marko-antic
Born on October 11, 1980 in Paracin, Serbia, former Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. / Underground poet and writer. / / First time he sent his work to a fanzine "Green Horse" (his ex girlfriend talk him into to do that) and one of the poems was published in printed and electronic edition of a fanzine. It's a "Green Horse" no. 17 from November 2006. Before that he was publishing on the Internet. Alias: Zbrilion (http://bundolo.org/author/zbrilion). / Regional poetry anthology "Heroes of Urban Misery" is titled by his verse (they also published some of his poetry) and that encouraged him to continue writing. Even more, it is the first regional poetry anthology published after the Civil Wars in the former Yugoslavia. He was published in many anthologies after that. / He has participated in competitions in slam poetry, in the framework of the Third and Fifth International Novi Sad Literary Festival. / Currently an Assoociate of the editorial board of the "Blacksheep" magazine.
Fusty walls and shadows
Left mice in the lurch
They said „no!“ to Kafka
On that day when a man in pajamas walked
In front of his house
And secretly eated
Fresh autumn grapes.
Boy with a fishhook and pieces of bread
Was hunting frogs near the coast
While Kafka went from door to door
People were offering him a glass of maple juice
Or just watched him in silence.
Shadows were whispering Judge's vanity name
And frogs were moving in the mud
Kafka’s leather bag
Went carried by a river
In searching for peace.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
In May we are in the nature.
Improvised desk and two chairs
At the edge of the forest.
Somebody carved them
Long time ago.
It's peacefull.
A few woodcabins in the distance.
Today is your birthday.
Dark beer and snacks.
Good music in our cell phones.
You are allowing me to kiss your naked back
And touch you with my lips all over your body.
You are taking my palms
And placing them on your *******
We don't go to the end, for now.
You are scared a bit
Scared of yourself, of everything.
Before bed, you text me.
Is all of this too much for a start
You are wondering.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Sunday morning in 2016.
You are turning 36.
You hear the sound of the digital blood pressure control device.
Mother, from the next room.
Picking up your strenght, standing up, taking the garbage bags out.
Then you are visiting your father, he's dying in the hospital.
You see that thing and the urin bag filled with urin and blood in it.
Infection, they say. It happens.
You are feeding him.
He is asking questions to you.
«What happened to me?»
«Did those years past so fast»?
«Life. That happened to you. They past quickly.»
You talk with him, leaving, saying goodbye.
Then you do the laundry, take a bath, buy some groceries.
In the evening, your autotherapy is writing
Or watching movies from your childhood.
Maybe you shall go out with your friend to visit a bar.
His father died a couple months ago.
Both of you are talking about movies too.
You are saying:
«You see, most of our childhood heroes came back
Reason was mostly money
But in averige or bad movies, not like before.
Superman became father in 2006. version
Batman became father in a comicbook and in a cartoon.
Indiana Jones became father
Even Han Solo had a son.
But what happened with us and the other people?
Maybe we were not mature enough, not ready, we did not met a right person
There was allways a question of money and compromises
Now it's a question of existence.
And we are still idealists.
Geeks a bit, too.
Perhaps this country does not deserve mine, or your child?»
He agreed
And ordered the third beer.
I did not.
I knew that tomorrow is Monday and I got work to do
And that the game went in the other direction
Long time ago.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
She would hank up on my left side
Listening to my breathing
Like You, she loved to grabble
To take care of my health, You're cared about it too
Unlike You, she’s got an apprehension of old science fiction movies
And she often stared at me while I was dozing or watching a film.
Jokingly, I would draw her attention:
- Look! Advertising for "Elvita cakes"!
We were laughing.
I understood that stare.
Because of You.
While we were walking in the winter, you wanted to be on my right side
And You would let me slip my hand into the pocket of your coat.
I'd watched you tread, with rosy cheeks
Hair pulled into a bun
I would stare.
You would ask - what ?!
Nothing, I would answer.
(your smile, you fool)
In the first months we photographed ourselves
With a cheap film camera
And photos were in color
On photos, You turn out magically.
I brought along the album with these photos of you
While I train traveled in dawn, for the semester verification.
I stared, while the coupe was empty.
In the city I bumped into a former, older, more experienced colleague
We both worked in a bookstore and his father teached literature.
I told him about the new poems, the new job after old bookstore and that I'm in a relationship.
I showed him your photo, the most beautiful one.
He froze.
Then he said with a smile:
You are going to be so ****** up when this relationship ends ...so ****** up.
And he, as always, was right.
I was *******
I didn’t tell you about the album and the train
I let you speak about musicians
You were not pleased because I didn’t understood the song of Leonard Cohen completely
And I wasn’t pleased not knowing for the comicbook which will essentially explain the two of us.
You become cold, distant.
You left in February, after the literary evening
You were a bit surprised that I gave You a book, gift with a dedication
Although I was (un) consciously conscious of what awaits for me soon.
I didn’t complicate.
I got up, kissed You on the forehead, and I went towards the station and to take a bottle of beer.
Where are you going, You asked. Pulled me by the sleeve. Tightened me.
