Category Archives: proza

Kraljica Egipta, Zapisi u Tami, 2.deo serijala, Glava 1


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KRALJICA EGIPTA

 

Image: -tell-you-my-sins-and-you-can-sharpen-your-knife

Reč Autorke

Hermangdar

Na trenutak, reči se rascvetahu u rakete, osuh paljbu na na prvo lice koje protrča, sa sve odorom koja šušti, paklenim iznajmljenim sobičkom  u zamršenoj besmislenosti mog uma gde blješti zapaljena vatra,  nalik na sobu oblika avetinjske kocke,  baš ona, crvena, iz koje sam iz dosadašnje pripovesti izašla gnevno držeči Somerset Mom pivo u ruci, uz mrmljanje: zajebeš sve to, s rukom na praznom tobolcu.

Presamićene heraldične figure survavavaju se iz bledila nejakog zaborava koji ih je rasparčao, preglumio, sve smeštene u jednu jedinu sobu čija se velika glava ugnezdila među mojim nogama, dekomponovan prostor, na umoru, nagriza iznutra u apstraktnim kombinacijama sastavljenih od životnih sitnica koje se moraju iznova izmisliti.

To je život iza zida. Rukopisu smeta prevelika amorfnost likova.

To je sve što je bolesno  I što mrtvo iz nas, mene, vas izrasta, korov kao grana ledenice koje si preživela u sebi, jer izmaštati sliku da bi prepoznala lik, potom otići u trpezariju I videti ih, da.. Uvek ih vidiš, tu, kako sede, piju kafu, tvoju kafu, u tvom sobičku, a da nisi čestito ni utrčala da pokriješ rukom rukopis koji – oni ne smeju da vide dok sve ne bude gotovo.

S gađenjem sam protegla telo u čudnoj odluci da ih ostavim da sami sebe čitaju, da grle slova zverskim pogledima I ližu zmijskim jezicima poganu, okrvavljenu strast koja se zapalila na hartiji, slova zavarena u rečenici kao zavaren zub.

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Ljudi vukovi faluciraju na silovanu divlju pičku, drkaju na arapski ćilim na kojem je obavljeno silovanje, u palati, u veličanstvenim zamkovima, u elegantnim salonima.. egipatska kuga u satanskoj crkvi – i čudne petlje. A isplele su ih slepe pletilje i one se ponavljaju ponovo i iznova. I ma šta napisala, uvek se nađeš ponovo na istom mestu, na istom tepihu.. što onemogućava da razotkrijem njihovu sektu bludnika, silovatelja i ubica u kojoj vlada zapetljana hijerarhija kako bih opisala sistem u kojem se pojavljuje Čudna petlja.

Kakogod da san preživela užase koje su mi namenila ta hibridna bića koja puze maglovitim, jedva nagoveštenim pejzažima, mora da je sam Zeus uvideo moju vrednost.

A ja sam samo skromni instrument.

Skršiću tu gomilu buba, esnaf budala i..

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Esnaf budala???! Ja?!!

Visoka štrkljasta ženska prilika tanke retke kose vezane u rep diskretnim trakama od zmijske kože, pređe dugačkim prstima i zagrebe veštičjim noktima po ugraviranim znakovima.. Slova su joj se mutila pred očima. Vrvela su poput mrava, ima ih previše, trljala je čelo, zaklopivši oči jer su je slova rešetala krvavo prodornim svetlima, dok ju je glavobolja cepala kao munja mračno nebo.

.- Kako može o nama.. o MENI da piše nešto ovakvo?! – ražesti se, dok je držala rukopis u drhtavim rukama, naoko mirno koračala je po kamenom pod, po kojem su puzale zmije.Osećala se nelagodnije svakim pređenim korakom.  Osvrnula se na svoje kućne robove.  Bili su prljavi kao odrane ribe, smrad pišaćke bio je nezaustavljiv kao plamen žarke BDSM žudnje koju nije delila s njima, osim ponosa što je uspela da ih natera da sažvaću i poslednji ostatak kožnog kaiša kojim ih je bičevala do krvi.

Pohlepna i nestalna za moći, ravnom merom je slavila bilo liberale, bilo fašiste, drag joj je bio ekstremni hedonizam koliko i radikalno pokajanje.  Bila je to žena sarkastične ozbiljnosti, svečane poruge i grubih šala, dok je pokušavala samu sebe da razume kružeći kontrastirajućim konstelacijama, magičnom orbitom.

Identifikovala se s Bogorodicom koja bi, u nekoj od njenih mračnih fantazija,  tlačila narode lukvstvom i silom i jedino je mogla da prihvati ljude ukoliko bi joj pokazivali ljubav kroz potčinjavanje.  Ukoliko su ućutkani, ukroćeni i spremni da joj se požale, jer je onim slabijima, a to je bio čitav muški rod, prilazila s pun zlobe. Nijedan muškarac nije bio ništa više do podređenog kućnog ljubimca. Od pomisli da bilo kojeg muškarca prihvati kao ravnopravnog partnera  joj se bljuvalo.

Druge žene je vrednovala daleko iznad muškaraca. U najboljem slučaju, muškarac je samo oruđe, ništa više. Draže su joj bile neukroćene žene, dominantne kao ona sama, ali znala je da njih ne može imati.

Muškarci i njihovi resursi su eksploatisani, a to sve je moguće uz pomoć simboličnih, diskursivnih institucionalnih praksi. Zbog toga se, pobogu, udala… i t upravo u svom hramu, u delu koji se zove mamissi. Imala je i svoju verziju per ankh, gde je izučavala tekstove posvećene religiji, diplomatiji, gde je prevodila, tumačila I kopirala rukopise, a svoje robove pretvarala u lične pisare…

Kad je bila raspoložena, udarala ih je po zadnjicama plastičnim falusima, kao simbolom želje al generale, a kad nije…

Bila je veoma sadistična. Dobijala je doslovno fizičko zadovoljstvo na bliskom orgazmičnom nivou kad bi videla  ljude u neobjašnjivoj agoniji i bedi i smejela se na video snimke ljudi koji se pucaju u glavu. Zbog sjajnog stepena samokontrole, samodiscipline, samopouzdanja i inteligencije u opsegu geniusa, nikad ne bi dozvolila sebi da pokaže šta je uradila osobi koja me je iznervirala na vestima…Bič natopljen krvi i solju bio je prirodan produžetak mračnih crta njene ličnosti. Volela je da sebe smatra, izlišno je reći, najsmrtonosnijim stvorenjem koje se na gozbi može sresti, nebitno da li je u pitanju čudotvoran primerak muškarca koga bi automatski proglasila bratom ili žena kojoj mesto nije bilo u bordelu, njena sorta je uvek prelazila granice. Jedini izazov bilo je – premašiti samu sebe užasima i besramnostima.

-Hajde, ustani, zemaljsko roblje!– rubovi istočnjačke odore nepoznatog porekla zaplitali su joj se oko bosih nogu.

Jeli su iz zdela za pse, isturivši lica s bradama i nosevima iz mraćnih ćoškova napuštene crkve, u kripti u koju su iz glavnog zdanja vodile mermerne stepenice. Kriptu je krasila božanska statua koju je dala izraditi po svom liku, u egipatskom stilu. Vremenom, kripta je ličila na svetište hrama, a nije imala ništa protiv prinošenje žrtava, mada je radije primala keš.

– Uzmite urin sa stola. – velikodušno će ona – Popijte meni u čast. I dodajte malo terpentina – da zasladi. Nastavićemo mučenje sutra. Imam glavobolju od ovog prokletog teksta! I to javno – na wordpressu.

– Ako želite da me kastrirate ne bi li Vama bilo lakše, na usluzi sam, domina – muškarac oblika debelog creva, izgledao je kao da je pojeo pozamašnu količinu gojaznih miševa, kleknu pored nje, u stavu, kao da bi je zaprosio. Moram da ih usavršim. Garavim im oči cijanidom po uzoru na Egipćane, a dajem im rimske okovratnike. Moram da kažem mužu šta videh na pijaci u Jerusalimu, pa to je pravi.. kratki laneni kilt!

