I saw the best minds of my generation

bored in the balmy nullness of submission

something is softly slashed open

then there's no return

a dog is barking in the church

I don’t know what to do with that image

nor does he, but still he acts, he breaks the sonic kitsch

foreign wi-fi enters my tiny dark room

like the breath of a dying god who mistook me for someone else

but still he says hello to the gathered crowd, as if at the wrong funeral.

tomaž, you told me I was faster

but I’m more of a rope which burns the fingers than a snake,

a tail or a reptile of sorts.

the rope fibers in the light draw out a growl from my lazy body

I jam it all in one poem,

the pure, discarded afterdeath

everything one can learn from breakfast TV.

what neither jules verne nor jacque cousteau knew

maybe only the tailor flying from the eiffel tower

with no return, no return. something is softly slashed open

then there’s no return,

every landscape is political.

the painted clouds a waiting horde

both the rapist and the hero

in the lame logic of gradualism

in stalinist sheets as white as as

a drunk painter’s optical illusion

and the rascal kalashnikov of his brother

come together in the word volshebnik

and while the bank is dissolving away

the flour of flourishing gets denser

under the wary and watchful forefinger.

somebody is always dying and dead in there

the corpse hides in the prose folds, squeezed

in the barometer of a sentence

the barman doesn’t speak of, but knows its tune

only just three simple chords,

no biggie, bro.

the afterdeath derision lurks in the oil on canvas, on the canvas 

something is slowly slashed open, then there’s no return.

I jam it all in one poem, which I never write

and then for months

I chase the moment of glory

which has not arrived yet. what arrived was a postcard from tomaž

it’s all one big poem that I never write but keep returning to

I find myself awfully charming.

a marathon sprinkled with ads for something or other,

an event, a mouth, teeth that only just explain enamel.

where I grazed the ankle of someone else’s woman,

it was much too easy, much too easy

teeth that test mirrors,

they give an inkling of tesla’s gay grimace, if such a thing exists, surely it must

in an alternating current with which tibor’s tesla moves the furniture around ljubljana

I’m unbearably alive, like courtney love

but if I died today

they’d say, he didn’t live long, but he swore so skillfully, and I never swore

I only waited for a swearless fuck, a silken knife my mother once mentioned


but never used on my father.

I shift the change,

I say you’re no change, no change at all

as long as you carry me inside, I’m liked the aligned chinese

deep inside a buried village.

in the taste of a hot rod, united hot rods.

the epoch, dishes, trophies

alain prost and ayrton senna,

lucrative dissemblance.

papa and toto cutugno exit history

the morning is a naked savićević who

explains the state

and then tries to shed light on mice. nope.

just ordinary mice.

my place too is uncertain.

once I was savićević, chilling out after dribbling drills

dragging the leg called the state

like an overlarge dick used for measuring foreheads

the battle between head and facade

and so the shit started to happen, in the moment you grew silent,

with the post symbolists fattening up like pigs,

let into the wilderness, their fur overgrown,

the selfish poet’s gene.

so, how to put it,

I’m unbearably alive

like guests from abroad

but I shine like the state,

the history of fucking, seldom turned on due to high electricity costs

the poetry’s audience is yawning

there’s no way back.

I’m not in mexico.

my body is not a bonfire.

hairs grow from my fingers.

whips of silent films command expressionism

I draw a whore first, then some bread and a cottage. a trinket,

trivial flour.

the erasing of khlebnikov,

life is astro-porn, a crash of silly animals

on a wrong platform

the fireproof past

the three-hour declaration of love.

papa and toto cutugno adjust their bangs,

toto schillaci is balding, he lobs the keeper,

the ball travels long, unbearably long

maradona and ivković share a kiss, then beat it,

everything goes to pretty pot.

in the greasy underbelly of char.

the term society is disguised in

miljković’s hat

they all fuck the same women, all convene in courtyards,

so that basements are easily debased,

in war movies, they often dump

furniture on the street, our hero sees it from the bus,

keep on looking forward.

what the fuck are you looking at now?

it’s time to go out, before you hear it: out!

a dog is somewhere around. he’s been barking in the church for a time

but something cracked in the secret order of gradualism

and the dog can now calmly leave the place.

the suspicious permissions.

