Big bang of personal mission

Big Bang of a Personal Mission

I am not given to trends
I am not given to fashion
I am not a man of the latest news
Neither I am trivial.

I am a son of the moment
Of spontaneous outpour,
A being of drives,
A flower only God nourishes.

I do not favour crowds
Neither like obeying grounds
I do not wish to excel falsely,
I was born from the vagina of innocence.

They created me to find my own way out,
That is how they threw me into this World;
My hands are steel clamps
My legs are viaduct ramps,
My mind is so solid and bright,
Following the spirit of future and light.

I am inventing new ways,
All I do are my own decisions,
I do not read titles, papers, columns,
I make my own conclusions.

I’m not living in the present
I’m not part of the TV event
I’m not an Internet network
I’m a long ago forgotten book!

I am the spark of an idea,
The Big Bang in the chamber of intuition,
The Big Bang of a personal mission,
The amazing being of difference...

Countries that Searched for Themselves in Me

My room is the night.
I push my thought through America
My heart is broken by nostalgia,
wires run through my head -
chaotic electricity of separation.
Now I am here, sentenced to write.
I drink my own blood in a deciliter of wine,
left to the demons of the night,
Jesus' cross and prayer.

I push my thoughts through America,
the continent hits me with materialism,
I stand naked with petty cash in my hand and
look for understanding in the underground of New York.
It is true, sometimes I'm afraid
of the wantonness of ravenous snobs,
with suspicious glances, Satan attacks
wishing my spirit, my body and blue blood.
In the eye the looming tears,
in the soul a million questions,
my heart bothers me, it turns to the being
- the essence of anthropology,
the Mediterranean fetus of destiny.
I’m cast in the mold of Europe.

I push my thoughts through America,
I look for gold in abandoned mines
tunnels excavated long time ago,
in worn rivers, forgotten countries.
I find nothing but
some measly gold coins -
valuable enough to get to the coast
and go on with the Gulf Stream
to my cradle.

I push my thoughts through America,
awoken at the beginning of a beautiful dream
in whose labyrinths
I created the art of my region,
of Roman conquests, Venetian oars
and Greek myths.
Wine - blood is already being drunk;
carrying the fury through the veins to my heart
which beats like mad the rhythm of all my
comings and goings.

I push my thoughts through America,
persistently I want to be a resident of this big city
that eats with its urban mouth
everybody who hides in it.
Thank you, o land of Indians
in whose astral pipe
I took a deep breath of the power of self-confidence,
the force that opened to me the door to knowledge
where I found the inner America
and all these countries which have sought themselves in me.

The Clear Sky is the Roof of my Temple

vedro nebo

Where should I be, but here
in my world of silence
of warm thoughts and good wine
in a night wrapped in south wind, fog and low clouds,
short and long sighs,
balancing my thoughts
in the game of consciousness and the subconscious,
in my separation
of all of the current
of everything important.
Where should I be, but there
where the world doesn't bother me
where you can listen to the classics
where the nerves are stretched as they should be,
where there is no tension, ringing, yelling I sort of settled down
and decided to write about forgotten things
away from the modern essentials,
cities, streams, systems.
Where should I be, but here
where I baptized this religion myself
erected this church on my own backs;
the altar of my institution is called freedom,
where the Eucharist is held under the open sky
without rituals, symbols, liturgies and preaching,
in this ghost-like room all chains are released
and there are no limits, rules, laws, earthly orders.
Where should I be but here
in my middle age
where I still don’t feel limitation,
everything is like it was in the young days
when I got taken away by open skies and seas,
when I let the wind to blow me away,
let the waves carry me on long voyages,
completely left to haphazardness
on the raft of freedom, along the agitated challenging waters.
Where should I be, but here
in an institution with no windows, no doors
no inscriptions, activities and seals,
in a building with no roof, no floors and departments,
in an institution without a specific function
where freedom is the basis of my actions
and poetry the result of such thinking.

The clear sky is the roof of my temple

A Night at Sea


Moisture sticks to the road
fog smells havoc
the sea is calmly laid
the anchors hold the bottom
the night is deep
fish are looking for the light of boats
drunken fishermen torturing the night
music is the silence
I am present with my whole being
the beauty is inconceivable
denied to all sleepers,
my task is to be in the dark
far, far away from spring
I feel winter naked and alone
this world without vegetation
this sickness, this solitude
the night show
in my eye
that sees
that admires
the mysteries of stars
the depth of the sky.
To the laws of the sea
poetry is under the vault
- my karma,
it is magnificent to be alive
to feel love
in the mist
until daylight
and be again
following old principles
with a few drunken fishermen
in sight.