-Ćuti, robe, nije u tome bit. Ona se vratila!

-Ko se vratio, domina. – uporno će rob, koga je prozvala Robert.

Nije se obazirala na Roberta (kršteno ime Borivoje) kog je srela na liturgiji, s okovanim metalnim okovratnikom oko vrata. Trgla se od nervoze, a trzaj propratiše zvončići ušiveni u odoru. Borivoje je bio bezvredni batler i jedini koga je krstila imenom Robert. Ovo je bilo bitnije. Blesnula joj je vizija. Zaslepila ju je. Svet se oko nje komešao, na tren nestao i u njoj su ostale samo – njih dve – njena stara fantazija, blagi prsti koji klize niz njeno telo kao u dubinu sna.. ona polako uzima bič..  ali na to joj Spisateljica odgovara: Ne zanosi se. Vratiću se još jednom, ali s mačetom.

Kao da je bila tu, ogrubgelg lika od zaricanja na paklenu osvetu i čučala je kraj nje, s nožem podmetnutim joj pod grlo. Osetila je užitak.

-Probdela sam hladnu noć, ne jednu, no..  govorili su da je takva duhovna bolest sveta. Imao ju je Makijaveli Neron, Kaligula.. tu.. bolest..  o kojoj ona govori.. – vrtelo joj se u glavi od doživljenog poniženja

-Hodaš među velikanima, domina!

-Hodam među govnima! – oči joj opasno zasijaše. Zenica joj se zaoštri pretećiu da probije rožnjaču kao vrh pirámide, grobnice Kraljice Egipta. – Upravo sam razgovarala s pravom ženom, sadistkičkim psihopatom, a ne s ulizivačkim ljigavcima koji se mažu s mojim znojem da bi im koža bila mekša. Piju moj urin. Govore da miriše kao ruža. Gde je tu izazov? Gde naslada?

-Ali,. bol koji nam nanosite naše je zadovoljstvo.. –

– Izazov dostojan Kraljice Egipta! – dreknu ona i kosa joj se rasplete –  O, ćuti. To jednostavno dosadi. – A sad me ostavi. Idi, založi.. običnu vatru. Obrednu ćemo kasnije, kad stignu ostale gošće. I ne zaboravi da nahraniš ostale pse.

-Kako Vi kažete, domina.

Kukavni insekt ju je s požudom posmatrao, ona uzdahnu i podiže pogled ka srebrnom kandelabru. Neretko je provodila sate sanjareći o storijama koje bi volela da napiše, no nije imala prevelikog dara. Ali, imala je bujnu maštu, tako da je uvek umela da osmisli način na koji će ojaditi ljudske živote. Obično empatičnh i inteligennih žena koje bi joj stale na žulj. Rekla mi je, ta Leila., da mi je um iskrivljen i da volim da radim, bez nekog posebnog razloga male i štetne stvari, ali ne više od štete koju bi nanelo glupiranje deteta koje se igra prskalicama ispred njenog prozora. Drsko štene. Približavala se eksploziji besa. Izložila je njoj samoj njenu najdublju tajnu koja je uništavala porodice, kao porugu uz savet da proba s kantama s đubre ili da pobije nekoliko štenaca, ukoliko baš želi daje uznemiri i poljulja joj mir. Spakovana si, odrana i skuvana i praćakaš se u unutrašnjem krugu svoje izopačenosti jadnim mahinacijama – izrejkla je hladno, jezivo, arogantno i oštro. Isto je izrekla i njenom bratu Hermangdaru, ponizivši gap red discipulosima.

Uz jedno “blokiraću ti crvotočinu i poklnjam ti Egipat”, nestala je s fejsbuka, ostavivši je sa žegom na gladnoj koži s koje se slivala tečnost. Ona ju je secirala, a ona se oglasila vriskom, nastavljajući da plače od uzbuđenja i sreće: Postoji još načina, postoji.. Das se osetim živom! Srećom, razum je prevagnuo i nadvladao već savladano telo. Osetila je upetorostručeni stid. Šta ako neko sazna?

Postoji samo jedan način da niko ne sazna za..  – progutala je knedlu – , a to je da ne postoje usne koje će šaputati ili škrabati o tome.

Misli su joj se okrenule ka ubistvu. Osećala se bolje.

 

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PO DOZVOLI IZDAVAČA RUKOPISA “ZAPISI U TAMI”, REČ AUTORKE, u znoju pera svog


  1. PO DOZVOLI IZDAVAČA RUKOPISA “ZAPISI U TAMI”, REČ AUTORKE, u znoju pera svogIMG_20180721_193827 (1).jpg

Aveti s kojima se autorka borila mimo ovog teksta, sa srpdačinama koje su dopuštene poput oštrica sečiva postale su joj toliko bliske da se par meseci bojala da ih ne izgubi. Jer šta ako kojom nesrećom izgubi ono što joj se pukom nesrećom dogodilo? Ipak, i ona je ljudsko biće, ne samo autorka. Šor u koji se doselila nedavno postao je problem. Uočavanje da je neko nekoga angažovao da je prati kad joj socijalna fobija popusti bila je osveženje! Izvršni organ stranke komšija pokazalo se da je upravo to – organ.

Jebena odvratna matora gadura od komšinice s leva bilo je sve što joj je bilo potrebno da skine voštanu masku kako s plejade likova u Zapisima, tako i sa svog, ali morala je neko vreme da ukloni svoj otpor prema kičeraju i papazjaniji, da shvati da joj treba biti drago što mora da ih gleda, da se paklena osamljenost udružila sa nagošću primitivnog seljačkog nasilja, da se u ovom šoru melanholicima ne prašta već se isteruju iz čamotinje svog iznajmljenog doma, da sve nora da piči i puca, uz trubu, uz narodnjak, uz nalevo – krug da ne pritisnem uza zid i tebe i tu crnu mačku i ima da ja pppprrr… radim šta mi se ćefne, i briga me, gospođa pisac što je tebe pravio senegalski pesnik. Šor je moj!

Par puta je Autorka našla komšije rasute preko praga kako se čude događaju koji se odvija nedaleko od njih, a to je ratoborno čukaranje po tastaturi i „neka vaša privatna posla, gospodična, a ovde nema ništa privatno, ovde se svi zajedno radujemo, propinjemo, jaučemo, a ti se zavukla tu k’o medved, pišeš i pretvaraš se da svakodnevno čitaš što nije istina. Ni u Evropi, niti na Aljasci, niti na Ekvatoru“

Autorka, na granici između samoubistva i mučeništva, u nameri i nahođenju da nanovo spozna samu sebe kao objekta, ali ne kao bilo kakav,  nego objekt – u problemu, ali i na putu izlaska iz lavirinta zadatog matricom,  shvata da je najbolje rešenje biti glupa i gluva kao top.

Tako je sudba baci da se naseli u pustoj zemlji, u šoru, u jednoj od rustičnih kuća na prelazu u moderno, nasred centra Beograda, s povoljnim uslovima za razvoj seoskog turizma, sa zajedničkom septičkom jamom nevezanom za gradsku kanalizaciju, blizu duboko iskopane rupe, gde su sve fekalije zajedničke.

Reklo bi se da ovakve nesretne okolnost treba smatrati otrovom za sve što je osetljivo i da autorka zaglavila u svom ličnom limbu, pomalo ljuta što ju se u celini i u delovima umnožilo, preštampalo, prenelo u surovom obliku s jednog tragičnog mesta na još tragičnije, zastrašujućim sredstvima koje, kad bi ih bilo moguće opisati, ugrozile bi njenu već upitnu razumljivost proze i već usahlu korist i to sve bez odobrenja autorke, kao i njenog izdavača, da je se distribuira, sa sve psihopatološki grotesknim noćnim morama i rulfoovskim sablastima..  tako.. po šorovima i kućama, evo ima godinu petnaestu.

