Revelation Irish Woman


It hurts
being clothed with the moon

As that woman about to give birth
in front of the dragon

particular misshapen fruit
dealt the powerful blow of a knife, in the chest

to devoted insanities grotesque

In pain
I am in pain in the dark places pain, paints still water with spit of the fire

To the blade that was laid in the carved bone, an altar
an ancient image of divinity

will it speak the tongue of bones tonight.

Revelation Irish Woman
Her head peeked beyond
all the towers
spirals painted
Of herself
in the center of a microcosm
An all-encompassing universality of nature

a role model
for the human monstrous role, I am now in the performed, now

y – axis whirl moving of the let – ergo going to nothing

My look at the city was one of prison

am here – behind bars.

This is a city

the middle of a prison.

Into the wilderness
as is a desolate

And full of serpents and scorpions

“travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered”

The forest unbathed
by an ocean of blood

An unhealed wound beneath
the hot navel

The unpierced rib in the deciding battle
A lonely nest

devoid of it’s Eagle.
from the clime of the blood roth

walking are the possible dragons
That salute, woman
over and over the infinite sea breasts!

And time stuffs the pieced
pierced belly

I am a beastly shrapnel
like a knife

ping of fadead stomach
as around as death, around me you

imagining me, dragon tail’s rise
My mortal body
of immortal progeny!

I summon the Heavens to bow
down to my tentacles

Folded into a clenched fist of Hades in the chains of the river euphoria!




from the cycle of poems of “Ophelia’s knitting patterns”

I am Ophelia (far from madness)

a world of blurry, innumerable images in a tangle.

at peace with the diving veils ….

There’s blood on the water lilies somewhere,

at the Kronborg CastleBall

where crime is celebrated crimson

over the hearth of the Golgotha circus,

standing erect in the deathless truth

the life of the reaper and the sower;

my prayers are the prayers of dark silent marble crosses

my prayers are the seeds sown in the cooling magma

(Enough saint’s blood, the tone grows into madness, overstrained, demonic)

come cheerful death

come, fear not with revelation or impatience

come uranus moon

just come

Author’s Note: Ophelia in the fourth act of Hamlet is demonstrably insane, but the direct cause of her slipped sanity is something that remains debatable.

Belgrade, March 21, 2022, 9.52 PM Monday

The Screams of the butterfly


In terrible airy alofts, flying high,
Adrift in anima amnesia’s,
Floating in fernweh forgottens,
A low birth in abyss’s,
Radiance in replete radials from rages
…In furious vortices.

You chase enchantment phantoms in Elysian fields,
Drips and drops tell tales to pebbling
And sea’s shimmering sparkling spray,
Soliloquy’s shadowy opaque on gloaming coasts.

Butterflies, lonesome lighthouse sewn
The cannibalistic roses sanguine swell in opening horrors,
The star language songs sing and
Tower of Babel nations are euphoric in linguistic relates,
Your Jupiter cult divine drowned in
sacrificial wine.
The great oceans with brumal iced crest glistens luminesce,
Turning their faces in adorations to
eloquent suns.

Fires birthed from hollow
clouds eruption,
Butterflied veins in vain combust without refrain,
Butterflying flits in solar circles, dying in flaming cycles,
Swayed wings desperate, flutter flails
waves weave.
The sea shudders wide and the earth
gasps despondency,
It’s ceasing deceasing pleasing, powers
Deserving of death, deserving of life…
Let him live…let him die…
Despised executioner, I…
But let departures be without
The triumphant arrogant live…
…but if only…for one more moment.

It floats through sullen azure arches,
Delicates warbles sinking on failing ash
Strained in chained,
Fallen empires cycle timidly,
The swath mutes bitterly.
The screams of the butterfly.
In this witchly silence, the birds have no

Howled realizations of impending
Roars in restless logos, linguistic
anguishing reviles.
The icy knife lunges, twisting in chests,
The dogs went wild from the scent,
Snake holes sent, trails for sour spent.

Icarus unspeakable without wings,
Eternal falling resonance in eternity
The unsettling crackling of film off it’s
Whooshing winds of terror revealed,
A thousand knives trembled eyes,
Broken winged horses and broken sighs.
Winged intimacy with deceasing,
Can you hear this breaking mercy?

Dropped to knee’s from flight, in front of shining seas light,
Womb burst swallowing lightning, torn
harsh flesh darkness in vain,
A new beast is born from the stain.
The cry of the caterpillar.

Falling lightning, beast in nerve cell
Beast in miasmas with air on fire, breath a blazed!
Permeated atmosphere suffused
She hoods submerging stars and turns
off the sun,
She transcends death threshing and flies
in the whirlwind storm,
Lunacy grasps the winged with scorn.

