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A Display Painting, dedicated to Sabina Nore

Merchants pass art
Like an abandoned church
Doubled, the painting breaks

Across the Holy place,
A kitschy stall
And up for sale

A yellowed picture of the entire family,
Manipulative and false.

Can Vanity even paint?
Even if so, what does it see

A putrid nest of the Vain man
Will grow old with them
While the blindness smirks
Bribed with applause

A sigh
Follows my eyes
To the death of that morning
To the graveground of art
Where I detoured for a while
To light a candle
For its soul.
An impure cheek
Got entangled with a venal hand

The pallet is dying, the she-painter
Smugly swings (herself) at the canvas
digitally

Too much misery have I seen,
Enough to leave.

I might be Russian already,
Set in the eternal capsule and floating
Towards a Siberia of frozen veins.

The pain need not be replaced with hatred
Nor self-loathing.

The pain need be cast out of oneself,
Cast out by crying,
A stream of tears
Instead of blood.

So that they pour out evenly
In its inexhaustibility.

 

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Uncategorized

A Painting Frame, dedicated to Sabina Nore

I wish to create a poem of paintings
Made more beautiful by the blade of a knife.

A gallery, vast and alight.
Hand-crafted objects
Of massive wood deepen the fear;

Tables with little bows, as if cut from boxes of chocolates.
Canvases framed with frail slats.

Faces are present on the exhibit
The types painted
By the vertically challenged girl-friend of pride:

They bite, they pierce…

They are our nothing,
Like our inhaled breath,
Nothing,
Like the exhaled one,
Nothing,
Loquacious and empty
(with a dislocated shoulder or two)

I wish to create a poem of a craftsman
Who paid for his work to be displayed.
I wish to create a poem of a pigsty
It being a continuation
Of a Salierian fear

I wish to write nicely, picturesquely, of the eyesore,
So much so that you could sense it, touch it,
Yet I cannot, when all is nothing
(you cannot grasp the invisible)
I threw the wasteland on and brought a map
Moving towards Vienna at dusk
Where Mozart used to play,
And now wolves cry and lie in it.

A snake stuck in the crack
Its sweet tongue-fork
While it turned the body of the megalopolis
Into a backwoods middle-of-nowhere.

Overjoyed, the apathetic world
Not gazing at the canvasses
Is showing itself to the world.

Through the pap whose turn it was
The salesman accepts the haggle.

Sad, semi-finished paintings
What has a vain hand done to you
to make it only possible through a poet’s visualization
for you to reach what you could once have been.

I see nothing on you
Other than the shining sea
And the glorious terraces where I can enjoy
The stunning view,
Only illness and death,

As if from a ruin
The defeat reeking of rotting fruit
(and someone had probably bought you as well)

I hid away in the embrace
Of the uncertain eternity,
In a dark, mum world.

I have not heard so much silence on a noisier spot
Nor have I smelled so much darkness
Even in the caverns of my heart
While in the waking nightmare, dreaming,

I was choked by a thing very much alive.

fully-illustrated-stats-envy

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poezija

Slika sa izložbe

https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2017/02/10/ram-za-sliku/

Umetnost zaobilaze trgovci
kao napuštenu crkvu
udvojena slika lomi

preko puta Svetilišta je
kičerajska tezga
na prodaju

Požutela slika cele porodice
manipulativno i lažno

Može li Sujeta uopšte da slika?
Ako i slika, šta vidi

gnjilo gnjezdo Sujetnika
ostariće sa njima
dok se slepilo smeši
podmićeno aplauzom

Uzdah
prati moj pogled
u smrt tog jutra
u groblje umetnosti
u koju sam nakratko zašla
da joj upalim sveću
za dušu..

Nečist obraz
spleo se sa potkupljivom rukom

paleta odumire, slikarka (se)
samozadovoljno nabacuje na platno
digitalno

Previše jada videh,
dovoljno za odlazak

Možda sam već Ruskinja
smeštena u večnu kapsulu i plutam
ka Sibiru zaleđenih vena

Ne treba bol zamenjivati mržnjom
a ni samomržnjom

Bol treba izbaciti iz sebe.
Izbaciti je plačem,
potokom suza
umesto krvi.

Da poteku ravnomerno
u svojoj nepresušnosti

fake

 

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