Moon Fairies


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

 

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Morning


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

***

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

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

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

Oh, Daisy.

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

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

 

 

 

 

eurydice awakening


Eurydice awakened
promulgate and live
in a haunted room as in a haunted coast

in the night underground far away
he limps
the evil God of Earth and Earths
a quarantine-Hell-Constipation-Matrix

Dead will declare you pious
deceased submissive
taken to the toilet quiet room
or monastery

Omega, Eyes
silent for all
aozy with an orgasm of deadly glow!

alive after inertia, deaf
mute
for all
Eye
keep watching front gate deaths
under the royal nail
terrors change their place

The hammer laughs
and him with that bonny laugh.

She peed herself.
bloom sounding of
saliva on the lips
the air is wet
fell.
a wet node in a deaf room

It’s all lyre

This is the morning of my madness.


After forty days of hunger

From a bird, eye view perspective’s being
entered by a demonic fair
during the devouring of grains of sand
and coral reeds of scorpion tail

One afternoon came to me unexpectedly
Injecting through the lips of starvation

The hour of death

As succulent gaspy and undefined form
of the broken glass
a sweet slate of thirst, like soot, cursed me
in a swollen mouth

This is the groundwork for a well-founded in all aspects.

And they forced me to throw up the bile
epic episode never caught before on
requested picture by of me entering
well placed backings by not chasing dreams

I ignited the wistful fire
memmoring idealistic flash of mad-genius penetrates
circumstances between origins of authenticity.

And I’ve eaten food pieces
the adhesives to the body as nutritive matter
medically induced straight jacket’s ability to correct
and lit long direly needed indulgence of flames.

I cleaned intestines of the brainiac beast
my facets with this blinding echo of eagerness
mad mad carnivore
to the funeral feast.

This is the morning of my madness.

Freedom


My eyes are flawless
My eyes are living
hell’s of isolation’s keenly placed prison

In what darkness they’ve seen yet
whose light sees nothing else when looked deeply
within its reflections

Other than darkness preludes
always seemingly lurking in its unbeknownst
shadows of opportunities once had and lost

Continually raped by a demonic entity
my cowardice in my eagerness to say yes
my cowardice in my eagerness to say no

Those who have wept
mercy to the stillborns,
with bruised wombs, Mother’s feathered creatures

Starve us to the bone of sunlight –
never allowing us to wake
from its steely barbed wired fence

Beyond sense but saved
beyond dead but live
on sodden land with a granite red

Free to battened, free to crumble,
free to care not
free from pain and blood and touch

The fortunes in this life


Each day was supposed to be different
then the day before it
but it was not
They were all the same.
Sweaty ones, but not for one drop of golden sun
but out of fear
a solitary woman in a solitary confinement

This is sweet stealing stench, with bewildering light
stolen
they did the grid, each detail fresh, for me
to dwell in the memory of an oblivion
even if it’s one that belongs to many others

When I looked at the brown – blue vault
I, maddened, dreamed of green pastures in
fair and happy land
where the sun smiles shining through
where I’m not fearing any woman or man
Enhancing a pleasure or a grief

Blowing death’s odour and bitter breath
hidden in pharynx throbbing flame
either in the midst of sweetish Now either
in the midst of the ancient ice baths
The fortunes in this life…

With the briefest pause, between
the green vigilance and unallocated freedom
from end to endpoints

I will walk quietly at dawn
I will stop this fluent blood day
for I already told my night
to dazzling clarity


Betrayal, Omen, Serbian original included

If I am the perpetrator of the famous “Betrayal of the original” with unskilled translations into a language that is not mine, it does not offer much in the way of comforts, but I would share what I have.

A necessary thing to ensure your better understanding.

However, I hope that this possible loss of translation will be less painful, less inhuman and embarrassing than a betraying ill-fated cause once sitting behind me, whose eyes betrayed darkening storm. 
An Unfortunate discovery, 

for which I have been trying to write a love poem for a decade with a light inside and the spark of hope, so bright as light bulb exploded…

As well as light and hope. 

Still, I cannot, because poetry comes from the heart. Try to take from me as much as you can, because I am giving you everything that’s left.

Yet, it was foretold…

Lothair The Dark, a poet with trust issues

translated from the Latin Sermo Vulgari

 

***

OMEN

Heart, go away so I can mourn your passing.

In this hour I foretell the future despair
Despair which comforts me in my madness
Indistinct despair, voiceless
Like a reticent rock deliberating a curse
How can I determine the correct hour?
From where do I remember that familiar silence?

