Lane (es’es)
two-faced mirror
inside a deaf room,
lurking, geminus,
broad like a fox-ed tongue
or of a daily atoll
recoiling from monochrome chaos en route –
hollow be thy callousness

among us is a scar –
c-section in January
immersing our day in monochrome beams
which you assemble and reverse in-
to masks
shadowing our own taut steps
needing song
lonely’s ghosts
dialogues that work

and then
(O probrecitas) what
are we going to do,
with you beyond us
beside us inside us
masks barking day and night
with knowledge and vixened arts
from obscure tunnels in hidden rooms,
to celebrate…

marriage (’20 – ’21)
of Shion and Pseudologoi
sets-adrift in pensive voice
commands for a tree-headed dog
to snarl by theory
about how shadows lurk in empty shelves

ask me, strangers!

ascend, January, ascend!

and to begin (backs
arched) the dogs stopped barking…

Things I Do to Survive


Along the catacombs

surrounded by whirlwinds of dread

and howls of the killed

and the slaughtered and ready for testing.

– for in the final phase,

Some try to resist, an unplanned,

human, nature-provided ability

To shift focus and fear for the bare sense.

The optical ability enhances,

images of merry demons

A smiling dance around the iris.

The main phase then ensues,

upon the rapid degradation

of potential to maintain one’s own

I and in this struggle, the eyes expand,

bulging in fear,

staring at the monster,

the shifted human form

which has the same countenance,

but shaded and bloodied with lack of feelings,

whose disgusting, dry mouth opened and

utter the Kafkian judgment

This is where the compilation comes

of several entities

pretending to be friends, godsisters and neighbors

in one singular entity,

hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind –

and the following sudden departure of a loving being

comes in, a being that uttered a judgment

out of nowhere,

using the nature-given freedom of MAN to think,

to use a flaw in its mind map,

each to his own moral metrics and laws of fidelity,

The universal reality consisted of

no more than a handful of cigarette buds

and other than rage at the impotent God

who punishes the good and awards the weak,

something that cannot be known,

but merely believed,

It was soft, hiding spot

The ship of illusions that friendship was possible.

I owe you moments of bliss.

Whenever entering my head, with roots, the wind,

the breath of tropical sun,

I struggle to survive my friends, godsisters and neighbors

in one singular entity,

hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind.

to go in pairs and be bound to a pack,

somewhere out there, on the edge of the lost world,

its monstrosity, but also its shininess,

None will notice it gone, or even as having existed.

The light and shadow play will merge with the vile contours of envy.

doubt and shame,

A haze, a wave in my thoughts,

a vortex where they wallow

in whirlpools and abysses of the deeps

A vision of a lunatic,

a nightmare with a hundred thousand deaths.

Obsession with fear.

An attack of the innocents,

A finger of fantasy pointed at them, listed their names.

a battle not to disembark the ship of illusions

And when they stick a knife in your back,

Everything moans in bliss.

The cowardly lack of will of the people

to stand up against the dictatorship of the benefactor

And peddled at their flaws – I am trying to survive!

To barely get by

a mass of people, conventional shoulder-patting,

well-intentioned advice from good people

Soft, muddy picture,

Then the image comes into focus

and a zoom-in of someone’s eyes.

Then the eyes spoke with fiery passion

and that would last for ten seconds

or so on a movie screen.

From the upper corner an unseen ghostly hand

recording what is happening in the writing on the wall

holds a great feast, and drinks from the vessels

that had been looted in the destruction of the First Temple. ..

The terrified Belshazzar calls for his wise men,

But they are unable to read the writing.

Everyone who ever hated me,

eating sandwiches and sewing leather jackets

that I pay on a loan,

Then all of the things in leather, I cannot even recall all of it.

They filled my suitcase, set aside my things

in it as if they were laying

my corpse in a sarcophagus.

(Who are these people?

How come there are so many good intentions in this… )

This is where the separation begins.

The tearing to pieces.

The introduction of chaos.

The whirlwinds in the devil’s plan

from whose monstrosity I shiver even

now when I don’t give a damn.

