Inspired by inimitable insipid individuals, infinitely inconsequential
The word is dead.
Nothing left to fear.
There is no Logos.
There is no Nature.
No, there is neither.
I saw how ..er ..my 21. century poems,
Or at least what I think they once were,
turned into an unrecitable torment of making
a testimony of sorts…For what?!
The unseen, the unspoken,
it is enough to vanish, but I am in the know
of how much it would please my talented adversaries
so I will remain a stone that writes
there is no poet here.
there is no poetry there.
There is no poet, there is no poetry, there is no
poet, no poetry, no style, no language, no music, the word is dead, rest assured.
Please, rest assured, please, please
…. and that would be it.
I AM the verse without fresh air laying beside the river of Babylon where everything is seated
some amigos,a friendly barbecue, adventures, dyed bodies of cannibals and a cheerful toast
my irritated imagination
my twinkling lights
good-looking to be sniffed
The intermittency of appalling scenes…
Vigilance interrupts the idyllic life in a nightmare
I am a cosmopolitan, widespread disease
The urn with the hairs of my chat is on the table’s edge
My tears after awakening
Are crocodile dung
Tears drowned in a bathtub
The smelly bath
In the embrace of blindness
tall ceilings, the pendulum
she provides the cut
All poetic succession I leave to the ceiling
I’m a polite woman without any hustle
I have performed hundreds of poetry experiments,
If I merely wanted it, I could easily die during one
Now I’m off to the lab
to disinfect Myself.
Sorry, Pater Noster – Aunt, with your fluttering cassock,
Sorry Pater Noster – Uncle, who holds the keys to the Heavens and the Ferraris
I did not know how to bounce along the national rustic jig
CumbersomeI kept stumbling over
I am not a good believer
I, neither pretty nor young enough for the title of Holy
Forgive me, for I am not a good Serb
Sorry, Mater Noster, forgive, forgive!
My cheeks are hollowed out from verse pimping
Goodness, lovers and girlfriends for dinner, it is a lavish part
of the poetic end, isn’t it?
But they do not serve me as a poetess
Nor do they moisten my stanzas with fragrances
As I write my last public address (Do give us a hand, please) I am clenching my breasts in my palms
I recall my early youth
Sometimes the light is born within me
More fervent than the dawn of time, priests would say
Mostly I feel the night inside me
riddled with bullets and bloody wolf hunts,
FERRO ET IGNI
I adore the deos until after their ouster
They aim for my life, appear to me with claws and marks
Through dubious astrological trials
I am watching the sea that I will never see
In this accursed hamlet,
I describe the sluggish steps of Kings
sneaking by palaces at Samarra
Which will never whisper
I recognize the images of distant landscapes
in the verse that does not unveil itself to me
There is no nature in poetry
she is sick of the three pens and mangled alphabet.
Her belly is swollen
There is no promised land to continue towards
I am dust, bloated and greedy
With this departure from the country of poetry, with a smile of a crying child
answer me, chimera that glides between my rows and my trenches
Be honest, the deep illusion with elephant diphtheria and malignant disease
three lines before the end of.. this, before your affluence rots
and your garments are devoured by moths, INTER NOS,
is it possible for anything to be minisculeto dust?
Veni at me… sed wicked… Climax non est!