Ovo obdareno biće je rešilo da otkuca još paragraf ili dva, a potom da se zauvek digne od stola i oslobodi se želje da se bavi tako imućnim zanimanjem, uz još nekoliko uzgrednih koje je imala, a o kojima, protivno samozadatim vlastitim pravilima nije želela da govori ama baš nikako, a pogotovo ne otvoreno i javno.

Uprkos snažnoj veri, pod pritiskom velike patnje, autorka je rešila da odustane. Uz izgovor da je kritičnma narodna masa isuviše ljubomorna kako na njen novčanik tako i na ono što piše.

Kome su potrebni prizori bede, vapaju i krici izgubljenog uma,  priče o hiljadu i jednoj želji koja će se ostvariti samo onoj koja nadmaši Šeherezadu uspavljujući legendarnim storijama poreznika s disleksijom koji pati od bibliofobije – (čitalac određuje da li je poslednja primedba smehovna, duhovita ili smešna) To je jako važno jer autorka koristi humor da iskaže svoje ekspresivne ideale, uz opasku: Zabranjeno citirati Fidijana.

Daljim ispisivanjem bljutavosti svojih dilema, bljutavo ih ispisujući, u prljavštini, u ćorsokaku koji služi za šoranje, autorka je, svodeći konačan, veliki račun, na kraju tog računa, shvatila da je propatila toliko mnogo, da je izgubila dodatih 4 kilograma i trista grama, nešto iz oblasti fantastičnog, a nešto uistinu nije umislila, ali se više nije sebi doimala u ogledalu niti nezgrapnom niti čudnom.

Pogledala je dosad napisane pasuse ZAPISA, pohvale dostojne, odlučila je da se samoj sebi toplo zahvali na pokušaju da napiše sjajno pismo o tome da je po svojoj škodljivosti u odnosu na sve i svakog koga je prikazala bila nevina, ali da je došla na mesto koje jj preti.. koje predskazuje propast, da je kvalitet rečenica opadački, koliko i besmislen i da će svako, ne razumevši ama baš ništa od onog što je napisala imati želju da pročita autorkinu samozahvalnicu koja glasi:

Hoću sada, kao jedino živo biće koje me zanima, da izvršim gorku dužnost spram strašne vesti koju sam dobila, a ona me je zasenila i obradovala na načine na koje nisam ni sanjala, jer ni sanjala nisam.. – ovde se autorka zbunila, u toj meri da je ostatak rukopisa napisan u prvom licu – da ću biti toliko srećna pukim faktom da svojim pisanjem više neću opterećivati druge jer…

Najedared, nešto prsnu, kao krv i prasak smeha,  a zvuk je došao s druge strane prozora, iz hladnoće, tame i iz plesa senki.

Staklo puče, razbije se i pre nego što sam shvatila da mi je cigla tek za par milimetara okrznula glavu i načinila vidljiv ožiljak iznad slepoočnice. Ciglin let od tame iza prozorskog slomljenog okna do susednog zida trajao je merljivo kratko, no nisam se zamajavala time, no sam počela da se istovremeno smejem i da pretim.

To je vrlo zahtevan posao. Pretnje. Treba iskriviti lice propisno, grunuti iz grla tako da to ima neki opasan, skriven smisao, te iako se obično počinitelji uplaše pretnji, uvek treba biti spreman da primiš pretnje nazad, a da pritom ne dozvoliš da vidiš koliko se u tvom nedostatu ikakvog straha krije prezir prema svima.

Stoga sam oduvek sebi savetovla da se držim prekora. Poslati u pakao, to je ljudsi. Pozvbati se na status žrtve. Slobodnog mislioca.

No, ono što me je navelo da se zamislim  jeste razlog zbog kog bi neko propratio moje postupke, a budući da te noćii nisam načinila niti jedan, da razmotrim mogućnost da neko prati moje postupke, i to me je protreslo, da čak i moje ništa ima nekog smisla, u ovoj tami, noći,  u umerenosti strave i čistoti apsolutnog besmisla.

Tada shvatih. Histeričan i prodoran krik od kojih bi i kamen zajaukao dopirao je s moje tastature, a možda sam i vrištala dok sam pisala – ljubazno mi saopštavaju dok im pajserom dodirujem noseve smešeći se: „Čik ponovi ako je to tačno“

(Unutrašnji urednik se raskrečio nad rukopisom i gleda sve šta pišem iz ptičje perspektive: Mislim da treba da obrišeš ovaj deo. Dogovorili smo se da ne izmišljaš.

Izmišljam? Kakva budala. Sve vrvi od urednika ovih dana. Do – gooders. Ne podnosim ih)

U pitanju je bilo, zaključujem, razbijanje prozora iz zvučnih pobuda. Komunalna buka koju sam pravila u zatvorenom prostoru, svojim ratničkim izlivom emocija udarajući po tastaturi prepoznatljivom pijanističkom tehnikom vežbanja a la Franc List, udžbenik za daktilografe „Prstomet i umetnička interpretacija“ , prešla je nivo 100 fona (ako se nisam prevarila u cifri) uznemirivši komšinicu s leva za koju se govorilo, još od mog useljenja, a ponajviše je sama o sebi govorila, da meditira u noćnim časima, čvrsto sklopljenih očiju, te živčani sistem, te promene u metabolizmu, te trigliceridi…

Dozvoliću sebi da zastanem na ovom mestu i da se smejem. Samo malo.

(Za sve je kriv fakat da nisam sastavila detaljno sve scene u romanu, inalče bi poodavno bio završen, a postala sam ravnodušna prema pakostima uprkos stalnim selidbama, te na kraju shvatam d aplašim svet svojim literarnim postojanjem, a možda i da suviše dugo živim. Možda bude da je to)

Utom senka promače. Brzo. Isuviše brzo, ali dovoljno da vidim prikazu u begu odevenu u ski masku s nacrtanim likom bele ajkule oštrih zuba kji proškrgutaše: „Ma boli me kurac!“ To reče, otvori kapiju i uđe u dvorište s leva, skinuvši pred pragom ski masku, a tamnocrvena, laganokovrdžava kosa se rasu…

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Dugo sam sedela zagledana u plafon. Noćašnji događaj izoštrio je i produbio stare instinkte.

Upravo pobedonosno sam izašla iz Prvog rata „Ja tebi ciglom kroz prozor“

Odlučih da dovršim tu priču, a nakon svojeručnog potpisa, zaboravim na čitavu stvar, uz zvanično obrazloženje:

Tekst Zapisa u tami smatrajte kao svesno izbegavanje otkrivanja vlstite istoriografije. Autorka smatra da je s rukopis gotov, iako nije. Komedija je izrodila isuviše bezumnika, iako mnogo manje no što ih je u istinitoj ispovesti bilo ili bi ih bilo. Zbog sticaja nesrećnih okolnosti, pomahnitalnog tempa kako selidbi, tako i tempa kojim se skinula do gole kože u vlastitom romanu, a nije se libila da započne lov na veštice kad su u pitanju i bogomznani kreteni kojima se posvetila pažnju, kao sveštenik kokošinjcu, uz želju da nepočinima razbije njuške, u stanju u kojem joj boravi čitavo biće, to nije više moguće, te autorka ne ume da isprati sled događaja na ubedljiv način, a da pritom ne odoli čežnji da se stopi sa svojim šumskim ja i premaže se ratničkim bojama.

Ako biste je posetili, shvatili biste da je podivljala i fantazira da lukom i strelom lovi zalutale turiste po okolišu Avalske planine.  Njenu priču je teško pratiti, mada su složni u tome da je njen delirijum zarazan, koliko i interpretativan.

Dovoljno je reći da je odbila ozbiljnu glumačku ponudu za Beogradsko dramsko, jer je smatrala da je razlog za minornu ulogu u predstavi „Lepa i luda“ nevredan njene pažnje neprihvatljiv od strane neotesanog režisera Mihaela Hajdna.

Ukoliko ona sama ne napiše bolji scenario.

„Tvoja rupa odgovara mom falusu“, rekao joj je na generalnoj probi i uprskao stvar.

