević, he inherently understood his convictions. Unlike most dogs, Wolfgang knew not only how to read, but also how to critique the masterpieces of contemporary authors.

For years, instead of Sofronijević, Wolfgang criticized the timeless classic works from a radical canine perspective– he bites each paragraph of Anna Karenina that old about the harvest, and there were rumors that he ate “The Peace” in delight. He would have left “The War” for later, but he remembered the book could serve him as a chair to observe the world, with disdain in the muzzle, from the bird’s-eye view.

Sofronijević spoke proudly of Wolfgang:

“On the works of the Surrealists he growls, at texts of fiction novel writers, and any novels, generally speaking, he barks. When he remains silent, that is… something … ”

With this admission, Sofronijević would light cigarette, offering one to Wolfgang as well, while winking his eyebrows densely planted on his forehead.

Both dog and man, best of friends, were into all kinds of criticism, writing reviews for nine years together. However, after enjoying great fame and reputation in the Republic, something suddenly unexpected happened.

One morning, just at the moment when the dog and his master (and it was often hard to decide who was who) simultaneously choked on their beefsteaks, a mysterious letter arrived in Sofronijević’s mailbox. Instead of a full sender address, one word was written on the top left corner of the envelope: Hurghada. It is said that Sofronijević and Wolfgang reacted furiously after reading the letter.

Wolfgang, in his style, ripped off the first half of the letter with his teeth, destroying the half of it that was written in Phoenician, while the Egyptian part remained. The letter burnt his hands and screamed at him in Egyptian. Then S.S. dropped the letter on the ground but felt his mind beginning to spin. While he could still hold onto his reason, he called for the help of a well-known expert, Tuthmosis, the most famous interpreter of hieroglyphics in the Republic, to investigate everything about the letter that had arrived at this home address. But Tuthmosis was too slow and the letter wouldn’t stop talking, and it was redolent with the odor of carrion.

That’s how Sofronije Sofronijević finally fell off his rocker and went nuts:

“This letter is a curse!”, he proclaimed.

“Whoever reads it loses his mind. I must kill it! Ba-BUM BUM BUM!, he giggled, revealing teeth blackened from gunpowder residue. When S.S. shot off his gun, he simultaneously riddled the letter with bullets while also blowing a large hole in the window, and he and Wolfgang watch the letter blow out in the wind. When Tuthmosis arrived, he detected a strange odor in the air and Wolfgang barked to him some of the sounds he heard.

When Tuthmosis arrived, S.S. had already gone insane. It is said that Sofronijević’s great-grandmother was a distant ancestor of Cleopatra’s maid who refused to die from the bite of a snake, and like Cleopatra, was also cursed by ancient Gods. So when S.S. communicated with Tuthmosis, he suggested to him that perhaps the letter was a tool of revenge from those ancient Pharaohs. According to Tuthmosis, the letter was also soaked in poisons and all sorts of Egyptian herbs that possibly led Sofronijević’s fall into a state of fascination and infatuation. As such, he could not control his thoughts or resist the strong effect of the curse. Shaking his head, Tuthmosis headed back to his apartment.

Upon Sofronijević’s descent into madness, Wolfgang took over his master’s personal study. He would rise early in the morning, have breakfast, take a nap until the afternoon, and then he would write reviews after tidying up Sofronije’s mail. He would lick the letters and place a stamp imprint on the envelopes with his paws. In moments of leisure, he would stare at the Phoenician alphabet, whining, tilting his head to the side and thinking:

“If I could only get hold of the Egyptian half!” Then he would begin to growl.

Many years after the terrible events attributed to Sofronije’s neurasthenic crisis caused by the crisis in culture, there were speculations about the last place of rest of the cursed, Egyptian letter. Some speculated that the haunted letter traveled North to Hyperborea, to Ultima Thule, the land of eternal brightness in the far north, a sole nomen habens. Wolfgang, on the other hand, believed the letter had followed in the footsteps of Apollo, traveling to Greece, perhaps in the mausoleum of Alexander the Great, where the body of the magnificent deceased lay carved on a stone crypt. In fact, Egyptologists reported sighting the haunted letter in the Valley of the Kings, under the influence of moisture, completely destroyed, but still alive! At night, across from the Luxor, screams echoed.

“It’s Nefertiti’s mummy, she rose from the grave, unwrapped her dirty bandages and read the damn letter after putting it together with the glue”, whispered the tomb guardians, as their voices streamed upward toward the heavy white stars.

