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Vanity on the fox’s trail, “The Darkness will understand”

Vanity on the fox’s trail
Behold, a miracle!
Supposedly one-sided at instants
Suitable for a scrambled moment
The martyr and her daughter who wash their feet
Tasseled with nails instead of sandals
Conversing silently.
Anything but sough
Shores and scrapings fantasizing
Daughter do you wish the powder to slip you
To disturb the onus, non-being and tendrils
Wistful across the stones you overcome
Blacker than night
You fear there will no longer be vertebrates
It is the third hour in the night After

from “The Darkness will understand”

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Uncategorized

I wonder why, is it just me, my heavens, my uncalmed darkness.

1
Who could speak the language
of Gods, and remain forgotten yet
unloved, a sailor
who dreamt of bridging the wings
of the earth, the blind
man who survived the sirens
and remained aloof and well known on the shore.

2
I swung in the rain in Hades
and torched the warrior’s burgh in windy Troy.
I cried over the misery
of a stone forgotten me, a solitary
woman in solitary confinement,
the sun of a day askew, a skeleton
waving, a bird in the pink afternoon,
my sigh shimmering towards the horizon…

3
Fires shrieked!
My chorus burst forth
and all wishes evaporated
into the all-knowing, faded margin.

4.
Storm raging inside,
my head aching out
a grain of salt
in this driblet of blood.

5
Et vous… pagans who gnawed my manuscripts,
listen to the wind of centuries
tangling the strings of a gaggle of pissed off gods.

6
Unloved, peckish heart!
Rainy absence on the shore
become my name!

7
I saw these images
on the bloodied road:
first: me falling to my knees.
Second: back on my feet, struggling.
Third: the lips of Judas.

8
Words speak
silence, not lust nor
curses, emptying
in darkness, fragmented, apart.
My nothingness, announced.

9
Everything was said,
phrases like crushed glass in the mouth,
heard only as lies,
if heard at all.

10
As I trudge through the light-trickled night
I wonder why, is it just me,
my heavens, my uncalmed darkness.

fearmirror

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Uncategorized

Calderon said: life is a dream

Calderon said: life is a dream
A deceptive escort between two awakenings
Neither life nor death
Nor something third
Neither life after death
Nor death before life
And it dies among hour hands
Before it spends the night in our bodies

Segismundo chained by precarious stars in vain
Announces a great illusion
And circles of mute dreams

After one thousand and two hundred nights
I see my bones peering in the gardens
If eternity would rule before the dawn
Perhaps it would cure the loneliness

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proza

The scream of butterflies, edited version

The scream of butterflies 

It is like a desert where time isn’t told by clocks
it is like the crevice for the jailer to peer into a cell
it is why the birds, to me, have no name
it is the cause of my timid disruptions
it is the cause of my fallen kingdoms
It is not a creature known to human heart
that remains unmentioned amid my words.
SERBIA.

in this land that is not even my own
in this land where proud Palm Readers tell fortunes
(I might say that Serbia is a witchly soil
but there is no magic inside it)

Can I even be alive?
within the poem that screams while singing

(a witchly silence)
me, a flower studded in silence

If I have to die here
leave me to open up in silence
I, a strained water
I, a chained tree
I, a shepherdess in the witch forest
I, the mutes well of
a dying swath or mad, screaming butterflies
yes…

Bitterness? Or purity?
deceptive ventures
and useless experience
you have set in stone my human loneliness

Let us out of here, miss S! ..!!!! (scream of butterflies)
let us fly through
your sullen azure arch
In return,
we’ll celebrate you as a jailer
on the 25thanniversary of your hammer – existence, scavenger
we will glorify you, we… we, the winged corpses in the pit.

This night of torture
this dawn of tamed passion
this heartbreak soil.

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poezija

WALK DOWN THE BOULEVARD, Leila Samarrai, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

alienationimage found here

These streets will never be close to me.
The land is lonely, and the sky is
A dreamy shroud the color of the bloodied stone.

Wind taps on the bones,
The birds gnash with their fangs.
My imprisoned walk desultory from collisions
with revived pillars.
I walk the ghostly cage of felt
Which serves to soothe the birds
Lost in a dream, cumbersome, I grow
Amidst Necessity.

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