Majci je pukao film, otišla je na pijacu i nije se vraćala dva dana. Sunčala se Autorka dva dana kod baba Ruslane na sunčanom krovu, setila se teme iz maturskog i iz samo njoj poznatog razloga, mrmljajući nešto o Arapima i Suncu i pištolju, te o nekakvom Dušanu Slovaku, uz mantru: „Uradila sam to. Sve sam ih pobila“,  stravičnim gestom koji je prethodio odluci  (kad je ona u pitanju i bogovi se boje da nagađaju šta je to bilo) podigla je ruku visoko u vis i u glisandu svakako  nastavila da piše, uz Kingovo misery pitanje „Možeš li“, uspela je da se osmehne monitoru kao detetu.

Hvala Bogu i za ručno izrađenu škrinju što mi ju je danas doneo poštar – poklon od prijateljice koja je pročitala dosadašnji serijal Zapisa u Tami, uz poruku ohrabrenja: „Žuri polako. Tek si na hiljadu i osmoj stranici.“

Svaki pisac ima svoj ritual pre nego što išta iole pomisli, a kad nešto pomisli, dobar pisac mora to isto i da zapiše. Streljala je zelenim okom dosadašnji rukopis kao sečivom. Potom je otvorila škrinju na kojoj je zlatnim slovima bilo ugravirano „Knjiga magije“ i položila podebeli tabak odštampanog rukopisa.

Poluglasne rečenice okretale su se u njenoj glavi sve dok nije zaverglala sledeće poglavlje, pa sledeće, list po list slažući u škrinju i strašnim pamćenjem klavijaturisala po istini, svedočanstvu, nestrpljiva da završi s uvodnim ritualom, a to su u dahu sklepane loše rime o izmišljenim bludnicama koje joj dolaze u san i koje se nude da joj urade korekturu teksta.

To je ritual. Za ovaj mesec: bludnice. Za sledeći: političari.

Potom je izvgrnula ruglu sve što prezire, od veoma rđavog oca kog nije niti upoznala preko nedotupavaca koji smatraju da se ona zapravo rukopisom kompromituje,  iako je njeno najveće dostignuće bilo u tome da je uspela da izvaja svojevrsne rečenične kipoe a la Luvr po stilizaciji i mašti, a da pritom nije rekla ama baš ništa.

Ovo je za autorku krupno priznanje i razlog da odustane, kao što bi i bilo da začuđena i ožalošćena selidbama i bezočnim ciglomanima,  osetila gotovo idolatrijski naboj prema srčanosti kojom je komšinica boli me kurac napisala vlastito poglavlje, odbrnila vlastite uši, uz ne baš preveliko rasuđivanje i dubokoumnu baroknost u iskazu, ali svakome, pa i samoj autorki jasno i razumljivo.

„Pokazala mi je put“,  jer autorka bi neretko bila zadubljena u misli tokom pisanja obimne knjige, ali rečite u meri da može da se radnja prati, sve dok se ne bi trgla iz donkihotovskog sna –  žurila se potom, spremala šta će reći, držala govor pred ogledalom, teško gutala zalogaje tokom obroka, odlučila da će se posvetiti bogu, postu, militvama, samo da u rukopisu sve ide dobro i da se ne uzbudi previše tokom samog pisanja.

Bila je to greška. Zanosna igra i ples opisa groteski koje su joj mučile um činile su njenu knjigu zarobljenom u zamku privezanu spletom aluminijumskih žica koje likovima nisu dozvoljavale dah.

„Ovo je intervencija s nebesa“, kucala je autorka i svakog dana dok je pisala, tamo negde u Beogradu, Sunce bi se penjalo iznad vidika kad bi joj neki paragraf uspeo, a padalo ispod vidika kad neki paragraf bi zaličio na hagnjeći kotlet ili bi je poznati glas Izvršnog komšiničinog organa:

–        Boli me kurac!, virnuvši iz oblog zvona tela sa ne tako uzanim otvorom.

Lozinka.. Mora da je lozinka..  – mrmljala je Autorka stisnutih, isušenih usana. Toliko pomno je kucala po tastaturi da je zaboravljala na žeđ.

–        Njena mačka opet ušla u kuću, a ja.. presekla sam se živa!-         

Zamišljam je u vlažnom kazamatu kako se testeriše od prepona ka glavi. – otkuca Autorka, ustade sa stolice, udalji se dva metra i pomno se zagleda u slova: „Dobro je“

–        Zeca sam morala da odnesem u Aranđelovac, a ona tamo piše.

Zvonj

Zvonj

K’o klepalo kad bije na radost uskrsnuća.

 3

Autorka viri kroz kroz drvene prozorske kapke.

Neko na njenom mestu ne bi želeo da se upušta u pojedinosti fizičke prirode, a da ne pomene očekivane plave kitove, artiljerijska oružja na Istočnom frontu, teške haubice,  Indijke, do nedavno najteže žene na svetu koja je uspela da se prepolovi, elefantijaze, da tu nešto debelo nije u redu…

Tabana kao krdo afričkih slova sa svojom tankom kosom prikucanom šarenim šnalama uz glavu, ofarbanu u tamnocrvenu boju i klati tamo amo povelikim grudima dok joj iz usta viri jezik koji vrluda i po jutru, i nći i po livadi i po šoru i kojim preti, kojim seče u naletu neprijatelje sistema, one koji njen kurac ne vole, turobne godine tvrde upotrebe nisu ga umorile niti iznurile,  no ojačale da blista poput čelika, da besni po šorovima beJogradskim i aranđelovačkim, a svet sav se, taj svet koji u kurac šalje i iz kurca se odlio u slivnik, udružio s njom, sa slivnikom, propustljivom površinom sveta i kurči  kamenu tišinu –pičKi gore dole i kurata okolo, a još povrh kurca i cigaretu joj pripaljuju.

 

Moje bludno psovanje, moj udo, njen nežnik..

Lepa sam k’o satana! Obla k’o crkveno zvono!

 

KOMŠIJE, scena iz predstave LEPA I LUDA, Leila Samaraj i Mihail Hajdn

Scenario s falinkom

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Leila Samaraj

 

Kaecilius.jpg

Mihail Hajdn

KOMŠIJE I NJIHOVI POTOMCI: Cika i vriska, dva deteta pred školom, ponašanje dvogodišnnjakinja,  dakle, retardi, neartikulisano kreveljenje i sumanuto skakanje, nerazgovetno pričanje, vrištanje, tapkanje loptom, lupanje u prozor, dozivanje mačke,  komšije razapele kanap preko ulice.

AUTORKA: Odbija telesni kontakt. Ne obraća pažnju na druge, bez kontakta očima sa spoljnim svetom. Ne priča s komšijama. Ne pokazuje strah od opasnosti. Smeje se ili kikoće, s razlogom. Pruža otpor slušanju legendi o silovanoj devojci kraj Momina kamenu kod Vladičinog hana što se Turčinu nije dala. Uzvraća legendama o vlastitim avanturama na Sinajskome brdu koga je uzduž i popreko prekopala, negde u neolitu, kad ga dokazano nije niti bilo. Interesuje se samo za istoriju normanskih osvajanja, ali se žali na odbacivanje paganizma, kadgod komšinica Ruslana, koja se predstavlja kao Radmila, od 90 leta i koja je prema vlastitim rečima imala urednu menstruaciju do sedamdesete, pomene lezbejstvo Hilari Klinton. Na pomen sintagme: “Dečja radost”, obično brizne u plač.

KOMŠIJE I NJIHOVI POTOMCI:

–    Ne bacaj tako loptu!

–    Ma boli me kurac. (evo ga!)

–    Trči, vidi koliko ti dupe

–    Malo poskoči!

–    Hop! Hop!

–    Vidi kako moja Zoka skače!

–    Baci tu loptu tamo na vrata onoj što čuka, a ad izađe ti kaži: izvin’te komšinice.

–  A ko i što toliko čuka?