Yes!
I foretell the cruelty upon which I will be reminded
by future expectancy, traced upon my stomach
by splendid, bright and aging
foretelling of future absence
Absence will get in the way the night of sand
Will not be
It appears to me the absence will last far too long
and that fear which values my soul
Alike a strength of a single metaphysical day
when all was said from within
That fear reinforces my soul
in the bottom
and one spoken out

Yes!
Of inconsolable shameful sarcastic foretelling
in opposition to the merciful sky which extinguishes the candle on my breast
Prophetic
Destinies, apparitions, movements
of the image seen within under the bone
The only one which who exists for future absence. Foreign land
Vis-à-vis the one who awaits the wind will cocoon itself
How to determine that which is the future and which will not come
Nothing welcomed. Valued only with already familiar
dieing
but that which was welcomed and received corrodes the skin beneath the gizzard

The forgotten must always be condensed inside the head 
My hope no longer puts up with me.
Merely butchers with bloody knives
For that reason,
Compose your smile and walk out before the views of people filled with love
was told to them by She who will not come

***

SERBIAN:

Da!
U ovom času predskazujem očaj budući
Očaj koji me u ludilu mome teši
Očaj nerazgovetni, bezglasan
Kao ćutljiva sena koja kletvu promišlja
Kako mogu odrediti tačan čas?
Otkuda pamtim taj poznati muk?
Da!
Predskazujem svirepost na koju će me podsetiti
Iščekivanje buduće, preslikano na želucu
Sjajnim, vedrim i vremešnim
Predskazivanjem nedolaska budućeg
Isprečiće se nedolazak peščana noći
Neće biti
Čini mi se da će nedolazak isuviše dugo da traje
I taj strah koji mi vrednuje dušu
Nalik na snagu jednog metafizičkog dana
Kada je sve bilo rečeno iznutra
Taj strah mi krepi dušu
U dnu
I jedno izrečeno
Da!
O neutešnom sramotnom sarkastičnom predviđanju

Spram milosrdnog neba koje mi gasi sveću na grudima
Proročanske
Sudbe, pojavnosti, pokreti
Slika koja se vidi iznutra ispod kosti
Jedina koja postoji za buduće nedolaženje. Tuđa zemlja
Spram onoga koji iščekuje začauriće se vetar
Kako odrediti ono što je buduće i što neće doći
Ništa dočekano. Vrednovano jedino već poznatim
umiranjem
Ali nagriza kožu ispod želuca ono dočekano
Da!
Zaboravljeno mora biti zauvek zgusnuto u glavi
Moja nada ne trpi me više.
Tek sakati krvavim noževima
Zato,
Usredsredi osmeh i izađi pred poglede ljudi ispunjenih
ljubavlju
Reče mi Onaj koji neće doći

Da!
U ovom času predskazujem očaj budući
Očaj koji me u ludilu mome teši
Očaj nerazgovetni, bezglasan
Kao ćutljiva sena koja kletvu promišlja
Kako mogu odrediti tačan čas?
Otkuda pamtim taj poznati muk?
Da!
Predskazujem svirepost na koju će me podsetiti
Iščekivanje buduće, preslikano na želucu
Sjajnim, vedrim i vremešnim
Predskazivanjem nedolaska budućeg
Isprečiće se nedolazak peščana noći
Neće biti
Čini mi se da će nedolazak isuviše dugo da traje
I taj strah koji mi vrednuje dušu
Nalik na snagu jednog metafizičkog dana
Kada je sve bilo rečeno iznutra
Taj strah mi krepi dušu
U dnu
I jedno izrečeno
Da!
O neutešnom sramotnom sarkastičnom predviđanju
Spram milosrdnog neba koje mi gasi sveću na grudima
Proročanske
Sudbe, pojavnosti, pokreti
Slika koja se vidi iznutra ispod kosti
Jedina koja postoji za buduće nedolaženje. Tuđa zemlja
Spram onoga koji iščekuje začauriće se vetar
Kako odrediti ono što je buduće i što neće doći
Ništa dočekano. Vrednovano jedino već poznatim
umiranjem
Ali nagriza kožu ispod želuca ono dočekano
Da!
Zaboravljeno mora biti zauvek zgusnuto u glavi
Moja nada ne trpi me više.
Tek sakati krvavim noževima
Zato,
Usredsredi osmeh i izađi pred poglede ljudi ispunjenih
ljubavlju
Reče mi Ona koja neće doći

Betrayal

Page Reynolds, “Betrayal”

http://paigereynoldsart.com/home/?portfolio=betrayal