2204

call me ummm...call me New. yes. New. call me New and hold my hand. hear my thoughts. hear! hear! call me New and let me entertain you:

address me as Old. address me as Old and  trust me. i've been around for a while

and i know what i'm talking about.

don't forget you are not as young anymore you should listen to me

for i hold the experience.

call me New! i grew up from stories Old made the material for

Feck off.

i grew up from fragments of what you used to call magic

and all is good and everything changes

put the  make up on

make the up-ness

dance the waltz of rules

you won't like it but the cheque will come on  fridays 

three working days to be processed

but

and

you will be safe

yes! do it! 

but

and save room for the faeries

and wide eyed wandering spirits

while handing out drinks

"thank you sir, come back soon!"

while moping the floors

while sorting the mail

written according to certain

hehe

standards

you look plain silly doing that

just so you know.

just: so you know.

the poem.

A KOLIKO SI IMALA LJUBAVNIKA?


A koliko si imala ljubavnika? i gdje si sve s njima 
spavala? i što su ti govorili? i kako, kako je to bilo? Daj mi
mira,
čuješ, daj mi mira, fućkam ti na tvoje
fotografije spremljene u kutiju od cipela,
pisamca o vjernoj ljubavi sakrivena po manžetama i u
policama pod rubljem, prestani,
prestani, idi već, kao nesnosnu muhu
pratim očima tvoj lik po svim ku-
tovima, idi,
izleti kroz prozor, nek te odnese propuh, idi, nemam vremena,
moram se ispavati, idi, rasplini se,
rastopi se negdje u toj narančastoj lokvi pod svjetiljkom,
izgubi se među slovima ove glupe knjige što
je čitam,

idi, ne volim te, ništa neću, ništa te ne pitam,
to me ne zanima,

fućkam ti na tvoje adrese i telefonske brojeve, i si-
jed
i sijed ću te još voljeti, nozaimeisusovo
koliko,

koliko si ih imala?

JIRI ŠOTOLA

za dlaku

there are some really angry men in this world

really...angry

so angry that they will try that anger out

on the ones who cannot defend themselves

on the weak ones

such as yours truly.

there are some really great friends in this world

really....great.

so great that they will kick those men in the groins

on the account of those who cannot do themselves

on the account of the weak ones

such as yours truly

who was lucky

very lucky

a few days ago.

let me...entertain you

she took her clothes off
bit by bit

she took her jeans, size 12. the ones with big holes on the knees, which she will never mend.

she took the t-shirt which she bought 5 years ago on a ski trip to France. I was never in France. Shhh its good for the story. The green one.

she took the under-wear off as well. La Senza white bra and the Primany panties. They laid beneath her feet.

and carefully put the black socks in the laundry basket beneath the bed.

then she took off the earings- green ones, made for her with seventeen tons of love in a small workshop in Zagreb, once upon a long lost time.

and the medallion named after one of her favorite books: Ilium. Dan Simmons' one. the reason she bought and got disappointed in Flashback, a few weeks ago.

she never wore any other jewelry.

then she took the sense of a day off. it itched. it felt like a bikini wax. Brazilian you mean? Shhh. it bounced around the room and finally settled in the corner of the mirror.

then she put a nail in defense machinery. the fluffy one, made from what was left from her favorite childhood doll.

the body pulsated.

and she was free to express.

she was right. and she was naked. and she regressed. and she progressed in her nakedness. and she was wrong.

and it did not matter at-all.

no-story

the lounge. after the long, nice bath. skin moisturized. muscles relaxed. gogol bordello on repeat.

fingers crossed.

alcohol.

Yeah o yeah you seen me walk 
On burning bridges 

i wish people answered my emails faster. 

then i could write more

and play correspondence game

on a higher level.

and dance the dance of meanings lost and found

[what was the word again? english seems to like it very very much..]

ah

 "properly"

yes

dance the dance of meanings            properly                    without giving the time

the time

time

to clutch.

  

through the roof and underground.

Just like their meanings they lay between the lines
Between the borders their real countries hide

but words are hard
i get that
words are hard when you have something to say
and you don't know how to say it
not even if you want to say it so

bluntly.

hidden behind the screen.

screaming from 

behind.

or whispering.
or singing.
or just

shallowly breathing

words are hard.

tongues are easier to use for kissing.

words are easier when they come from gipsies.
life is easier when sung.

the writing which writes you

read Jeannette Winterson.That's all I can say re- title. The page number is ...ummm.. you know what? Find it yourself. It is about the writing that writes you. You will know when you find it. Of course, you might end up reading the whole book.

I do hope you do. I finished it last night. and it was very...resonating. especially the last chapter.

you will know once you read it.


1.

I AM afraid

Fear

Fear is  the gas of my travels

I run away

I ran away

I stay.

I think I was about 5 when I lost home

maybe I searched for just that all this time?

I AM/WAS (mind the CAPS) different. I like & I live at the cross~roads.At all times. The heart asks pleasure first. I am Serbian, I am Croatian, I am Irish. I am Yugoslavian. Between embodied and dreamed/about stories. Between and after men who will protect me. Ahead of my shadow, protecting myself. Meself. Home is longing, 

Home is belonging.

I partially belong to oh so many places/states.

My first step takes place at the crossroads.

2.

[there is quite a lot of text at "2". but there is absolutely no way I would share it with a stranger. 

if you are a friend, ask me.

I will tell you.]

3.

If I write in Serbian

I am judged

and I am back to being

that little girl alone at the crossroads

with no where to run 

but inside.

4.

I do not like that fear. But it persists. It is weaved in the very core of me, like a golden thread/ barbed wire which connects it all/ keeps it all well apart. It pulsates in the daytime and wakes me up at night, through the hands of nightmarish men who are about to strangle me. 

Through the poisonous mushroom I eat in dream-cave and die. Just to wake up at 3 am, sweating.

Creeping over indigo skies of sandman's beaches. 

It waits.

It wakes.

...and it is always present.

5.

My English is limited. My Serbian/Croatian has bigger number of words. 

I need to write in English to keep myself safe. It gives me distance. To write about fear, longings, belongings and depths I need to see it from a few miles away. Being close to it is way too painful (and here is your answer, inquisitive woman from the unit). It is a root canal job being done with no anesthesia. Being done slowly. 

Writing in English is my painkiller. My morphium. My pill.

Hundreds of words for moment of no-pain.

That's the price for leaving the crossroads.

6.

this is a body thing

so shush

clear out the words

listen

engage

yes with both of those ear lobes

and those hands you keep crossed across the chest

engage

some lyrics hit you directly in a core i know

well what can i say

apart from deal with it

man up

this is a body thing

it has no printed references

for we do not talk about it

we do it

or you do it once you think no one is watching

no one is watching, then.

just the walls and the screen

a couple of pieces of furniture around you

maybe and just maybe: a plant.