–        Ma doselili se tu s mačkama, književnica i njena majka! Majka je u redu, ali ona, ta mala, bezsisna i pikljava – ona…  – Piše.

–        Piše! A što?

–        Iz nekog razloga nešto piše, ne pitam se kojeg, mora da je nešto umnobolesno.. neka ekstrasenzorna percepcija, možda je nadresirana pa naskače k’o kuče na tu jadnu tastaturu i sakati hartije da bi suzbila bolest, ali tu pomaže samo pištolj i noga istovremeno, ne bi je mađijala cimetom ni da mi je prineti toj toj.. grotesknoj implementaciji.

Komšije se uplašeno pogledaše.

–        A lepa je!

–        K’o prostitutka u poodmaklim godinama. Ne bi je jebala ni Goleovim kurcem, niti nevidnom silom prizvanom s četri upaljene sveće.

–        Hajde, Zoko, nemoj tako, i za tebe su govorili da si propušena, a ti bila lepotica sela.

–        Udara, udara ko čekićem! Noću, kad je bog reko da se spava, kad svi spavaju, pa i mačke. Šta bi bilo da ja napišem roman!

–        Piši, što ne počneš i ti pa udarajte zajedno

 (smeh)

 (bele stoličice poskakaše)

–    Lupa, čoveče, lupa! Jadan moj zec!

–    Komšinka, hajd’ da ubacimo ove stolice unutra da ne pokisnu. Kiša će.

–      I čula sam je. Kaže ona da smo smi mi seljaci. A šta je ona? Gospođa iz Kragujevac? A znaš šta. Boli me kurac.

–      A jel te mnogo boli kurac.

–      Mnogo!

–      Gole, nisi rekao da ti Zoka ima kurac.

–   I još kaže da našu ulicu da je Šor na Vračaru. Kaže: poređali se k’o na prelu i vrište. Eno. I onu babu laži -ruskinju primaju u goste, kao prvu komšinicu. Onu što stalno priča da su joj četnici zaklali sina. A lepo sam je upozorila da je baba luda. Ma boli me.. guess what!

Udaranje, vriska dečurlije, treskanje,

Vrisak

Buka

Cika

Radost

DEČJA RADOST!

 

 

Birth of the Crabs


A THREEPIECE POEM

SMALLTOWN CHOIR:

1

A  Something was wrong with her. Aha! She thought she was beyond everyone! (a convincing cadence) Sold her house to move to the Big City! (grandioso)

B Fine.

A We want to go to the Big City too, but no can do. You do not sell the house. Not at that cheap price! (followed by two oboes and fagots, calmo, cantabile)

Da capo. D.C (from the top)

A What did they do to this woman, for her to squat in other people’s houses in her age. She can’t even die in peace. Shame!

B They won’t be there long, they do not know what the Big City is. And it’s a beauty that the kid is incompetent at everything. She cannot clean! You have to work and earn money, and she can’t do anything. Yeah, sure, as if people need her books! You can’t live on books!

A  Let us pray.

    Let us pray.

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1

I climbed on the altar, lifting a knee before climbing a step. Then I laid my hands on the altar, lowered my right knee all the way, bowed my head and the tip of my body a bit, and my eyes are lowered cutely.  I calmly spoke, without seductive rush, or tears; quite the contrary, there was merriment in my voice, as if mocking.

Then I outstretched my hands, placed it onto the altar and kissed it pressing my lips against the shroud in the middle. It was stiff with a wooden frame, and instead of a dedication kissing stone, I realized this was a coffin with someone in it.

It was a girl in her mid-twenties, pale oval face on her and stunningly full lips. She lay on the shroud, in a black satin dress, hands on her belly.

– This is how I placed my hands so everyone can kiss my ass – I said, approaching the shroud and kissing the forehead of my corpse.

2

Mother and I entered the apartment and found it infested with Dusan Slovak’s presence. Horn-rimmed thick glasses partially clouded the murky look of the vulture. He pointed his beak at us. His hair was like a cockatoo after his crest was plucked out.

He was breathing heavily, each breath making his larynx inflate. Cancerous growth in his larynx is aching to burst out. As does the barrel of the gun peering from out of a white rug wrapped and on his knees.

– You know how to pamper your asses, but not how to pay the bills.

His voice was coarse and soundless.

– Money, right now. I am not a nobody. – brandy was pungent in his throat. – Nobody screws over Slovak. I can kill the shit out of you. Nobody fucks with Slovak, do you hear? Everyone knows who I am.

– Police especially.

– Police too. All of them my men. I have people there.

– Sit, mom. – I went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water, put sugar in it, then came back nonchalantly gazing about the room. – What’s up, Dule? – I removed my jacket slowly and started an insane conversation about the weather, casting angry looks at his hooknose, the gun which he pulled out with a nervous, fast notion from his white piece of cloth. It was an old magnum, I’d bet Long Star England.

-Dule, is that a BB gun? – I took a sip.

– Suck a dick, Leila – he replied casually.

To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve:
to thee do we send up our sighs,
mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.

I turned to my mother. I could summarize it – she was looking at him like he was a piece of shit, but I’d rather go with this – her eyes were wide with seething rage. Dim from suppressed anger. I was under the intention that they were enveloped in murderous foam.

He gulped his brandy gulps one after another, and she managed to calmly and collectedly, I daresay professionally with an Al Capone’s focus, suppress her anger behind the dark curtains of her angry eyes.

Her voice was down three octaves, quieter than usual, her arms but obliquely – if you really paid attention – clasped in her hands. I admired her gallant gift that the most controversial historians don’t find among great queens. When it came to me, considering all mothers have a personality deficiency, she could at once be both a lady and a killer. She who gave her life to her child since the severing of the umbilical cord, wrapping that same cord, Boston strangler style, around the bulging neck of Slovak like a telekinetic, while the attacker coughs and gags under her eyes, fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair, ready to be devoured by her eyes with murderous intent, growing like a fetus.

– Why are you making a scene, I mean…What do I owe you? And what are you even doing here? Did I pay the rent? You sneak around, mess about, drop in…You should behave a bit better for 300 euros, not wield that gun.

Turn then, most gracious Advocate,
and after this our exile,
defend me from the evil enemy

– No debt with Dusan!

– There should be no theft either.

He gets up suddenly. Beside himself with anger. She stutters. He then points a gun at her.

– Where is my daughter’s sporting equipment? – she was yelling. – Where is my money? And where have you seen my ass? Not through the peephole, so you set up cameras.

He opens his maw, but the arytenoid cartilage go their separate ways as he forms his voice, and leave far away to Hell and beyond, thus his voice had an eerie coarse quality to it, with his attempted shout ending in a snake hiss.

– And if I did? There’s crime in this world, that’s how you gotta do.

– The closet – I thought he would burn from anger and despair like an ignited log, I approached her and hugged her around the waist pointing her murderous eyes at him, but he paid me no heed, and his neck veins were popping blue as rivers. – I had money in the closet, below the sheets, the money which was going to take us out of your dungeon. So you have my money. And you came to make a scene for a telephone bill.

– Mom… – my eyes were focused on his throat. Inside it were rolling stones, his eyes all but ready to burst through the convex lenses of his glasses. He held the gun at the two of us, his hand surprisingly calm.

– Look, Slovak, if you must shoot, shoot us both. – I said with a tired voice. 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 artificiality, circular cycles, dying, loneliness, eternal questions, terrifying riddles, paradoxes…and another idiot with a fold gun. I felt the warm, burning body of my mother between my arms which was wallowing in rage. I felt no fear. Not for me. Merely that if anything happened to her, he would be dead and the world would be an empty date behind me. I would have nothing to live for. So get us both…

– What are you saying? – mother scolded me, to which I snapped and an ancient, underground warrior was born in me, my eyes aflame with murderous rage. From that moment whenever I found myself in a similar situation, and the crown mockery of time is my witness to this, the tiger and I would switch around, embrace in a mirror and solve the situation brilliantly, predatorily.

At that point I kind of loved violence.

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away

– First off, you entered the apartment with us not around. What were you looking for?