Transfigurations to sinister,
The harmonies collapse in desolation,
The intestines scream dissolution.
Sinking stars feverishly shaking black,
Red retch blood glares,
The veins swell chthonic flares.
Unquenchable expires,
Unsatiated thirst…fires!

This dawn of tamed passion possessed,
Mantles tremble in lowering laments,
The black forests gloam obsidian under
black moons,
The earthquakes grumble morbidity too
Dying iris turns transient,
Swallows hushed in sallow hollows,
The Hearances reviled,
The howl of the butterfly.
On this heartbreak soil
Deathly modus’s susurrous’s shipwrecks.
The Reaper ravages us all…
…For loss of her.

BUTTERFLY: Death, I heard you while you were breathing…
I heard you while you were sleeping…
I heard you while you were weeping….
I heard you while you were screaming…
Centuries of noosed escape,
Eons of eluding fate.
Shrieked clarions called silent,
On immortal heights.
The laughter of the butterfly.

The Juliet Flower


Night came, shining through the glory of all the sunset
Speed up this hour, Gethsemane,
into the vast unknown

Inhuman forms, here you are
Amorphous hordes, finally
and strange to say: at last

Echoes from the outer voids,
my cosmic dome Finally!

These are my invisible and wide open hands
Evidence? Why? Am I approaching? Am I moving away?
This one me? Nobody and Nothing!

Transparent postscript

There is fear in the night
as harpies fly to the moon
with a subtle cat scent

There is fear in the night
Held in lunar synthesis
Whispering lunar riddles

Indifference comes
ah, Abarimon scalawag drawn out of dephts
at his turned toes

Indifference is coming
singing and lamenting
and singing again.

the juliet flower still in a rage

To nothing certain


From the pit of my dreams

In the inwardness
of beast in a pinnacle
in the moonlight upside down night.
It howls at dawn and to and fro
across the soil they speede
drum and the wolves neurasthenic thump thump…
a death agony interval
so you out, you dark unexplained
a moribund millipede in extremis
of all creation from the darkness

Come out, El, Eloah, Elohai
grimacing dark laugh the Enchantress’ lit
under the hanging boiled Jason’s tail
Osii, Osia, Osii
dive out of
painted – with serpents – with painted
with acrobata wonderfully grasshopper
balanced upon the pit of unmentionable

Back from the chill abysses home to the old home
full of sweetness
Before my mirror, in silken mists
down my flanks, awaiting in the insane circles
the more than somber a terrifying monster
and masked one, hovering
the taiga of tartaria
looming antipodal Macropodidae
the downward roo when panting with that nimbus
of hellish flames, vicious, reversed
alas, there end

Ten courts of hell
ten Yama kings
in a pool of filthy blood
brooding over bestia in the flare of fire
is it but reddish drawn aqueous shades
grotesquely unseen, unlamented
a red bright in the horror tilted dark,

The effortful attack of the apparition, either bored
or mad, softly, vast beast…
the effortful scortched pale virginal you
upon the red roses opened unmysteries
Queer is. Sheer it is. Defiant Damocles
belted with the vast shadows sword
vexed with sardonic stare prick
of black ink somnambulist soundless scream
supplies me with flambeaux whisper:

“I’m lonely.  I’m lonely. I am so lonely. Lonely am I.
gone is a dreadful deed that looks like grave and
sounds like bird
sounds like the growls of lions in their wrath
sounds like…
cageless flowers behind the doomed shores
of Circe’s realm with killing smile
the oblong virtue to the beast’s visage
in the dead of the night
or knives and daggers on revolving feet
the heavenless hell honeycake to departure
I mutter, I haunt, I persecute, I knit,
the gasping chaos
taught by cool flutes lingering grace
I moan, I harp, I pipe away
And rise into ether, gather in mist
enraptured flowers, stitch the ear in a short wicked candle
Tear from the fabric the threads of incorruptible”

Immortal creature secluded in the night
forever cursed, lost with their pre  – world loneliness

Left to whisper:
lonely lonely through a circle
left to weep for a cups of death
in much statically angry madness
left to strong one-pierced silence through moaned space
time reaps death’s blade sleep
with poor cuss
left to dwell in the infamy of despair
as in the sharp blood,
o hideous night, bold in advancing
Fragile splendor intense
to the blast of a frightful scream upon awful lips

A sense of mystery untouched by the dripping hand
dabbled with blood, the phantom smiles bloodily
and stains toes to heels, bless you, freedom
We rise to give

to nothing certain



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

Photo Credit: Ricardo Chavez Mendez, Quetzalcoatl, Tapestry of Gods, Fine Art America