Photo Credit: “The Struggle Within”, Igor Morski

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Dark Eros

You are here again,
observing, waiting within me…
brutal eye

„Turn around“

You arrive
In nudeness
Of a black seam

„Begone, pensiveness ! Leave the red lace
and a ducat to the mourner for the last blues.”

But, behold!

You and I challenge each other
For thirty six years
With pride we welcome the morning
In fornication.

If I would to eat you, sharp ear!
And devoured the hood
If I would… sharpen your dagger
And your spade, Lady, kiss in the darkness
I could with you –with a bullet to the forehead!
Into the creak of the sky

For There and Here
For Now and Never
With a clap and colors
In cold hue

In the womb of a casket, laid and pale
To shine with you in moonlight.



American Dream Team

PAPA’S LETTER: (written in Serbian) ja sam ti rekao pre da treba prvo raditi da bi sakupila pare za put , ja bih voleo da radis u Ttripoli a nije tesko naci posao u Tripoliju jer ti si intelektualac i brzo ces naci posao ako budes na licu mesta kao sto kaze Tanvir , a isto tako ti ces biti blizu mene da ti pazim iako iz Benghazi ide se u Tripoli avionom ( jedan sat avionom ) ali to nije tesko za mene . WRITTEN IN May 31, 2010, in Benghazi 
ME: Sad cu da zovem Surcin i da pitam koliko kosta put za Tripoli i Bengazi i da li mogu da putujem sa plavim pasosem, da pitram u Libijskoj ambasadi.
I da, sve dokumente moram da menjam u Kragujevcu, a to je procedura, jer svi sad menjaju pasose i 2 meseca kazu da se ceka!

But there she pops into father – daughter long – awaited reunion, after 30 years, right on the dot with this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Libyan_Crisis_(2011%E2%80%93present)…


:stickeeeeeer!: bum. bum. BUM! Bang?


Hillary Clinton bears more responsibility for the ill-fated war on Libya than anyone else. Even Barack Obama has admitted it was a colossal mistake. The war has turned Libya into a prosperous state where terrorists were jailed into a failed state where competing groups of Islamic terrorists run the show. The war did not have authorisation by the United Nations


Not content with destroying Libya as a nation, Hillary Clinton’s woeful and questionably premeditated lack of security at the US diplomatic compound in Benghazi, one of the most violent cities not just in Libya but the world….


Do you have comment? I do. Oh, yes, and: how long can you endure watching directly in the eyes of the evil without even feeling uncomfortable but ready to fight? I put this picture od this “female” demon for the sake of practice…


Saddam Hussein (I’ve never met my father because of the Iraq – Iran war (1980 – 1988) I was only 2 years old when he went to war) DEAD. Slobodan Miloševic (I think the explanation is not necessary…) DEAD, and the bombing of Serbia by the United States in 1999, the then American President Bill Clinton). The Lost opportunity to work with my uncle, a plastic surgeon at the hospital in Dubai, in 2002, due to the Gulf War, when the Ground and Air battles were fought in Kuwait, Iraq and the border areas of Saudi Arabia.
President of America was George W. Bush back then.) Hillary Clinton – – the aforementioned “project Benghazi,” for which I have not met my father after 30 years, when we got in touch, accidentally, via internet, in 2010. Maybe he is dead now…) Here’s the”dream – team”.


Still alive.


Still alive.

Now I am stucked here in Serbia and I am watching this. Prime minister of Serbia, Aleksandar Vučić. Very sad. Tragic, indeed. Those that don’t understand Serbian, just turn off the sound and watch his facial expressions…

A little digression: In March 2016, I was an important part of the poetical project POETRY AGAINST TERROR, I wrote reviews and a poem – A tribute to the victims of terrorism in France. Kindle Edition: 64 Poets from 43 different countries.

I emphatise with French victims. In fact, I adore France. She is a part of my cultural european heritage and holds a special place in my heart. But, are some human lives more valuable than others?

I state that its hypocritism. Where are the poetical tributers for the children in Aleppo?, in Iraq, Lybia, Yemen, Bahrain, Egypt, Tunisia…