– It’s mine – he squealed. – What’s yours, you foo?! As long as I pay for your apartment, and I do so regularly, it’s mine and you have nothing to do here. Stop waving that gun – she shouted.

– Mother… – I never saw her like this before. The invisible mirror kept filling up with a full reflection of an enraged tiger.

– I do have cameras – Slovak started waving the gun around. I felt myself becoming a beast, through the centuries, finally having awoken it, and that if this lasts any longer, I…I would not be able to contain myself. Fears flew through space. I walked through the bestiary with my heart full, my stomach empty, hungry.

The tiger is circling the cage.

– And I have cameras. I follow your every move. Especially your daughter taking a bath.

– You sick dog. Give us back our money.

– Dumb bitch, why did you not keep it in the bank?

– Because those are the only thieves worse than you.

– Mind your language with me. Got a gun. I worked security in…big firms.

– You, security? You’re a twig. Look at yourself. Some firms those were that you kept secure. Our money.

– Get the stuff back, then you get the money back.

I nearly wept out of frustration when he returned his gun.

– Why did you move your stuff from this apartment? – he suddenly turned to me.

3

At that point, I wanted to not only kill him, but go outside, among the people, and shoot and kill them. One by one. Scream laughing as they drop and crabs come out of their throats.

 

 

CATS, theatre play, CHARACTERS acca Dramatis personae, Scene 1


CHARACTERS acca Dramatis personae

Living Beings:

ŽELJKO: The Butcher. He is about 40-year-old

JANA: high school girl.  Željko’s daughter, 17-year-old

SRĐAN: a driver, contractor, delayed student, his mental age is still that of a 17-year-old, but he is now 30-years-old

DRAGUTIN:  Jana’s history teacher, about 50-year-old

IKONIJA: A computer expert and a clever astrologer. She keeps her ages a secret.

Sphere Spiriticus Beings:

SAINT PETER: a head of the Eden Administration, Combatant versus Evil Forces. Under his leadership, Eden has boomed economically.

EMANUEL: a hell of the ferryman of Hades who carries souls of the newly deceased across the rivers Styx. a latent kleptomaniac

THE HOLY PARAMORE: A saint, Protector of expectant mothers as well as a feminist

LILITH, a fallen angelina

ALMIGHTY, also known as El, Creator of Heaven, Earth and Hell, blessed be he

LUCIFER, the infamous ruler of Hell.

 

CATS – Ghosts or ancestral spirits (Disguised actors)

SAINT JOAN OF ARC,  also known as The Runaway Of Paradise

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, famous French military leader of blessed memory. A firestarter. He sets fire to the Hell, regularly, as a memorial to The Battle of Borodino

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: famous English poet, playwright and actor, of blessed memory, in mourning for his son, Hamet, who passed away too soon.

MARY TUDOR usually appears to drunkards as Bloody Mary

VOICES:

Voice Of Almighty

Voice of Lucifer acca Bad Man With a Forktail

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SCENE 1

RIVER STYX

(The stage is illuminated by the spooky light. An apparition like the Commendatore of Mozart’s Don Giovanni is placing coins in the mouth of a dead,  simultaneously taking cash from spectres, surrounded by phantasms and grotesques)  

Grotesque: Am I at the centre of the underworld?

the Commendatore: You don’t have to look no further. This here is a swamp, which sometimes is also called the River Styx.

Grotesque: I was told to take a boat that crosses the Styx rivers.  Ask the psychopomp to guide you across the rivers Styx, Acheron…

the Commendatore: (interrupting Grotesque mid-sentence) You have to pay me to take you! Or you could get stuck on the shore.

Grotesque: Fair enough. Take your coin.

the Commendatore: Your money’ s no good here.  We don’t take nor obols, nor checks. Euros only.

Grotesque: You took my intention the wrong way.  I want you to take me back to the place I was before. Could you tell me how much this would cost?

the Commendatore: Too much to receive a payment in a currency you don’t hold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Caligula i njegov camarad Adolf, odlomak iz “Bila jednom jedna Republika”, timeline: Caligula


Caligula i njegov camarad Adolf

 

Pre nego što je upoznao Caligulu, Adolf je bio sasvim normalan mladić koji je uživao u svom poslu molera i težio da upozna lepu devojku kojom će se oženiti i voditi miran porodični život. Misli o osvajanju čitavog sveta nikada nisu bile prisutne u njegovoj glavi i jedina moždana aktivnost koja mu je zadavala glavobolju bila je da proračunava količinu boje potrebne za farbanje neke fasade, pošto mu je poslodavac, Jevrej, redovno od plate odbijao uvek kada je procenio da Adolf to nije dobro učinio. Zbog toga mladi Adolf nije previše voleo Jevreje. Ideju da je poseban, da je predodređen da vlada svetom usađuje mu Caligula, sada već u poodmaklom stadijumu ludila, a Adolfu se sve više pojavljuje iskra u očima prilikom pomisli na tako nešto. Tako se Gitler odluči na organizovanje partijske vojske po uzoru na pretorijansku gardu. Ernst Roehm, vođa Sturm Aptailung – a odreda oduševio se pretorijancima .

„Gitleru“,  – reče Roehm – urgiraj kod Caligule da Sturm Aptailung dobiju iste kacige! To je tvoj camarad, poslušaće te!“

Gitler glatko odbi s objašnjenjem: “Ernst, bitte, kontroliši se, mi smo ozbiljna partija!”, a Ernst će: “Jawohl, mein Fuhrer!”.

Tako načini Gitler parade u Berlinu ugledajući se na starorimske pobedničke defilee. I izgradi Gitler Reichstag po projektima za Rimski senat.

ernst-seger-1868-1939-a-majolica-bust-adolf-hitler-portrait-head-on-BRFN21.jpg

image: Ernst Seger

Before he met Caligula, Adolf seemed the fairly ordinary young man who took delight in his job, painting walls, striving to meet a beautiful young woman, so that he could marry her, leading a quiet of a private life. He never had thoughts about conquering the world, inside his mind… The only brain activity that gave him a real bummer was that recalculate the amount of paint needed for painting facades, because his employer, a Jew, cut Adolf’s pay every time he estimated Adolf wasn’t up to the task. As a result, young Adolf never loved Jews too much. The idea he was special, that he was destined to rule the world had been implanted in his mind by Caligula, by now in the advanced stage of the madness. At the thought of something like this, Adolf, already, sees flashes of light in front of his eyes, like small sparkles. Thus, Gitler has his mind set on the organization of the Party Troops modelled according to The Praetorian Guard. Sturm Abteilung Troop Leader, Ernest Roehm, saw the Praetorians and he got excited:
“Gitler”, Roehm said, “Urge Caligula for Sturm Abteilung to get the same helmets as Romans. He’s your comrade, he will listen… ”
Gitler flatly refused the proposal:
“Ernst, bitte, control yourself. We are a serious Party!”
Thus, he was giving parades through Berlin, building on the ancient Romans defiles, building Reichstag per the Roman Senate projects.

The Darkness Will Understand, Leila Samarrai


The Darkness Will Understand (A poetry collection), by Leila Samarrai

Publisher: “The Firstborn Edition”, Student Cultural Center, first prize winner.

 2002.  ISBN 978-86-7398-010-2.

***

To your Grace*

 

Into the shade of roses, I desired to hide

But I fell asleep in a book

Open on a poem about a t(ort)u(rer)tor

 

Poets of long ago

Under shadows and soil

Count they on seraphim

On somberness, on window panes

On doors pried open and the secret of life

On branches of cypress that lure with silence

And long, northern morning under harps

 

At the wane of sight

Let quietude rip out the truth

Sang of stone

 

*Addressed to the readers

 

1

Sorrow is hidden in a head crowned in blood

Towards the wisdom called Jerusalem

You are killing the man who listens to the distance

Is “Ecce Homo” truly there

The higher hierarchy of Spain

While time flows despair descends to haemorrhage

Never painfully, not admitting pain

A bird I am

A bird with a desire to die in Spain.