babies, grandmothers, balkans,

belgrade is trembling, unburnt

sending its fascists for a soft sunset stroll

richard gere and his dog

save the hairdressers’ code of honour. bajaga should be kissed.

it’s all consumed, balding, with no return,

all heathenly waisted, genetics is relentless,

the carpeting gives back the urine to the god in the loudspeakers,

the god chokes on it, vomits out the communists he had eaten

during his perpetual devouring.

a message that never arrived

from the partisans of dalmatia to the partisans of montenegro

it spurts chetnik burrs

in whitman’s clean braking grass, which cuts my knee

while I jump out of the train. one should shush about this

but it will grow like a footballer’s wife

I’m not in mexico.

my body is not a bonfire.

hair grows from my fingers.

maybe I want to struggle

the know-it-all hero

while still ignoring names, until rilke stays dead,

unearthed, in lava,

farmers’ pitchforks wake him up,

get up, midget, off to work. footballers are hot

but the pipes are hotter.

timisoara is a dump,

ceausescu not so much

there is no return.

these words create a forest

next to it an amoral, describable monastery,

shepherd’s rug on which a young fascist

rapes a cashier assistant.

cows kill more people per year than sharks.

a drawable cathedral, dear carver, is a dick,

a dick with square balls,

every blindman knows it, everything else is stretched tight,

we think they think we

but things must deserve me.

i’m as difficult as a handball or a wedding. no return

the calm millions of property crack the housewife in a track suite

while she’s emptying the dustbin.

there’s no return. we think they think we

the dog barks in the church, I don’t know what to do with that image

where should this mongrel go, will they chase him or will he grow tired first,

will an old hag poison him, and then say I’d never

every dog is a sleepy god returning home

bored by the internet.

what’s an event, then

a tit, asexually tilted

then released, over the hand that adjusts objects.

the light split from its objects

sits on the public budget.

belgrade is trembling, unburnt.

bombing was the only thing you called war, o-ho-ho who’s this we

oho – the glue of the urge that lasts for seconds

when it’s rubbed, it turns to dust, passing off as ashes

again you are unglued

in the suffering pose of a saint

who rubs his fingers and says dust to dust, lee cooper to earth

fuck your dainty fascist mother who wears metaphors

the carnex pâté flies heavenwards

the floating, the whispering of evil swans


bombing was the only thing you called war

that’s too fucked up, an unforgivable syntax

the overpriced crumbling taxi slides through the balkan new york

as an amateur tugboat through the open seas of byzantium

my enemies hang out, insufferably.

they grind their dicks against my bust, but the fucking part remains mine

the regime glow lays the silken knife on my mother

there i’m as silent as a lunatic at a silent film screening

to whom do I whisper I’m not,

while the accusations fly

and the neutral spouses lie on beaches

the all-overs are like a mother with an overlong wishlist

snatched away by savićević, who reads the first few words

and then folds it into a paper plane, rolling down the rollway

we think we we think they we think we they think

some call it swearing I call it calendar

papa says be careful again they are dangerous they are looking for new enemies

take out asshole and sperm from one of your poems at least

leave the pussies, that’s fine

the light split from its objects sitting on public budget.

to ask it to join, to say come, come here

while the dog keeps barking in the church

it’s not really fair.

there’s no return.

there’s no return.

the urn of darkness is serene in the crystal chandeliers

all objects are overachievers, while the history historicizes itself

blood is on the axe honey is the blood is the honey is the blood

soon the honeycomb will be spattered dry. 

Translated by Ana Savjak


vidio sam najbolje umove svoje generacije

kako se dosađuju u mlakom ništavilu poslušnosti

tiho se nešto raspori

i onda nema nazad

pas laje u crkvi

ne znam kud sa tom slikom

ni on to ne zna ali djela, probija zvučni kič

tuđi internet dođe u moju mračnu sobicu

kao dah boga na samrti koji me sa nekim zamijenio

pa ipak pozdravi zatečene, kao na pogrešnoj sahrani.

tomaž, rekao si da sam brži

ali sam prije uže koje reže prste nego zmija

nego rep ili bilo kakav reptil.

dlačice konopa na svjetlosti iz lijenog tijela mi izvuku duboki glas

sve stavim u jednu pjesmu,

čistu, prosutu posmrtnost

sve što se u jutarnjem programu sazna.

