Exorcise Trials


Exorcise Trials


You dare to talk about the psyche

That I am not strong enough to do twenty-five push-ups?

What do you know about a woman?

Are you thinking of Psycho as Isolde

Or Juliet perhaps?

The ones who received Aphrodite’s curse

to be beautiful, but lonely?

Vengeful bitch.

Still so pretty…

Now go and look where her hands are…

I, The Goddess Of Yelling, I… scream


They call me Judi Dench, in the gym

I cut off the Venus’ limbs with my voice

Me? I am a few pieces of broken statue

I wish I was like Aphrodite of Milo

To be sold to the French at a good price

If only some farmer from Melos had unearthed me

I would be, like she, in the Louvre, beautiful and exposed

Instead I sweat and toil in a man-made gymnasium

Counting to ten over and over

Aphrodite de Milo:

I have a part of the left hand and an apple

I am Eva, now, immovable

with lust in this boring paradise

That is my trial.


I am beasting it up now…

I am a cardio bunny showing of my guns

While I sweat I think about my altar—

I am not yelling-I sing like my birds

How sweetly they call out

But then they’re trapped in their cage…

Which is why they weep

Or how about

I listen to the final tweet in their verse

To learn their secrets

Like the nightingale whose notes are devoured

even better then Keats’ can write

My poems are silent, however, passionate, hard


Dressed in beauty forever

I sublimely sing with LOVE

I am able to do it …

In fact, once, I did.

Now.. Hold for 30 Seconds then curl up

That is my trial.

[TO me, this should be the end of the first poem….the next part doesn’t seem to flow from this….I would separate here]


I remember November 20, 2000

The Hague, one of The Old Ones:

You… abhorrent… disgusting… perverse

Stay away from my normal daughter!

(at least she was stronger and smarter

to pull me out from the Slovenian pantheon

to Kragujevac’ shop windows)

although the entire Slovenian pantheon is poor plagiarism of

ancient Greek religion

at least she called me Wicca

or Diana’s witch

Incubus, at least she called me her grandmother

half crazy she went through the village, freed from peasant tasks

whining for her girlfriend dying

Later, her daughter went nuts..

As for myself,

As a noblewoman I changed my name of Sachsen-Coburg und Gotha in Windsor

That is my trial.


Time according to D. W.” Griffith, it happened in 1985

What’s your father’s name

How ????












Ekron God.

(Children’s laughter)

And spoken cruelty.

Baals of Canaan

Beelzebub, flies!

Fly fly away flies

Fly away!

(Silent cry)

Poor baby,my angel.
Your sacred, innocent
pure virginity is gone.

(Evil smile)

Common now 25 jumping jacks

Swat jumps

shoulder width apart.

to a comfortable depth…


Do you have the shots in the mind as I do

external anal’psis

even prolepsis

is Griffith your teacher?

“The Teacher of us All”

of a Hollywood Yahweh

End of narrative



I am Tired of .. under this sky…

I must take a pause ..

Cool down …


I am


a matrix,



the world is too nebulous

to be interpreted

I cast every onslaught on my body

I cast …

Perhaps I’m not a poet, but a killer

no poetry until the bloodshed

heads secession on the fly with katana

leave all sediment and silt behind


Time according to D. W.” Griffith, it happened in 2003, maybe in 2010…

she said

stop calling me!

He said: stop calling me

Ma‘a salama مع السلامة.

Mummies legions, the Nephilim

For the former joys have passed away …


Somewhere in the middle of the Hollywood narrative, critic speaks:

set on fire your madness do not feel ashamed

Good.. Very well penned…

thus you should write and thus it should be!

Continue like this!

symbolically, yet completely illogical,

and yet carries energy and   original poetic line!


We cast you out, every unclean spirit,

omnis legio, et omnis congregatio secta diabolica,

and nomini et virtute Domini nostri Jesu Christi!

This is much better, Griff!

“You know, I thought it was a new poetic voice.

But your slam ton I do not like “


in the name and by the power of our Lord Jesus Christ

unquam suade mihi vana!

I am not interested in your vanities.

That is my trial.


Mysterious ridges are thy Elohim

Where do you taking me now?

Why are you burying your toes

In the fiery bowels

Of the gerber – free!

“What do you see?”

There are three of them:

Mother, son and uncle

Screaming, laughing and stealing my jewelry

Cutting my hair,

Someone strikes

They spit on me\

“Sit in the tub!”

They paint my face with milk and honey

And soon, flies.. flies…

I was prosecuted from a large Dante’ yard

After that, I never could take Hell serious.

That is why they reinvented Devil in every 10 years or less.

unclean spirit,

satanic power,

onslaught of the infernal adversary,

Cast out their legions!

That is my trial.


Saves the best for the trial in Salem!

May the holy be my light!

May the dragon be my guide!

There will be three of them:

The unclean spirit Karni Mata

She lives in the Temple Of Rats

Also known as the Trojan pony.

She stole my money and devoured some life…

The second is the Goddes of Poop, with the hair of Medusa

A tremendous gossip!

The third is Ninkasi, born from the sprinkled vodka

Goddess of beer and brewing

The drunkard centuries

Beasts from the abyss

the Lamb of God

Behold, the Lamb of God enters the court!