On one fact all agreed. The letter was unjustly accused of inflicting emotional distress on S.S. But still, no one could explain why it had been so cruelly punished and still continued to be victimized. The cursed letter bounced from the mummified wings of Neferneferuaten-Nefertiti who pulled it by its blackened ends as an ox is pulled by his tail. Despite the abuse, the letter could not be overcome because it had its own appetites guiding it: KICKBACK/LANDING. BOUNCED! LANDS!

The letter spent three years in the tomb of Hatshepsut, diagonally bouncing off the walls of the massive tomb while reading (some say screaming) itself to the queen aloud. Since these actions aroused a revolt of awakened pharaohs in the Valley of Kings and Queens, the letter briefly hid behind the 132nd pillar in the temple of Luxor. While there, it spent nine years plotting its revenge.

“This is all Sofronijević’s fault!”, moaned the letter to such an extent his sorrow plucked at the heartstrings of the innocent bystanders who were forced to watch the letter in an eternal game of KICKBACK/LANDING. Finally, the letter lands on the Sphinx’s head, who as a diligent guardian of Pharaoh’s dreams, shrugs the letter of his stone mane, bouncing him into the air and thousands of kilometers away.



Boris K’s apartment, an emergency department for crazy (desperate) letters

Letter traveled and bounced around for nine years until it finally found itself lying on the table of expert hieroglyph interpreter, Boris K. He spoke the human language with a strong accent originating from the Lower Nile.

“I am suffering!”, wailed the letter as it folded over in pain. It was pale and exhausted from nine long years of wandering. Boris K. put on some gloves and removed the remaining bullet fragments from its pulp with professional finesse. He bandaged it with cellophane, saying:

“You will stay a few days in my drawer until you recover, and then I’m going to decipher you.”

Three days later, Boris K. gets to work on the long and weakened letter. It contains many pages, some of which appears to be written in Phoenician, while other parts seem to contain Egyptian hieroglyphics. As he studies the letter, he sees that it includes more than 7,000 characters repeating in various combinations of three letters, that when translated to English are: D-O-G. In addition, there are also drawings that mesh with the letters. He notices drawings of the savior with nails on his hands and wrists around the letter ‘D’. Then there are drawings of mesh capturing tropical flies around the letter ‘O.’ And then finally, there are drawings of what he thinks is a famous Literary Critic from the Republic… Sofronije Sofronijević, who is depicted with a dog’s head in the shape of the letter ‘G.’

The letter speaks to Boris K. in an increasingly demonic tone:

“Your task, Boris K, is to unify me with my Phoenician twin and return me to my addressee. If you can accomplish these tasks, I will be connected and completed and all will understand me. If you do this, I promise to stop buzzing in everyone’s heads. I just want to be reunited with my better half. With only my evil half present, I continue to suffer. I was bitterly attacked, bitten by a dog and shot full of bullets. And I haven’t even told you what happened when I was in Egypt. Please HELLLLLLLLLP me! I’m begging you! Decode me or kill me!”

With that, Boris K. starts to think, smiling to himself secretly.

Determined to accomplish this task for Letter, Boris K. sharpens his high-quality Graf von Faber pen that is a knockoff and begins writing his own letter…

an excerpt from the story


‘But…we are ARTISTS!’

The Artists

‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Wagner, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Wagnerian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

Mary Lynne allowed herself a minute smile and crossed her legs at the table.

The man tried his hardest not to look at her lovely, thin legs.

‘You start the text off strong, with a title that cuts to the chase, that doesn’t wander. The readers think that you will…that you’ll…’ His frowning face softened. ‘As early as the first, then the second paragraph to expand upon, to provide arguments to the qualification you laid…laid out, oh dear, I’m losing myself…in the title, yeah, that’s the word, IN THE TITLE! He gathered his wits for a second and started banging his head on the table – and yet nothing.’


Vincent D’Onofrio (Cholo) with Mathilda May (Stephanie) in the movie Naked Tango the end of the film.


‘You say that he bullied his colleagues, and also that you cannot cite a single example, because there is nothing written, or disclosed. Funny, one would wonder: where did the daring claim come from that the man was a witnessed sadist when there are neither examples nor evidence of this? ’

The man extended his hands towards her. ‘Oh, Maryyyy…I will strangle youuuuu! With a wire string, dude!’