 

I will write in the report

She is hiding in soft fruits

Mortified Julia Burgos

 

Otherworldly memory ticks away six o’clock

 

2

Vanity on the fox’s trail

Behold, a miracle!

Supposedly one-sided at instants

Suitable for a scrambled moment

The martyr and her daughter who wash their feet

Tasseled with nails instead of sandals

Conversing silently.

 

Anything but sough

Shores and scrapings fantasizing

Daughter do you wish the powder to slip you

To disturb the onus, non-being and tendrils

Wistful across the stones you overcome

Blacker than night

You fear there will no longer be vertebrates

 

It is the third hour in the night After

 

3

You do not grasp – the spilt blood is chiming

From unveiling you wrongfully dread

In agony of you yourself

While we pine atop Grecian terraces.

 

Daughter

Still, rivers are audible in endeavour

And at that conjoined

 

In mirrors is the road to land of the dead

And worshippers of the chronometer

And the unachievable bloom of summer

 

Put the pigeon on the fire my daughter

We are going to satiate ourselves

Grasshoppers as well my daughter

Before they abandon us through the windows

 

I forefeel that the unreliable man

quiets his breath and embarks on the way

of Beauty, Ordinance and Wars

 

The signs along the path are the only thing left for you

 

4

Thus spoke my mother.

 

Seek no longer the soil

Forgotten among the trees

Under which you were born

 

In the chosen night

When the grasshoppers flew away from the terraces

Into the heap of voices filled with hatred

Directed towards me

 

Silent mother

Not even a sound to flicker within me

How could I have known

About the other side of maps

 

Are they coming yet to take me

Rooted in the last morning of a bullet

 

I arise barefoot

The sea is frightened

Like ground from thunder

 

5

Even though not every wound bleeds

Still

A man dies each eve

Why

 

6

The semi-darkness and solitude will vanish

I will serve alone within myself even though I am not my own

Before wounded knees, everything opens

Flowers and thoughts, stories of justice

Wanton skulls and eras without rest

 

God will punish me I know

But in the cramp of passion

I will not be broken by those absent

 

We danced the whole day

The solitude anew embraced by valleys

Above the springhead

And sin to people

 

I get scared to be

 

7

I would be your shadow

And the bridal veil

And the first scream

A crime of passion

And the blood of both times, ill and well

 

It is better to get frightened

 

The secret of the fern both was and was not

And fear

From somewhere the solitude burns untainted

 

Confined in the stars within me

I still love with my eyes

Without love, the darkness will disseminate me

 

8

In the bed, I do not rely on commandments

The roses already fraught with wind

How many clocks do you ask

While the morning overladen with eternity is late

Delirium morning

 

They foresee the end of the world

Through stargates

They will wish to open them, open them they will not be able to

They will wish to close both them and the road

The poems shall herald the dead

The dead and the living will depart for false mouth

Without a single sense

 

My God sleeps murmuring prayers

After which I inherit sadness, wind, mountains, birds

Yet hands and bole resist

 

I do not fear bullets

And horseman of the apocalypse

But you

My beloved Father

 

9

There will be time for me to tell you

Will the words spin tomorrow as well

And will the essence be the thread

 

Stooped candelabrums stalk me

Between yearning and fear

Between passion and constancy

Always present while you sleep restlessly

There where the beginnings end

 

Solitude too has been captured, moulded and limited

And her contents gnawed off in the tempest

Where the beginning and the end meet

Each full moon

 

10

Another dream

 

The scream of three children among the leaves

Close to the waterfall and the abyss

Roses too close to them

Should I follow them or overlook them

 

Strange decisions

And children miracles with no self-belief

In due time the ground and constellations should be known

So the last revelation

Is not empty time

And crucified echo of footsteps in seclusion

 

11

There will be time for me to tell you everything

 

We quail, not live.

We dance on rugs of fern

In the rhythm of the certainly dead

 

Beware the tear of the lunatic and bridges with no fences

Victims and solitude of the prayer

Patting on the shoulder

And emptiness in which the counselors die

 

Beware

Do not be found again

 

We quail

In the meantime, we do not live

 

12

Between spring and winter

White and black

The heart and tavern with a lowering vine level

Between the masked and the broken

Unreal and the tower of inverted eyes

Between the universe and “may I”

The city harlequin and “it paid off”

 

Between “somewhat” and existence

I was soothed by the cry and fasting

I bow to you

I plead you help

Lady of silence, fire and temptation

 

13

Go into the calm autumn

Late serenity, do not go into the fever

queen of giggle indecisively you will say:

When in Singidunum I arrived searching for a foreign world

I did not see what was imagined

But a fresh drop of blood down the leg

And an untrained word with no will to be spoken

 

Forest nightingale

If you can sing at midnight

I will hear you here

Between the nightly joy and dawn

 

14

How fast the shadow passes said, Marcus Aurelius,

A soul is temporary, isn’t it, he hoped

Banded with demons for the third time

The guilt his pustule, man a sacrifice and life a sub species of a boil

 

Discontent is what is perfect

Since ancient times you cannot lose what you did not have

Ponder

 

If you separate yourself once

If you learn about the inherited justice of pain

Can poison and arson be useful

Have you not become too lenient Marco Aurelius

Before divisions and longings

Provoked on purpose

 

Today things are completely open

Until the bloodthirsty wind knocks them down

And carries them away into tomorrow which will not be

 

For that, Marco Aurelius, whenever you look at yourself

Remember if the shape is an obstacle to the essence

And answer who is the bigger liar

The dream or the shadow in the mirror

 

15

When will the nothingness begin

When will we hear the echoes of the morning

Devoid of celerity, love and wisdom

 

The hour will come

To be concurrent

To be silence and flash

To be collision and creation

So through the moment of nothing

You would be born to this world

 

From then spread through the taste of nothing

Like waves of the water

 

16

Cover your lips and hails

Inhale the odour of wind and change

Pry open the little casket

Let all things fly out

Both peaceful nights and lullabies

 

Renounce them

Confusion and long nights are coming

 

If you wish for whispers and thick shelters

Beware

A dream is a famous sower

In the age of new illusions

Which virgins turn to life

 

17

Why are there no borders

Between lies and life

Before the virginal knees

 

I was born in the dalliance of light and shades of the waterfall

And waited to bite the fruits

Through one world or a century

 

And they were bitter inside

 

I return to the scent of home

The island which swims through night and water

 

18

The fever has no end

The song was left without sound and fire

The mists do not care to be praised

Hence the difference is null between water and mud

 

A girl with no stronghold is in tears

While the wall of homeland withers

 

19

I persistently graze words

Day and night

First I seek them

Recognize them even among lizards

Who announce misfortune

And even though they are vainly

You want time and roads

And blue circles above the wellsprings of rapid rivers

 

You children of moonlight

I a lonely stalk

You memorized colours

You poets, which I am yet not

 

I the amorous Pan

Not knowing how to say wasteland on your language

Marked to sing I yearn for East

Where I could burn myself

And turn into a star

Like Quetzalcoatl*

 

(If I could only  sway

for a moment

not even music is necessary)

 

*Quetzalcoatl – a mythical being of Toltec, originally a ruler and high priest, and later on a patron god. By the tale, he burned himself and became a star

 

20

How joyous are the echoes of the plains when meeting water

Treetops spun

Underneath them huddled the river and I

Not for long

 

The music of fear and the crack of thunder

Raise the waters against us

Unknown to us until then

Alike my Yesterday and Today

 

I am imprisoned

So I do not go to where the waters overflow

Making our destination

About a law of merged vessels

 

It is all the same to me

A Samaritan has died

 

I will go into the desert

I will make myself a mask and summon the rains

 

Does the Great eye see us

 

21

Do not forget

Water is a wave to emptiness

Water is the fall through metaphors

Which begs the mirror

To return

To the lacking places of the poem

 

Only that my dream

Is not brought to bottom

 

22

I will never tell

How a sleepwalker smells

Capable of being awake

 

I will never fall asleep

I am afraid of thoughts

 