In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum (of human history od living and dying)


Airily at a fragrance-oozing garden                                         a gem-beautified tree leaving a peg of bright white wood

Thrilled hand sculpting faces to add to                           by the garden

With midsummer rose petals of                                         Venusian Red by the sides floor-strewn in rows

Too holy to pray                                                                      my eyes looked at the firmament’s high girdle

to dive in seclusion into light

It’ll just be one great summer of red tea

and I shall disrobe myself before nature                          and taste of love

hear the cortege the flutes and the                                    tambourines

perceived in the wind

Entombed beneath the mountains of Himalayas seclusion

In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum

where it always smells like greasy secretion

during circumcision, an ancient torture for babies

From ancient precursor to what we call warfare

Since Ilyad then Tiberius’ Holocene and the charge of the light brigade

were terrifying, inglorious flash which had souls charred to ashes,

the blood kept coming from knife-stabbed bodies

Blades cut palms from the palm-trees for

a chant for selfish prayer of the wildest Brutuses

Richards, with all the Henries in between

leader, a sociopath in the house of roses

to clothe himself in war to taste of blood by fire

Gold glorified in greed have baited the kings

to close their eyes

and descend into apathy’s underworld

This has to be the end

of attending to gloom

Attention, my soul, do not leave your gaiety’s sun unattended.

I am not some face boiling if you stretch out

like a kid, your tongue at me

Here is my skin thick to stand

jackals from your lips                                                                                                                                                                                          handsome replica

appliance  is for the sake of ameliorative mankind

living with love in my blood is enlivening,

living tenderly in the silence..

No decay will devour my summers’ bloom

Actually, the sun in its beams of glory

will resurrect midsummer dreams

I want to see you, you… morning house

You, dewy face

You, flowery eye

In fact, when I take off this night gown

like a daughter in obedience

A garden secure,

pleases me with the fragrance, that faylike spell

myself, I’m a mystic

who seeks the Heavenly

I should walk alone with a silent head

to a secluded wood

and dive into darkness

to rise up into light

Endlessly burnishing wildflowers

Endlessly burnishing wildflowers
forgotten by splattered times

of bloodless slaughterer’s design.

Waking souls lulled to long days’ sleep,

forced to steal robbed dreams endlessly

till winter freezes them to sleep.

In effect cut short dreams harden

frightfully, the nights frightfully

seem as long as winter in length.

Frenzied paced yelling, to end put

lightning in its excited place

awakening death’s silent scream.

Immortalized storms are forming

under the bitten tongue, they then

secretively bloom shade with sense.

From hiding you to dodge the knife,

no choice with the merit for me

to have ‘tween green eyes and brown eyes.

Knighted enemies eye alone

like Kings of the Night, shimmered like

white foot soldiers woefully,

heroic scream of blue lightning

pride’s flashes animatedly,

whoosing beasts move to foil its growl.

Hollering his disenchantment

steadfastly pitted against his,

bows to the trek’s will’s end at peace.

As those viewed in deathly silence,

perched like prey’s birds on the hilltop,

will stand still in the dragon’s sound.

There is no realm of pure meaning today!

My God, dead, but yet quick!

Death in itselfand Words above the world – a burning bead,

a heated hollow and a cry of fear.

Photo Credit:”The Great Red Dragon and The Woman Clothed In the Sun”

The Emperor

Legions of cats under three skeletons,

Alexander’s remains

A less deadly curse.

The bloodstream is as deep because of the darkness of night

originally, animal restlessness.

the smells of blood revive me,

only the devil on a pavement of sapphire stone howls within the waste

Thunder roars, flashes of green lightning,

tense and contorted human outlines,

how they scream; with a loud bang and breakageI

hear him! That’s him! behold, he stands at the door and knocks!

daggers shine, people fall

Here, “Titanic” sinks,

A pale swarm of red flame and fire.

a haunted, troubled reality, a blind antipathetic danger

Tutankhamun’s stupor silence

Oh damn, he’s not dead, he’s not alive

Frost flowers by darkling king

or Saturnalia’s screaming ring joins with

the Executioner whimpering whisper

It’s tolling the zither quietly…

It is the time of the dead, 

From beginning to end,

The time of the dead.

The time of the living – in the vapids and cruels;

The black is breaking…

The black is breaking…

The Ides of March, there lay the albatross,

Poor beggar – unknowing, unthinking and blind,

In a threatening verse he preferred to die.

But winged Icarus pervades,

It’s tolling the zither quietly,

And the wind cries: “Anemone”