The man panicked. He grabbed her throat. He screamed. ‘I’m panicking! I’m panicking! I have to jump!’

And he jumped at her mumbling how truly unhappy he is.

‘Look at her, how easily she gives herself to me! You are no longer so prideful! Get yourself up, you low-browed dunce! Oh if only a wind could blow right now to lift your skirt up, and here I am having to put up the effort, they’ll even call this rape!’

‘And it would’ve been romantic’ Mary Lynne said coquettishly.

‘Right, like in Tannhäuser. Sing to me, sing to me, be my…Wilhelmina Schroeder!’

‘Is that like Venus?’

He lifted her leg in lieu of responding as if he were plowing a field. He flung it over his left shoulder.

Venus sang.

‘Do forgive me never more will IIIIIIIII

Come to me if fortune’s what you seeeeeeeek’


Sophie Koch as Venus in Tannhäuser

‘My fortune…’ He uttered between heavy panting and then flung her left leg over his right shoulder (where the other one went, he wasn’t sure). ‘My fortune lies in Mary!’

And he added:

‘I also think that the text would have had more impact if Hitler hadn’t been mentioned. What, there’s no bloody way that Stalin, who was none the lesser a monster and a murderer than Hitler, didn’t love Glinka or Borodin, or more likely Mussorgsky. That does not mean that these composers were vile men. There is a sizable possibility that Idi Amin loved Tartini or Paganini, why not. There are counterexamples as well. Beethoven loved Napoleon for years, he even devoted ‘Eroica’  to him, after which he got disappointed, gave up on Bonaparte.’

‘There.’ Mary said, after an explosive finish a la Eroica. ‘Now, will we do some Wilhelm Friedman for me, sweet lover?’

‘Start!’ With Mary’s dress at an arm’s reach, he quickly put on a dress and made-up and groomed in a manga style he lifted his hairy legs up high, swearing that the Cliven depilatory cream was not handy.

‘You know how much I care for hygiene!’ He wept.

‘Cold waxing is the best with the Tiger tire glue.’ She smiled. ‘Now have a listen…’


Between Expressions by Hamish Blakely

‘Wilhelm Friedman was spat upon to the point of pain. A boozehound died poor…(SIGHING) They then admit that he was the greatest instrumentalist of his age. The dude hit the clavier, not a single person could challenge him. A biography that on the surface looks like the buckish bios of notable rock musicians. Oy vey, there was a movie as well, I think the title of it is, in fact, Wilhelm Friedman, where he, apparently, suffers and struggles (SHE SIGHS LOUDER AND MORE PASSIONATELY) as a gifted son of a well-known father. The catch is that his father was nowhere near as noteworthy when Friedman was playing, and his problem was neither living in his father’s nor in his brother’s shadow (Mozart said about Carl Philip Emanuel: ‘He is the father, we are all his children’ (OH GOD!!!!), which reckless historians transposed as Mozart talking about Bach, and he didn’t.) (BOTH SIGH AND MOAN), but with all those flies, fleas and planktons that make up life and make up us humans, like a living organism, dead center in that life itself. Leopold Mozart, Wolfgang’s pops, picturesquely and colloquially described the habitus of Friedman Bach. ‘A remarkable musician, an unrivaled composer, but a heavy, heavy drinker.’’

He was panting. ‘I love Händel a lot. I have some undocumented version of his Water Music, therefore I do not know either who performed it or when, and the version is, just, it’s the balls, it tears ass… I listened to various different versions, but most of them are shit, can’t even come close to what I have. Händel and Telemann, by the way, I view as bigger composers than Bach. ’

Lars von Trier’s Antichrist was playing in the background during all of this. An erect phallus added to the magic and romance of the two. Candles were too much with all of these other stimuli. At the peak of arousal, they were slapping each other, arguing which composer is better.


‘Boozehound, spendthrift, died poor, boozehound, spe…e…eh, dear husband, I think that will do for the evening.’

And while he was putting on man’s clothing, Mary Lynne sang Messiaen: Turangalîla-Symphony (Joie du sang des étoiles) in front of the mirror, the director of the Artist’s Trilogy Ron Gabe Bonester went upsy-daisy and with a ‘Camera, cut!’ he marked the end of the shoot.

‘I gave you too much freedom! None of that was in the script!’ He paused for thought. ‘Now you, kid, get Mary a gun to blow your brains out!’

