by Vladimir Đurišić


Let us go then, do and die,

(and do and die and do

and then deny)

Where and when never ending why

Revenge of the I against the eye

Against the gains of metaphorical retreats

That Spread the “The”

Just like empty sheets of clouds

Epiphanise the gesture, looking for the

Sky and finding skiing, finding Bee Gees guy

In Finding Nemo. Where catcher in I is spared

Against the sparrow in the eye

And evening is paired

With grayeyed ladies,

Cumming, humming



Hours of rumors prove the women in rooms, phoning,

Talking of Michelangelo Antonioni.


Burst of things in a dream of explosion

Poses as real:

Relevance of evil elevation in a Soap opera,


In phony manhood of peasants.        


The outlaws are patient,

Flaws of silent selling out

Are redefining freedom,

And more boredom we beat,

More leather we sit on…


And indeed, there will be time.

To write for the retired foolls wonderfully

There will be tiny Myth of Why

When I bare my pray:


“Must I die, to write, today?”


And I have known the nouns that already died trying

To be ready as verbs, noun them all-

Brave in reverb, everlasting everblue

Etherised poetry awaits measuring

The eye of a beholder with coffee spoons


I like the smell of palms in a Mourning.

The army isn`t waiting. The arm's palm itself

That cannot open the pages of newspaper

Kissed by the fresh print, to be opened later,

But never read, never really red, never really grown

Into Stereo mountains. Fresh meat of facts

Is fucking a poem, being ready to kill for the

Rendered remembering, like lies suck out

The truth from Memoirs. Form of a memo

Looking rootless in the morning,

Freeing the libertine free press fee

From Alberti bass of cheap embarrassment.


Hours of rumors prove  the women rooms, phoning,

Talking of Michelangelo Antonioni.


Now press *.


I go go I go go,  I go, girl,  to go go

High halls of High heels High hopes of High peaks

Of song on broken speakers.


I am not high.

I shall swear I do not remember. I sell

My dare to a shivering attention: notions of

Giving, vigorous adjectives, it is impossible

To say what I don’t mean,

Fluid as a dilettante,

Led as a tale's tail,

And solidly stubborn

As a young death on a balcony:


Must I play, to write, today?

I am not mine. So, am I mean?


Though I have seen my head

(going slightly mad)

I have seen the moment of my greatness weaken

On twitter, I have seen it all, I have seen it, but

I should say in return that this is not what I meant at all

When I meant All in a mental hospital. This is naughty,

I know, I know, I know now, but then…

To say. I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Look at my lovely bones, smell it, kiss it, kill.

Wasn’t it shameful form of parole, wasn`t it?


And turning toward the word: window

I have to turn to Duchamp in Windows, Dos.

I have to turn. I have to turn on

Onions restless whiteness,

Slow angels breath

Rented to academics,

To Hamlet’s Telemach,

To the purest adjectivness of being.

I begin to pay attention to


Things of self,

Thin itself.


Alea ejaculated:



Ikea, Ikea.


I should have been a payer of reggae crew

Transforming the low incomes of newcomers

Into logical ontology of

Becoming cool.


And softer I become,

The braver I look.


Our phony illusions. Our


I grow gold…  I grow gold…

But the gold

Lies with the help of urine rush

Hushing the tail to be tailored

And me to blush, swearing that

My trousers are mine.

Arouser condoms as a mode for enough.

I should have been a conservative swinger,

Giving lessons of self preservation, forgetting

That the fortune is not

In fine tuning.


I have had my time for being stubborn to ask

Why Geography lies in metaphors,

Subtle and stubborn as digital watches

Grown in wrists

As stereo never grown in Montenegro,

Where the mountains rest in let it be

Convenient convexity of a Boutique logic,

Where the tinyshoulder leader is eating peach, thinking

Impeachment is impossible. I am nearly a king.

I do not think they will sin against me.

I want to believe (ingenious phrase)

They want to be lied to, in phases. I want to be real

As an allusion to see them part from my heritage,

In a morphine guilt.


We have laundry lady dead in the chambers

The sea gulls eating our remains by the sea-girls

Still humming voice,

In a cave,

In a dawn.

Originally written in English