što ne znaju ni julles verne, ni jacque custot,

možda samo krojač što je letio sa ajfelovog tornja, možda samo on.

i onda nema nazad. nema nazad. tiho se nešto raspori

i onda nema nazad,

svaki pejzaž je politički.

svi naslikani oblaci su horda koja čeka

i silovatelj i heroj

u hromoj logici postupnosti

u staljinističkoj posteljini bijeloj kao kao

optički trik pijanog slikara

i raskalašni kalašnjikov njegovog brata

primiču se u riječi volšebno,

dok ova banka isparava

i brašno objašnjenja je tvrdo

pod opreznim kažiprstom.

neko je tu uvijek umro i mrtav je

leš je sklonjen u prozne nabore, nabijen

u barometar rečenice

o kome barmen ćuti, ali joj poznaje pratnju,

samo tri osnovna akorda,

to ti je lako, brate.

posmrtna posprdnost vreba u ulju na platnu, na platnu.

tiho se nešto raspori i onda nema nazad.

sve stavim u jednu pjesmu, koju nikad ne napišem

kasnije mjesecima

lovim trenutak slave

koji ipak ne pristigne, ali stigne tomaževa dopisnica

sve je jedna pjesma koju nenapišem nikad i stalno joj se vraćam

nalazim da sam strašno šarmantan.

maraton prošaran reklamama za nešto.

događaj, usta, gdje zubi samo dokazuju gleđ.

gdje sam samo dotakao gležanj neke tuđe žene

bilo je previše lako previše lako

zubi za probu ogledala

slute teslinu gej grimasu, ako takvo što postoji. sigurno i to postoji

u naizmjeničnoj struji kojom tiborov tesla pomjera namještaj po ljubljani

nepodnošljivo sam živ, kao courtney love.

ipak, da danas umrem

rekli bi, malo je živio, ali je krasno psovao. ali ja nisam psovao,

samo sam čekao jeb koji može bez psovanja, svileni nož moje majke jednom pomenut ovlaš

al nikad na ocu upotrijebljen.

pomjeram promjenu,

govorim joj nisi još promjena nisi uopšte promjena

sve dok me imaš u sebi, ja sam postrojeni kinezi

u dnu zatrpanog sela.

u ukusu bolida. ujedinjenih bolida.

epoha, plehovi, pehari

alan prost i aerton senna,

isplativa neuporedivost.

tata i toto cotugno izlaze iz istorije

jutro je goli savićević, koji

objasni državu

onda obasja miševe. ništa.

obični miševi.

i moje mjesto je nejasno.

bio sam jednom savićević, dok odmara od driblinga

i vuče nogu državu

kao prevelik kurac kojim se mjeri čelo

bitka fasade i pročelja

i kako je sranje počelo, onda kad si zaćutao,

i kad su postsimbolisti počeli da se svinjski goje,

pušteni u divljinu, poraslo im je krzno,

sebični pjesnički gen.

tako da kako da kažem

nepodnošljivo sam živ

kao gosti iz inostranstva

ali sijam kao država,

istorija jebanja, koja se pali rijetko, jer je struja poskupila

pjesnička publika zijeva

nema nazad.

nijesam u mexicu.

moje tijelo nije buktinja.

dlake mi rastu iz prstiju.

bičevi nijemog filma piče svoj ekspresionizam

prvo nacrtam kurvu, onda kruh i kućicu. broš,

neobjašnjivo brašno.

hlebnikovljevo brisanje.

život je astrološki porno, sudar glupih životinja

sa pogrešnim uporištem

vatrostalna prošlost

trosatna izjava ljubavi.

tata i toto cotugno namještaju šiške

toto schilacci je proćelav, lobuje golmana,

lopta putuje dugo, nesnosno dugo

maradona i ivković ljube se i gube

sve ide u krasni kurac.

u masan podrum od paleži.

pojam društvo se preruši u

miljkovićev šešir

svi jebu iste žene, svi se sretnu u dvorištu

pa podrumi mogu mirno da mudruju.

često u ratnom filmu

izbacuju namještaj na ulicu, junak to vidi iz autobusa

nastavi da gleda naprijed.