The actress went upstart. ‘That wasn’t the deal!’

Bonester shouted in response to this. ‘Nobody questions my authority! For two hours behind that there…glass compartment…the Australian minister of culture is sitting and waiting for the script which will present his arduous devotions at the Art Conference focusing on non-profit management. Our country cannot develop economically without innovation in that particular field. And education! Who do you think you are? Who bought me this Canon EOS 6D to shoot you guys? Get serious, woman, and continue the oral, along with Chopin and your husband.’

‘But…we are ARTISTS!’


‘An overrated term. I do not exchange my ideas with the personnel. We directors laud a vibrant and growing creative economy!’

Then both He and She approached him and pounded him into the ground, while Bonester slid on the floor in his oversized suit.

‘Shall we continue where we left off?’

‘You mean…while the Minister Behind the Compartment observes?’

‘And then a gun to the head, like Romeo and Juliet. Or was it poison? But let’s not split hairs.’

‘That would probably be a mistake, but…as I said… we are artists, dear colleague, and a happy couple in Art. We cannot live on without the drama.’

‘And voyeurs,’ someone whispered, sat in a chair where the now unconscious director lay and followed this up with a thunderous applause.

Then the trio continued the show agreeing that the Husband should be given any old name.

Mary’s gaze flew up and she said: ‘He will be named Frederic. Like our unborn son.’

Nobody objected, therefore Frederic could begin.

The Minister, who physically reminded one of the head electricians, would record something with an expensive video camera. But under the condition that he played Chopin.

‘Bah bah, the Best Boy.’ Both send passionate kisses to him. Then, with an erotic play, they embraced.

‘Artists, such artists,’ mumbled the Mysterious Traveler, the Spectator, the Third Without Whom You Can’t Go On, from the artistic Kingdom of Heaven.

But Mary Lynne and Frederic were in their own world, wreathed in music and gifted with a gift worthy of the Gods.

The camera buzzed. Reflectors flashed.



‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Bach, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Bachian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’


‘…as far as the Bach family is concerned, I love Wilhelm Friedman and Carl Philip Emanuel, they rule, each in their own way, but I dug up some other guys as well – for instance, Johann Bernhardt Bach is also excellent. In the classical era, Johann Christian Bach stood out. Imagine that wondrous family tree, this beast of a family, which branched out during a good hundred-and-so-year period, and bore nothing but interesting musical fruit. Crazy.’ (SCREAM)


A Shaman’s Curse, (Serbian original included), an excerpt

At it’s core, this story is about an altered perception during any creative endeavor. (author’s note)

Posted on the website Ljubitelji i autori sf/f/h umjetnosti u BiH

Dediicated to Plato

In medias res

#horror #satire #parody #psychedelic

Why murder? Because of vanity? – an unimaginative mind would say. Your shoes are salted with it and you walk around bloodied like that. You! The author, under the veil of suspicion! There is something fascinating, I speak while I shake and hit a pole, then another, dazed, probably under influence of the spell from that diabolical fiend and his Halverson – I laughed wildly, then growled – something obscenely fascinating in falsifying the work of another. Within the success of an average mind, without cleverness, that which is adorned by incompleteness, that which loans all it has from the Complete one. He is a voyeur, this plagiarist and falsifier. He peeps through the keyhole of your overflowing imagination. He uses voodoo magic! He walks behind you with a smile while your statement, your bleeding, your desperation flows…Or is this a simulacrum, an exaggeration, an illusion, tension caused by a simple fact that Lucius and Ignatius have similar, if not the same surnames. Fact that in the Zerynthia novel one of us was a literary character, and that the other one wrote it. (This secret, dear reader, I’ve kept from you until the very end)And that the literary character dies in a puddle of blood, just like this, with a knife. So who was I? What soul? The one of Zerynthia? And who here is an Earthling, and who an extraterrestrial? TURBAN! – that was my final mad IDEA after which I passed out…

While he’s dreaming…

“Two mad loves”, hahaha, Ignatius. Oriental poetry is not the current trend with us Scandinavian folk.

“Not true. The influx of Arabs in Sweden is growing on a global scale. They have houses, are covered socially…”

“But you’re saying that Zerynthia is east of the Moon.”

“I say that her hair is, which is how he sees it, like the treetop of the Canadian rhododendron. The Moon has nothing to do with it. East – that’s just a direction. From hell, from heaven, was it not already written… But, then the oriental directions have enlightened the people, now hell and heaven and east and west, even the rhododendron and the Moon just confuse them.”

