Remember my last breath (instead of suicidal note)

A wassail around the grave
Of the Russian mystic
Lunacy crucified in his eye
I knit a wreath for the vixen
Who was suffocating next to the shaft,
Tearing the grid with her teeth,
Who was breaking the joists,
Eating sonnets,
She rode the Lion’s gate
In a dress with a décolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre
The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.
My blindness,
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness
While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west

The Theatre of the Dead – A Letter from Contemporary Poet to the Dead Fellow in Craft

Contemporary Poet:
(Life’s Pleas and Questions)

To start conversing beneath the soil,
watching death through a kaleidoscope,
the way it was lifted by the movie directors
and transplanted onto a movie screen.
In the opacity of the grave, there is water,
and gifts from the deceased one’s kinfolk
there is a lid which each of the departed –
once their eyes get used to the darkness,
that is – knows how to open.

Such suicidal maudlinism
from a vainglorious extraordinarium,
contemplating life and scribing
butterfingered sentences
Could it be said that you have managed retain
your catchpenny vanity even here and now?

I was inhumed with a hoard of quills and ink
Hence a misdirected bullet
I cannot bear to bid adieu sans the drama,
brought glad tidings to the world.
Extolling the sperm of Schiller and Whitman

O mine mister man O’Neil!
You grazing on the Irish pastures;
your entire life you wanted to be a simple shepherd,
and detach yourself from the homeland
that made you dedicate a stylized,
though dull prose dealing with wandering, wanderers, garbage collectors on an odyssey, Odysseys on the garbage heap of the world, you whose mother wanted you to be a priest!

You celebrated nicotine addicts
thinking I don’t belong among you
you who had your landed estates,
printing presses and titles,
oh how outraged you are by my novel
which would, had it ever been written,
outshine all of those burning thoughts
brought to you by a gust of wind,
which you fruitlessly call inspiration.

A seemingly impenetrable wall.
to the very end of the Earth and back.
the Earth is the Earth.
it belongs to the Living more than it belongs to the Dead.
their voices freed of the dark tone of cymbals
caused by the loamy walls

Reverberations lag behind the initial stroke,
rippling through the stagnant air
in the vast cave of the famous dead’s burning thoughts.
hordes of extras are shouting from the darkness;
murmurs, muttering, coughing and disapprovals
are heard, mixing with hysterical laughter
coming from the Department of Music&Theatre.

Startup the lights, antagonists!
let there be Music!
the Dance of Death commenced to the sound
of a cacophonous piano
brilliantly commingling variations to Salieri.
as the tempo accelerated unwaveringly,
Mozart kept flooring the piano pedals
as if they belonged on a priceless car.
his diminutive skull and compact hands
alternately rising and falling,
he guzzled from an empty bottle,
cackling, basking in the luminescence
of lanterns supplied by the archangels,
spilling over the entire gambling hall.

Clapping their metacarpals and phalanges
this crepitation lent rhythm to the eerie waltz,
fellow artists, write!
compose an ode, dancing to the rhythm with such skill!
get your bones clapping and your pens scraping,
smear the ink across your cranial bones!
here we are, performing for you the Dance of Death –
perform for us the story of a life!
bring out your musty quills,
ladies and gentlemen and with those marvellous
brains of yours – laden with letters, quills, brushes and paints
as they all undoubtedly are – highlight the wax figures’ tragedies.
grant them minuscule lampion houses to cram their meek lives into, dress them in patchwork quilts or golden harem pants;
make them heroes or cowards, thieves, traitors,
moralists and/or decent folk.

The Death’s Replica:

Let your quills glide as we,
borne by this eerie waltz, glide and lend rhythm.
we entertain you, resembling those models who,
weary of posing,
start pitching apples at each other
in order to keep their spirits awake;
and thus, seduced by the lyres
and the naked bodies wrapped in rugs
covered in Persian patterns,
those beauties maintain their perfect
comeliness devoid of boredom!

Hark the two ribalds!
‘Tis no dance, – ’tis no art, but a mass that accompanies our toils.

Instead of my biography, to all..

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


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


The bravery of authentic existence is a choice.

The poet is the one whose mind and heart are puzzled over things, many of them gave up.

The poet, as the last Mohican, with his art, connects immortal to mortal, in the garden of the separating paths.

The poet suggests that the beauty of the spirit of the only permanent value in relation to which everything else does not matter. It never dies and the only shining at all times
as the moonlight that with its splendour breaks the blackness of the night.

Even when it sees the dark, and when surrounded by darkness, the poet offers light.
His poems are a conscious choice by which the poet moves the boundaries of the darkness pushing him out of his world glittering path to anyone who wants to see and do not tap in the dark.

Poems are prayers with which the poet boldly breaks false, dormant peace calling for awakening and liberation from grotesque characters whose zombie-like existence kills the liveliness of art and spiritual creation.

In the rousing kiss of the poetry,  the creator is ready to play their life convinced that only the beauty of pure artistic expression can win perversion.

Through the depth of their poems of which will not give up the poet shows that the bravery of authentic existence is a choice.

The poem must be an impeccably solid structure. It must be – solid.
The poem is a work of art. And the act must be closed in itself. This must be impeccable.

The one verse in the poem has several blind streets, signposts and goals than a writer ever succeeds to create a dozen pages.


Memento Mori, Sleeping Mathilde, Poetry written for novel’s sake

These are poems I wrote for the book “Sleeping Mathilde”, under the pen name Lothair The Dark, with a wish to conjure up a medieval mood and to create the dark atmosphere in the book.

The poems I wrote for the book “Sleeping Mathilde”, under the pen name Lothair The Dark, soon to be published

These are poems I wrote for the book “Sleeping Mathilde”, under the pen name Lothair The Dark, with a wish to conjure up a medieval mood and to create the dark atmosphere in the book. 

  1. A short poem written for the medieval feast scene:

“Upon the end of the meal the musicians played a painful minstrel romance:

In the water I shall leave my bones
In the ground the leaves my mirrors be
It seems they’ve already buried me.
As I lay, I wait to be found and saved
Should I rebel or leave it all to fate
For if I stay with You, the heart’s silence
Will be my tomb and my eternal life.

2. – and continued to listen to the flickering squeal of the lute. It was the famed song of Fjalar, from the quill of the cursed poet Lothair the Dark:

Atop Fjalar sat a warlock, an envoy of dark desires
Resist him not, o Traveler, but pray to him
For your horses are affrighted before the abyss.
Pitiful man, that are the blood vessel within eternity
Pitiful man, your fear walks in front of you
Pray like this to the warlock:
When the sun comes out from the East, my blood will burn
When the sun sets in the West, my body yours will be
I will gaze upon you blind, o dreaded Fjalar
Let me cross my path this one time more.


A poem written for the Morning scene:
Thinking of last night, from memory, came the verses of a poet who lived out the last of his days in the gallows. I think he was a Moor… I proudly raised my chin and with a dry, thin voice I sang, treading clad in a muddy tunic and festive boots all over the cotton tapestries:

Fair Maiden
You are the sun of my morn
From you the wretched I hides
I call the woeful night my home
Fair Maiden
I will paint your thighs
Akin to the silk of a bright morn
You sneak away into a shifty dream

I remembered Lothair the Dark, who wrote the prophecy of Hässe under the threat of the sword. 

O Colossus, the Heavens tell me: Beware!
A carrion to you alike will clip my wings
Those of heavy heart will feast in the Heavens
Justice will freshen them like wine
And doom will come to all!