Trials trials everywhere!

The blood of the lamb

The blood of the lamb

The poor lamb should do some donkey kicks

Photo Credit: Matrix of Art, Sara Chelou

Fitnes pesma/Boris K. in the gym

Neuhvatljive, živahne kretnje, stopala…
kao konji ljuti što beze u galopu
pljusak snage, beli smeh u vetru
otvoreni brzaci, prostor nastanjen težinama
lepet tegova zbraja i potire uspone i padove
a duša je u skladu sa zadovoljnim telom

Presvučena znojem, kao svilom,
podizem težinu visoko prema nebu.
čini se da je vežbacka rutina
puna rastanaka
od uspona na kojima bih mogla ostati.




Boris K. In the Gym or”Something is rotten in the state of Denmark”

“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark”, From Shakespeare’s play Hamlet (1.4), Marcellus to Horatio.

Boris K. took the “Mens sana in corpore sano” mantra deadly seriously and was on his way to the nearest gym. Out of sheer excitement, he forgot the towel. Truth be told, Boris K. never really sweated, what’s more the doctors diagnosed him with some armpit gland defect. He wore his tracksuit that he usually wore when he went to the farmer’s market and had sneakers on, clean, but with a tiny hole on their side.

The moment he stepped into the luxury space, akin to the gyms of Los Angeles where the Japanese Yakuza work out, the treadmill caught his attention. As he was running, green pastures went through his head where he soared as a child, running after a ball.

“Boris, get the ball!” he remembered the voice of his uncle Ivan The Terrible Fisherman, who often took him fishing.

He ran faster, catching the ball in his thoughts. Giggling, he lifted his arms up and whispered: “Death to fascism, freedom to the people”, respecting the house rules.

Luckily, others noticed the new workout guy, others who ran along the treadmill with light steps, wiping off the invisible sweat, exchanging many a word between one another:

“Sweetheart, I have discovered the Café Menstrualle. You pop one Café Menstrualle and no more ovary pain.”

“Such nice people, these folks”, he thought after a thirty minute cardio workout, ran his fingers through his odorous hair, with but a hint of sweat to it. He reeked of sweat and it felt good to him.

As he was fantasizing about making “Rocky VII”, a young man of 25-ish approached him, dark curly-haired, engulfed in a strong perfume, with buff arms, a square Lego torso and short legs, and he whispered into his ears words that almost froze Boris K. solid.

“Good evening”, he shook his hand with his own, dry chapped one. “I am Boris K.”

The trainer shook hands, unknowingly stepping away from Boris K., while down his tiny wrinkle on his young forehead, born out of constant frowning and grimacing, sweat poured.

“Forgive me, sir, but you stink. All the other folks that are working out are complaining about you.”

Boris turned around himself, sensing the sweat and the hostile looks. He shook.

“Male or female?” he applied logic.

“Both sexes.”


He felt being bathed in cold sweat. As if something had been crushing him bone by bone, his field of vision narrowed. Him? He never broke a sweat. Even when he had to go to the doctor’s.

“What?”, Boris K. looked at him nearly maniacally.

“Nothing”, he said and wiped the sweat of his forehead. Catching glimpse of this motion, Boris K. facepalmed, merely uttering that he did not bring a towel which he would use to clear any doubt-raising link between him and sweat.

“Mistah Trainah, I have never once in my life…stunk, not even had a hint of an odor…and even if I did – is this not the right spot for it?” Boris K. was pulling these and similar arguments while counting the seconds in his head, bouncing the words around under his tongue, gulping, until finally he bent the knee and admitted defeat.

He was certain that he did not break a sweat, but this young trainer, who was a bodybuilder for at least a decade, certainly knew everything there was to know about stench.

“I’ve been wrongly accused!”, a slight rise in his tone.

The trainer shrugged and clenched his fists. The other customers started approaching with menacing faces. Boris K. noticed that he’s in a pinch and tried to apply some strategy. He smiled, to which the customers stepped back. Boris K. noticed that the workout gear was unoccupied, seeing as the people using them were surrounding him, therefore nobody was there using them. He felt the uncalm and the desire to leave, but he couldn’t leave well enough alone. He had firmly decided to continue the discussion with the discount Tommy Gann here by any means necessary, come hell or high water.

He felt that he was about to cry any minute. He held himself with both arms, comforting himself gently as the trainer, his voice a chill, suggested that he brought a towel next time, more modern sneakers and a Dolce & Gabbana tracksuit, like the ones other customers had. For a while he trembled out of confusion, uneasiness, he even wanted to cry. He cursed all the towels of God’s green Earth. He shook away the invisible sweat off of himself as the in-full-make-up female customers, casting a glance or two in his general direction, glared at him scornfully. One observed the sole of his left sneaker. Rolling her eyes, she whispered something to the lummox next to her who looked at Boris K., as if ready to crush him. Boris K. was smiling. He went out into the street shook up, confused, disturbed and offended, realizing that there was a stench there and that the trainer was absolutely correct.

“I know what it was! It was the scent of rot!”, he concluded, and stepped into the dark streets towards a new comedy.

Tomorrow Boris K. purchased a café menstrualle deciding that, as soon as he gets the right opportunity, he would complain to other customers at the gym about the pain in his ovaries.