“Who is he, Ignatius, who is he, and who am I”, the publisher with a turban on his head asked.

“Lucius. He gets into different situations where his behavior turns abnormal. If he is even capable of love, that love is damaging, mister publisher man. Still, his work is finally gaining traction. Words are becoming more picky amongst themselves, they defy each other, they even defy publishers and the public, as blind as Homer the topic of reading a good book, the provincial taste over which Lucius reigns inviolably. Margarita agrees with him and once, at a Georgian terrace where they were at in the Bedford Park villa, she confesses to him that not only will he become the new Aki the Pig, but an enlightening reformer in the age when Zerynthia alongside China will be the sovereign ruler of the world – she confesses to him and speaks…ah, speaks and this is one of the most powerful parts where her role shifts from a supporting to a main one, at least in his head, where she speaks to him on a personal, intimate level. The novel becomes novelist-ish, so to speak…”

When he heard this, he, the publisher, a man of quite noticeable facial features covered in yellow feathers and with a flat head in the shape of a hammer, jumped on me and rode me, starting to grind me…down to dust. His body was that of King Kong. In his hand he had a baseball bat and he whack whack whacked into powder, whack into one nothing nothing. YOU ARE AWFUL, IGNATIUS HALVERSON! AND NOW YOU ARE OFFICIALLY NOTHING!

Serbian original:

Posvećeno Platonu
image Shaman ~ Jeff Wood

#horor #satira #parodija #psihodelija

Čemu ubistvo? Zbog sujete? – rekao bi neimaginativni um. Njome su ti posoljene cipele i tako krvav koračaš. Ti! Pisac, pod velom suspicije! Postoji nešto fascinantno, govorim dok se tresem i udaram o jednu banderu, potom o drugu, ošamućen, verovatno pd dejstvom čarolije onog dijabolika i njegovog Halversona – divlje sam se nasmejao, potom zarežao – nešto opsceno fascinantno u krivotvorstvu tuđeg rada. U uspehu prosečnog uma, bez pameti, onog što ga krasi nepotpunost, onoga što od Potpunog sve svoje uzajmljuje. Voajer je to, taj plagijator i krivotvor. Viri kroz ključaonicu vaše nabujale mašte. Koristi vudú magije! Za vama sa osmehom korača dok teče vaše kazivanje, vaše krvarenje, vaš očaj… Ili je ovo privid, preuveličavanje, iluzija, napetost izazvana pukom činjenicom da Lucijus i Ignašijus imaju slična, ako ne ista prezimena. Činjenice da je u romanu o Zerentiji jedan od nas bio književni lik, a drugi ga je napisao. (ovu san tajnu, od tebe čitaoče, čuvao do samog kraja) I da književni lik umire u lokvi krvi, baš ovako, sa bodežom. Ko sam bio ja? Koja duša? Da li ona sa Zerentije? I ko je tu Zemljanin, a ko Vanzemaljac? TURBAN!– bila je moja poslednja mahnita IDEJA nakon čega sam se onesvestio… ,

Dok sanja…

„Dve lude ljubavi“, ha ha ha. Ignašijuse. Istočnjačka poezija nije aktuelna u nas Skandinavaca.
„Nije tačno. Priliv Arapa u Švedskoj raste na globalnom nivou. Imaju kuće, pokriveno socijalno..“
„Ali ti govoriš da je Zerentija istočno od Meseca“.
„Ja govorim da joj je kosa, a on je tako vidi, nalik na krošnju kanadskog rododendrona. Mesec s tim nema nikakve veze. Istočno – to je samo pravac. Od pakla, od raja, zar ne beše napisano.. Ali, tada su istočni pravci prosvećivali narod, sada ga i pakao i raj i istok i zapad, pa i rododendron i mesec samo zbunjuju“.
„Ko je on, Ignašijuse, ko je on, a ko sam ja?“, upita izdavač sa turbanom na glavi.
„Lucijus. Zapada u različite situacije u kojima je njegovo ponašanje abnormalno. Ukoliko i voli, ta ljubav je štetna, gospodine izdavač. No, njegov rad napokon dobija zamah. Reči postaju izbirljivije međusobno, prkose jedna drugoj, pa i izdavaču i publici, slepoj kao Homer kad je u pitanju dobra knjiga, varoškom ukusu nad kojim Lucijus neprikosnoveno vlada. Margarita se sa njim slaže i jednom, na gruzijskoj terasi gde se nađoše u vili Bedford Park, priznaje mu da ne samo da će od njega postati novi Aki Svinja, već prosvetiteljski reformator u doba kada će Zerentija zajedno sa Kinom suvereno vladati svetom – priznaje mu i govori.. ah, govori i to je jedno od najsnažnijih mesta gde iz sporedne uloge prelazi u glavnu, barem u njegovoj glavi, gde mu se obraća lično, intimno. Roman postaje romansijerski, tako reći..“