What do they wait

Those who remember my words

They are a crumbling stone

 

23

I squint through the grid

Sweeping

Are the murmurs of childhood

Symbols of intimacy

And dreams

One by one

One by one

And time became

Time on the other side of the wall

And of life behind us

 

24

I like midnight without fatigue

And love without thinking

Devoured lips

Between sleepy trees and dawn

 

I am the child on the backs of clouds

I do not wish for the sound to go too far

Nor the lighthouse to be lost in the dark

Nor guards who watch over my secrets

(nor triumphal arches of mud)

 

I wish for a shirt of silver

To hide the peregrine views

I wish for your eyes only between the walls

 

I had enough of those confused and howling in the night

And those who seek me and fall asleep before they find me

 

25

Night and an open door

Spook takes over my head

I see your eyes

Judgment hour – accurately measured moment burns away

I see your eyes

They do not belong to me alone

 

I threw my soul

Those are the irises of the breeze – yell the dark mirrors

Used up voices grow from blood

They knock over trees by crawling

 

You return

Roughly wetting the sanctity of my lips

I

Mute and stiff on the threshold

Bitten by the first pain

I spew snake venom

 

Those are perhaps the silence of your hate and my oblivion

In truth

Neither you, neither me, neither communion

 

Neither sailors

Left on the lost spectral shores

Neither the cry of ships in the night

Or is it a song of violent love

 

She is never left voiceless

Even when unheard

 

The forests sleep

Not knowing

About the terrified grass

And its sigh

 

Especially

In time of wind

And herbal precipitations

 

27

The silence of the stone sleepers

And the tricked audience

 

I say nothing before the mute sounds

I foresee fever

I guard you against silence

And city spies in bloom

Even though eyewitnesses keep us apart

 

The disappearance of colours

Turns Day into night

And the broken into rock

 

Into the ninth hour

 

28

Painted corpses are unweaving

I have not yet submerged them all

Much like the history of the black scarf

Ready to move time and air

 

During this

Year of one thousand nine hundred and ninety-five

It is hard to silence the cry above mortuary reports

The woods and the grass still sprout from the once living

Because they are the most reliable

 

Those who came point-blank from the green memory

And tombs before oblivion

Negotiate with the heavens

 

We are watched by the living and dead

If the dead weren’t alive

We would all be left without tongue and tribe

Are they not your doubles too

Do perhaps the living originate from weakness

When in absence

They give themselves to each other

 

29

The dread of dead birds

In the ambient of a stake-out

Is the song of blood

 

Exists

A slightly higher pitched thought

Like the distances

Lave themselves with silence

 

Sail away eyes down Attila’s ill-whirlpools

Dig out the birds

Which are self-sufficient

Convinced

That the most beautiful voices

Reach

From deadlines in the ground

 

We need them

At the beginning and the end of love

We always summon them then

 

30

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

 

31

Two embraced clouds

Perhaps even two birds

Or a known scarf in a knot

Or a dream between two shapes

 

The blood isolated itself in vain

And silence with the shadow

Bursting are the coils and godless blows

Which I do not understand

As well as the absent sound I follow

While the clouds do not move

 

32

The shadow recedes

And the seraphim are lost

Biting within themselves on all corners of the world

 

Where shall I go if the dark dream overpowers me

And the vampire

 

The spectra of your life has not yet vanished

Like the spear stabbed

Into the eyes of the idolater

 

33

The moon slides down the glade

But the crossroads is still in twilight

Out of which boney hands and witch chants

Would have your bareness in a cramp

 

A sigh under the cape of jealousy

 

Listen

Do not wait for the Sun without shadow

It does not differ a harlot

From a drowning woman upon a shore

 

May the kiss of poetics

Release your thigh to my lips

May the shriek silence everything

Except for the gentleness of a fresh prepared rain

 

I do not regret

That the river sand will cover every stanza

 

34

Lyrics belong to everyone

Not even by escaping can you avoid her heaviness

So do not rush to anywhere

Do not feel the abdomen of the dark with your fingers

 

Somebody will die during the first twilight

And I will write about comets

Deprive the bread in your hands

And prepare the ploughed land

For the dead of rosy lips to breathe

 

Sleep peacefully

I will counterfeit whatever is necessary

I will kill the chickens if the roses don’t stop them

 

You find those who accused us

 

35

Stopped by the fear of waiting

You do not grow

Not even into a dream catcher

 

When you pass over a flame with a flame

Behind you the void and wind

Become the connection of unreal knots

 

36

Glass panes beautify life and love

Let them try to break the lens of our homes

And flowerpots fizzing with flowers of sin

 

You who laugh showing your black teeth

Your greed and dread are in vain

If your face falls asleep in a broken mirror

 

It does not matter

I am away into the north whose absence is meaningful

Into silence and cold

Where only the trees resemble humans

 

37

Blindness – the fate of the damned one

Hush – the habit of a killer

And dream – the wake of a mortal

 

It could have been three men

Merged with their eyes

Even though one of them is the blind man

 

To encounter a man with all his senses is a rarity

Because the road is not marked

Yet

If you do not see

Or do not dream

Or do not know how to keep quiet

 

38

I believe in the divinity of death

And the truth of demons

Because within them beauty deafens

 

Nature is capable of killing

Without reconsideration

To separate the same shadows

 

Eyes of mine

I do not care when I will die

Your tricks cannot console me no more

 

Nature can punish the curious

Independently from sin

Only for the illusion and the truth never to meet

 

39

Tonight the purple insides of the clouds

Awakened the obedient dead

Who raised their heads

Leaned on their bony hands

 

They do not know if they are alive or dead

They heard trumpets on the first day

And fell asleep under flags and clouds

Under which they breathed for the first time

Instead under the stars

 

On the second day without believing in their existence

Silence and flowers were published

 

In the meantime, the sky was diving into the twilight

 

And on the third day

The dead celebrated the vigilance of the parade

 

40

The valley of verses still lures

Daughters of light in Luna’s dresses

Sisters to themselves

Noiselessly they hail for each other in the world

And invite me into their circle of dance

 

I accept the hand of one of them

Cumbersome

I trip

 

In vain

Strained steps do not estrange

From abysses and focal points

 

41

Missing – omnipresent

Their cry resembling a Nocturno

 

While the rose of life frozen inside the truth of mirrors

Restless

On plateaus atop enchantments

Drips on the moss

And ruins of the world

 

42

Nine hours is sleeping

And the nine-hour hands of the world

 

The mouth of leniency ran away

Like the flowers of the oranges

When they come to cut them

Even though unannounced

 

Besides, time, everything is in the sign of transience

Also the olive tree

That exhales under insects

 

Nevertheless

There is an answer for everyone

Scorn, love

Limited life

And stranded ships

 

43

Is it true Doubting Thomas

That they told him:

For your possession

From thine mouth, you win a right

While your day is dying

 

And he

Condemned to circumstances in verve

Becomes everyone who supports him

Far away from the roads that gnaw on non-believers

 

And he

Does not answer to the first word, not even on the second he speaks

Only on the third humbly and considerately

 

And he

Knows this life is for the dead

And not for the living

Not even the wall blasphemes

 

And he

Begs for the transparent innocence with eyes of balm

And the accomplishment of the desolate

 

And he

Even cares not to be returned among the people

Learning in prayer

 

Still, one thing I do not believe you

I do not believe you saint Thomas

That comfort is not sufficient

Invented in the shape of a woman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cured/Izlečena


I am ripping… reptile meat.
(of my body…)
Let Eagles keep their beaks sharp
in their lazy armchair…
I think Sisyphus is being watched,
discreetly
Long after I have been forgotten
I am going into oblivion
into my sleep, to bed, to bed of satin
tucked away somewhere,
out of my mind

***

IZLEČENA

Kidam gušterovo meso

(sa tela…)

za orlove, neka oštre kljunove

zavaljeni među stene logično

i razložno posmatraju Sizifa

polako odlazim u zaborav

u san, u postelju od svile

izlečena, pomućenog razuma