šta kojikurac gledaš,

kad je vrijeme za napolje, prije no začuješ: van!

tu je i neki pas. kratko je lajao u crkvi

ali nešto je kvrcnulo u tajnom poretku postupnosti

pa sad pas mirno odlazi.

sumnjiva dopuštenja.

bebe, babe, balkani,

beograd drhti nezapaljen

šalje svoje fašiste u meku večernju šetnju

ričard gir i njegov pas

spašavaju frizerski kodeks. bajagu treba poljubiti.

sve se troši, ćelavi, nema nazad,

paganski se prosipa, genetika je neumoljiva,

tepisi svoju mokraću vraćaju bogu u zvučnik,

bog se zagrcne, povrati komuniste koje je pojeo,

u besomučnom ždranju.

nikad stigla poruka

dalmatinskih partizana crnogorskim partizanima

bljuje četničke čičke

u čistu kočionu travu vitmana koja mi reže koljeno

dok iskačem iz voza o tome treba šuštati

ali će kasnije izrasti kao fudbalerska žena.

nijesam u mexicu.

moje tijelo nije buktinja.

dlake mi rastu iz prstiju.

želim da udavim možda

junaka koji zna sve

još dok ne zna imena, još dok je rilke mrtav,

neotkopan, u lavi.

seljačke vile ga bude,

ustaj, kepec, da radiš. fudbaleri su vreli

ali su cijevi vrelije.

temišvar je odvratan.

čaušesku ne toliko.

nema nazad.

ovih pet riječi čini šumu

uz nju je amoralan, opisivi manastir,

pastirska prostirka na kojoj mladi fašist

siluje kasirsku pomoćnicu.

krave godišnje ubiju više ljudi nego ajkule.

nacrtljiva katedrala, karvere, je kurac,

kurac sa kockastim mudima,

to zna svak ko je slijep, sve drugo je nategnuto.

mislimo mi mislimo oni

ali stvari me moraju zaslužiti.

težak sam kao rukomet i svadba. nema nazad

mirni milioni nekretnina lome domaćicu u trenerci

koja prazni kantu s otpatcima.

nema nazad. mislimo mi mislimo oni

pas laje u crkvi, ne znam šta sa tom slikom

kuda da ode džukela tjeraju li ga ili se umori.

ili ga baba otruje, kasnije kaže, pa zar bih ja to mogla

svi psi su pospani bog koji se vraća kući

jer mu je internet dosadan.

šta je onda događaj

sisa, savijena aseksualno,

nad rukom koja namješta predmete, pa puštena.

svjetlost odvojena od svojih predmeta

sjedi na državnoj kasi.

beograd drhti nezapaljen.

samo ste bombardovanje zvali rat, ohoho ko smo to mi

oho ljepilo nagona, što traje nekoliko sekundi

trljanjem postaje prah, podmetnut umjesto pepela

i tad si opet odlijepljen

u patničkoj pozi sveca

što trlja svoje prste i kaže prah prahu, leecooper zemlji

jebem vam nježnu majku fašističku što se oblači u metafore

karneksova pašteta leti prema gore

lebdenje, zli labudovi, koji šapuću


samo ste bombardovanje zvali rat,

to je prevelik zajeb, sintaksa neoprostiva.

preskupi raspali taksi kliza kroz balkanski njujork

kao priučen remorker kroz vizantijsku pučinu

moji neprijatelji se druže, to je nedopustivo.

na mojoj bisti oštre kurčeve, ali jeb ostaje moj.

režimski sjaj na majku spušta svileni nož

tu sam nijem kao manijak kome se pokazuje nijemi film

kome da šapnem nisam,

dok se optužnice množe

i neutralni supružnici opružuju po plažama

sama trema je mater sa predugačkim spiskom želja

koji savićević uzme, pročita prvih par riječi,

pa sklopi u avion, koji rola po pisti.

mislimo mi mislimo oni mislimo mi mislimo oni

neki to zovu psovanje ja to zovem kalendar

tata mi kaže pazi se ponovo su opasni traže nove neprijatelje

makar iz jedne pjesme makni šupak i spermu

ostavi da su pičke, to je sasvim u redu

svjetlost odvojena od svojih predmeta sjedi na državnoj kasi.

tražiti joj da pristupi, reći dođi, dođi

dok pas laje u crkvi,

nije baš pošteno.

nema nazad.

nema nazad.

mirna je urna tmine u kristalu lustera

svi predmeti su preduzimači, dok se istorija istoriše

na sjekiri je krv je med je krv je med je krv

uskoro će se i to saće skoriti.