Kad to ču, on, izdavač, čovek izrazito markantnih crta lica prekrivenog žutim perjem i spljoštene glave oblika čekića, skoči na mene i zajaha me, počevši da me drobi.. do praha. Telo mu je bilo kao u King Konga. U ruci je držao bejzbolku i udri udri u prah, udri u jedno ništa ništa NIŠTA NE VALJAŠ , IGNAŠIJUSE HALVERSONE I SAD SI ZVANIČNO NIŠTA!

A dictionary of nonsense, The Adventures Of Boris K. the second part

A dictionary of nonsense, The Adventures Of Boris K. the second part

Dear B.S. MS MBA MPHIL PhD, PhDD, DSc, MMSf, consultant, Mr. Supplication Approver, SA Stabschef Ernst,

I enclose a convincing block of 25 blanco stories so I could get a permanent professorship, at the Faculty of Philosophy of Phenomenorepublic of Balkans (though I could not think of a more meaningless place). For this topic, I decided, since with it, I can represent either yourself, or their views on life and contemporary literature, better than it would have been done by the philosophical saints in the eternal assault for the absolute nirvana…

Never, sir, Dr. Application, I could never trust that the topic of existence can be discussed differently. Each reader will be using my philosophical system and method, from the empty shell of existence I offer, grasp the pearl of a sense that will warm his soul to the last breath and sigh.

1. Start: The first letter of the dictionary

2. …………………………… 16

25. End and last letter of the dictionary

Author: Boris K.

Sources: · “History of written words on empty paper”, (1957), Boris K. ·

“It does not feel like home”, (Phenomenorepublic Library) (1979)

“Transparent, I Love You, Transparent” (Transgender Study) (1946)

“Never underestimate the deadly power of the bleeding creature, the women’s studies, The monastery of the harlots of the last days, Got mit uns, 1976

“Why the alienation? (École Primaire Socrates et Démosthenes) (333. p.n.e), the author is unknown

“Reflection of nothingness on the ax of the nihilist executioner “(Henry VIII Sparknotes) (1857), author: Anne Boleyn

“Letters to imaginary robot”, Odd Future Urban Cookie Collective College, Lecturers, Belgrade, professors Lowlife, Twerp and A real Nobody

“From the Cradle to the Kalashnikovs”, From Saddam to the grave, travelogues, Uday Hussein

“Manual for seppuku,” the ancient Japanese writings

‘Should Boris K learn English?’, The Adventures Of Boris K., the Second Part

Boris K. would like to learn English to be understood by 0.01% percent of Chinese who speak English (which is not a small number) Although, adds Boris K, the Chinese do not even know Chinese, let alone English. So there goes his inclination in the trash! Boris K. would like to learn English so he could say to Queen Elizabeth: “Long Live The Grandma!” Though, Elizabeth has her “younger brother”… Long live to celebrate his third term…! Boris K. would love to learn English so he could greet Obama, but Obama does not speak English, he speaks American. And that’s why Boris K. decided to say hello to Obama in the Swahili language, which is the dialect in Central Africa, where Obama was born. “Habari za jioni Rais, kama wanawake na watoto!” Obama was thrilled! Boris K. realizes only Obama understands him. Still, Boris K. will not vote for Obama because that would be his third term which is impossible to be. Boris K. would vote for Putin as Putin could stay in Russia for all time, as the president of Russia, in order not to spread his influence further … Boris K. , also, will not vote for “The Pussy Lips”, since Serbia already has enough fools who will vote for him. Boris K., in the end, would love to say ‘Hello!’ to the Red Indians but they are dead and gone, thanks to Buffalo Bill. Boris K. would like to learn English so he could say something to Buffalo Bill, but Bill is dead and gone. Thus, Boris K. realises that there is no need to learn English language, at all.

editor: Raj Pranav