Self-Compliment II

naslovna Autokompliment

I came to the end
of another chapter.
Now my message has become clearer
I have nothing more to say.
These awards talk about me,
about what I carry inside me,
about everything I feel
I give, I receive, I lose.
I think I was honest enough.
Now I start walking on another path
under the same sky, under a new moon
under a stronger sun and under milder rain,
now I walk with another figure
with a more beautiful expression of the same face,
muscle, heart, prayer, curse
I pave the way with solid boots
away from this melancholic awareness,
I head towards the consciousness of firmness, steel
as this static scares me,
I'm going to pick up some better, clearer thought
to erase everything, but everything poor that I had written.
I now leave this sum of ideas
to remember me as the creator of poems,
to remember me as the same son of a bitch
as curse and God are my destiny.
Laugh freely to this truth
I have not said one lie,
everything is open, clean and real,
such as it really is,
where none of us really is
where there's nothing to understand,
where abstraction sells itself for reality
and reality for imagination.
This is my heart
and don't feel sorry for it,
chop it up if you like,
cut, eat, devour, tear
I will survive,
and when I'm gone
and when dirt covers me
I shall have my accomplishment
knowing when the moment is right
for my self-compliment.


Krug u pijesku

I sit at the table.
Outside, clouds and some dogs,
old lies, passengers to hell,
coldness and bland truth of war hurts,
night butterflies screaming their end
and dreams playing their divine dance
which we, mortals, cannot see.
Outside there is transience and aging
birth and death simple as the Bible,
perfection and disharmony in the same cage,
knives and penalties on the same day,
memory and oblivion in the deserted hour.
Outside everything is normal as I thought;
the sun falls behind the cemetery
clouds pouring into the cradle.
We cannot do anything
except observe
and mindlessly stare in amazement.
Outside - the life flows
and marches without forgiveness,
writing a book about progress and self-destruction,
talks about us without saying one nice word
and escapes with a face full of cynicism
behind the door of transience in which we all participate.
It is me sitting inside again
at the table in front of the machine,
I'm talking about jealousy,
oblivion and accident
disease and severe grief.

Sober as an animal in its biggest fear,
with a cigarette,
satisfied with another new stake
although it is old as the dawn.
Sober without wine and fury
far from Tin, far from Baudelaire,
and very close to myself.
And I'm not cold like once in the darkness
because now gently the light is burning,
a tiny glowing newborn hope,
sober without wine and fury
with a glass of cold rhymes
I am at the end with my ink.

In Harmony with One’s Own Breathing


Deserted roads
shabby seagulls
the fishermen’s tired bodies
a cool sea
old shabby island
and heartbeat
that admires its home country.
A sip of good red wine
dreamy campaigns towards life
smoke of fine cigarettes
quiet light of the night lamp
and the energetic imprint of the typewriter.
A poet's thought
memory of the naked female body
view to the beautiful sunflower fields
ingenious tact of Beethoven the God
high tones of strong inspiration.
A hole in the core
some weak autumn leaf
some volcano of morning blood
some dry cough effects
some ugly words of a woman – demon
coke ovens in the lungs, alcoholic flows in the veins.
Time is moving on while we must,
Must what?
A new spasm of life approaches,
the beauties, the vices,
I give myself over to them
I drink the tragic life in one go
thirstily swallowing the comic substance.
I am pleased with the elixir and poison
the two authors playing inside me;
one performs like an ancient Greek
the other like a demolishing beatnik,
I answer with my musical lyrics
your compliments make me a special sage
I consider defeat the University of life.

And as you read, I am still there, standing,
In the symbiosis of Devil and God
of darkness and light, of flowers and thorns,
I seal the existence with my bloody fist,
romantically I am sliding along the paper
to face my poetic task.
No, not suicide, not self-destruction
accept life made of black and white substances
stand on your feet and walk in your own frame
eat the brown stinking mass
kiss the fragrant blossoms of spring branches
and listen to the deep message of the soul
and make this your only way to move forward,
into harmony with your own breathing.

The City without Chryst

Grad bez Krista

I'm running away
far away
from a dream into someone's better day.
Me and my strength are at the bottom of attempts,
You and your faith are on the edge of infidelity,
a friend of happiness in the moment of sadness
a teardrop of love in the sea of forlornness
and a moment of salvation in the year of defeat.
Be still, my friend,
light as a feather and happily poor,
be pleased with a single trip,
going into happy dreams
which are hiding behind you.

I grabbed Christ at his bloody arm
took with me His earthly passion
wept with Him in a cold grave
kissed His face
and felt compassion for those
who at one time did not understand.

City without Christ
without the olive of love
without a word of salvation and prayer for future.
Gloomy skies here rule,
dark mornings of fear of existence,
night of the miserable who sold their souls to Satan.
A tiny woman of love
now hides and fears
these cruel wealthy beasts
filling their bodies with waste
until the last of lies, death, infinity.

Deserted is the country where I now live,
soulless bodies cry beside me
but not tears
no, purple drops from fiery eyes,
cry oily tears of falsehood and evil.

I can’t stand the night,
the night of all souls of the deceased.
Shadows of monsters guarding eternity,
this pale insecure reality
all these days which do not resemble the days.
My faith is no longer the faith of all,
I alone now possess this nature
and I leave for good,
to be forgotten.
And let them sometimes remember
occasional lines
of this lyrical song of mourning.

City without Christ
without the olive of love
without a word of salvation and prayer for future.
Gloomy skies here rules,
dark mornings of fear of existence,
night of the miserable who sold their souls to Satan.

I'm waiting for the day of my new birth.
I want to be ready.