Vladimir Đurišić

Poetry

1. THE LOVE SONG OF ALFRED KITSCHAWK / (Untitled)

   

   

   ENGMNE

   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

   Cummings.

    

   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,

   Persistent

   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:

   East.

    

   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

2. Slavia / Slavija

   

   

   ENGMNE

   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

   offhand

   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

   fools

   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

   budale,

   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.

3. ŽIŽEKSEX / (Untitled)

   

   

   ENGMNE

   Žižek   

   kisses 

   kissingerly,

   he uses  close-ups to fordisticly fuck,

   He warns proust about the rustic crucifiction

   And espaces  the room  like  transformers on the moon

   He sits into the depressing holy trinity of sofa

   and while he Does

   indians hunt for the earthworms of clitoris for him

   and carelessly whisper: 

   Ju ju, peugeot,

   language needs to be broken, says žižek too but

   he fucks

   straightforwardly, he makes love like a liker,

   He licks

   the tickling sound of capitalisam of riddles,

   that drill the wellfare straightness

   and says

   Take me, my asian pianism,

   with your diamat fingertips

   with miki rourke strawberries

   Žižek makes love with  a curved cock of pisa

   Tacherian skirt he squrts out

   with maradonian anaisninjas

   Žižek slides in his neglige like scarface, like novecento

   heartbreaking streetwise guy who tells us jokes,

   Hegels Helga from Jugend spreads her reaggae pose

   In the dormitory 

   While

   Malarmeria mumbles

   žižek fucks

   adornably,

   like brazil,

   like a butterfly,

   llike a hidden dragon,

   gone with the windy, disneylike

   hidden buiesnesses of modernism

   he comes down

   into the grass of wind, into the fascism of vitrage,

   he fucks with rolled parolas

   he licks the pants swollen by his lion loins

   žižek  stops the priestlike  poet’s  quietism

   singing to him

   diamonds are in the microphones,

   the odor is already in the body, dear

   žižek makes love by stonesoft whiteness of notes

   ipod swallows all the samsungs of gesamtkunstwerk,

   and žižek fucks the holes in the stereo, boring rings of iluminations

   i is an egg, egg is something else,

   he steals dan koman makondian jokes

   to settle

   the kettle of whistling into the while still young of ...

   pierced  brosnan he killes with his leninistic whrist-roll

   batistuta among prostitutes is shining žižek out

   žižek is baptizing anaisninned assasins,

   he blinks with froidian bosnian carpets

   and sober song he bores

   bosnia is now in all the snobs,

   barefoot spain is dead so fuck the tits of picasso like

   it is always my tit, mama,

   while he fucks

   while he whales

   the commonplace selfhelp pleasures paste

   into the stalinism of sheets.

   Žižek never  tries his own sperm. 

   He doesnt have to  be sure about selfish color of the pearl

   Žižek is casual jovial jerval while he rises up and down to the

   land of readymade dryness, into the heartbeating heart

   Of europe merkel, of t- com, of teslas saltos into purple kitsches,

   not giving a fuck about

   The state or about kusturica

   He falls like a ballet, he rises like a tablet in the glass

   Wildly he plants

   the marble balls into the ground

   Between his finger and his toungue the squirting christians rest,

   Snug as a reaganesque dermatology,  top gun gayness shy

   Like a cleaning lady who is leaning over the icon while saying

   I believe there is something above

   Something is stealing something is lying something

   tickles žižek while he fucks

   with the woolball of his belly

   žižek lies žižek steals žižek

   lets himself go go into the fur of mazokh like a bug

   and go goes on like that all the way

   onto the mother’s crotch

   Translated by the author