- Montenegro -
Vladimir Đurišić, born in 1982 in Titograd, graduated at the Music Academy in Cetinje, and he currently finalizes his PHD thesis in Art Theory. Writes poetry, music, essays and theoretical texts, and translates poetry and literature from English. His poems were published in numerous regional periodicals and literature publications. He published a book of poems Nothing will soon explode (OKF, Cetinje, 2007) for which he was awarded with national poetry award, Risto Ratkovic prize. He worked as curator (Njegoshiations project), and selector of Music festival Espressivo. He was one of the founders and editor in chief of the online literary portal www.proletter.org. He was the editor of literature program of theatre festival FIAT. He is employed as lecturer of Music History and Style Analysis at the Music Academy in Cetinje, and currently resides between Belgrade and Podgorica.
Between quotation and destruction
Vladimir Đurišić writes poems, not books. Poems as poetry events, everlasting everblues, as he writes in his, originally in English written poem Love song of Alfred Kitschawk. He writes furiously, like in an endless flows and luxurious fluxes but publishes rarely, incidentally. Every poem he wrote in the last couple of years was a performative event, conceptual breaktrough on the edges of heritages of language poetry, neoavantguard strategies of language games and contemporary practices of language taken as challenging words and objects of syntax as n-dimensional fields. His poems are in a way an amazing gesture of form and its deconstruction at once: blasting musical developing variations and at the same time deconstructing variations and variables of safe solutions of implied or alluded gestallt-ian consensus.
Trough going-always further than the logic of music of his material, Đurišić employs empirical clashes altogether with re-relativisation of semantic ticks: what comes to a mind is what RS Bakker calls semantic apocalypse, the end of referential field becomes fields of excitement where together lie: the need for new musical and even shamanistic repetition and difference altogether with moviements of visual engrams of what has been seen or just of what has seen been in the search of database places for re-inventing of the real.
Everything moves and stays there very firmly, breath of a line and lines of objects, objects of syntax and taxonomies of personal or even commonplace proliferations go altogether with a specific care of dramatic politics of questioning relations between real and sensual objects and their qualities. Polygeneric generic openness of his methods vary from almost free jazz to serial variations of form and content, from sound of the word to sentence, to appropriation of whatever texts on his disposal and rearranging them into sonetoid formats. In all this, Đurišić keeps almost classicist balance between music, meter, breath and materiality, relation and fiction, quotation and destruction.
By Iva Nađ
THE LOVE SONG OF ALFRED KITSCHAWK / (Untitled)
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,
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,
I should have been a payer of reggae crew
Transforming the low incomes of newcomers
Into logical ontology of
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
Slavia / Slavija
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,
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,
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
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
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.
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,
tata i toto cotugno izlaze iz istorije
jutro je goli savićević, koji
onda obasja miševe. ništa.
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
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,
život je astrološki porno, sudar glupih životinja
sa pogrešnim uporištem
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
ŽIŽEKSEX / (Untitled)
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
straightforwardly, he makes love like a liker,
the tickling sound of capitalisam of riddles,
that drill the wellfare straightness
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
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
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 crotchTranslated by the author