We struggled for a few seconds. Stopped.
You wanted to see me off, to see how the train departs slowly, leaving
How train wagon becomes a point in the distance that disappears in the fog.
Of course, it was your way.
Now we both have a cult episode of Dylan Dog
Comicbook called " The Long Goodbye "
There is also a scene at the train station
And I finally realized Leonard
After the first empty bottle.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 7:06 AM UTC
You are whispering to me that you love me like:
- sinking into sleep
- mornings
- hot chocolate on a minus ten degrees
- the first touch
- the immersion of bare feet in warm summer sand
- the dance of fireflies in June
- a breather between two *******
- a sincere smile between two denuded people
I write you a note on a slip of paper, as if I was a kid.
That I love you
Like a quilt on a minus fifteen degrees.
Like a inspiration.
Like a inception of the will.
Like a"Jaffa" biscuits and restful sleep.
Like a flowering cherry tree and glowing nut from a wild chestnut tree.
Like a sudden wonder.
You're asking me whether you are my sudden wonder.
Little, ragged wonder.
Yes, you are, I answer.
You love being my little ragged wonder.
You are asking:
For my nape and chin.
Top of my head and lips.
Embrace of a careful lumberjack.
You want chin-caress.
For five minutes.
Intensively!
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC
Heartbeats fast
whispers and plans
a mother's heart conflicted
as she wrings her hands
through the courage,
streaming tears
she will let him go
despite her fears
Outside, canines barking harsh
men's cruel shouts
she must say her goodbyes
as the shots ring out
So many kisses
on his sweet, sleepy face
little man deep in slumber,
in angelic grace
yes, he cried for a minute
as the morphine kicked in
and she rocked him and rocked him
his little frame, so thin
Now as his father takes him
she crumples to the wall
"By the will of God may I see
him again" she whispers
for he is her all
Outside the freeze
puffs breath into clouds
the quiet imperative for
this next move:
Father gently slips son
into the rough-hewn jute,
No rotten potatoes today, no
this is far more important
No one will look for a tot
in a potato sack, he hopes
He looks around and slips
through the hole in the wire
These moments are critical
the need for speed is dire
A quick trip to the village
in the black cloak of night
looking over shoulder
Finally the house…it's just there,
the next meadow over
the secret knock is sounded
and the door opened in silence
warm arms greeting, helping
carry the goods inside
Will this be a respite
from all the endless violence?
Laid gingerly on the bed,
the sack is eased off gently
no potatoes inside
just a small sleeping boy
his parents only pride
Father strokes his hair,
Lays his palms on his head
to bless this bundle of sweetness
in his new environment
"I will come for you, my son"
tucks thin blanket around
and the deed is done
and now, in the cold lonely
smoldering air
of the burning dark
now in the kiss of hopeful protection
yes, now it's time to part
Back to his wife in the ghetto's
cold, sickened space
to try to convince her
to bust out of that twisted place
You are my warrior, you
and all the others
Your spirit beats on
in my
naked heart's
thunder
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 6:20 AM UTC
First, I have to love you
Childishly, astonishingly and all the way
There's no cheating and no need for that
Then I cuddle you for a long, long time, tightly
‘Till it clinck
Then I shake You like a chocolate milk-shake
A little up and down, a little left-right
Nailed You to the wall with my body
Sniff You, sniff your hair
My lips on your ears, forehead, face
Lips
Neck
We are all a bit like animals
Re-embrace You again, clinck You, shake You,
Kiss and hold You
I don’t let go
Until it boil
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
First, we quickly unpacked stuff
and exchanged gifts.
Books, notebooks, finer pens, sundries.
Then we took food
and fed each other by fingers.
I always trick You to eat a bit more.
" It’s a fraud " you say.
Your sandwich is "Mediterranean".
From the quilts we make a tent
And stare at each other.
Embraced.
In the evening we are drinking beer and seek some nose drops.
We would like to see a good sci-fi, or a horror movie
but the program is mostly ********
"You see, they live in the center of Beverly Hills,
Downtow, in the circle of main City trams
and for half an hour You don’t realize what is happening.
The industry push them from a young age. "
We turn the TV off.
½ tucked
¾ tucked.
Utterly tucked.
Cocooned.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
- Hey.
- Hey.
- Do You want me to tell you a story?
- The story?
- The story of two people who met and the first intimacy they shared was her need for someone to be there, until she falls asleep…
- A story with a magical Byzantine ring and the flat tire?
- Yes ... And they didn't even know each other when he put her to sleep for the first time.
- When they met he wouldn’t leave the room until he brought her to ****** and until he drank all the alcohol out of the room?
- Nor did she ... In the morning. They skipped the the breakfast.
- Yes, I'm familiar with this story…
- These two people are all in details. To them the important things are; this rejoices him; I'm starting to get to know her; I think he feels me. Details, such are wooden windows and ocher curtains. And this room is important to them, which is dead, dead all the time, except for that one day in the month, when they bring to life every inch of it.
- And a bathroom is heated while quilt is stealing socks?
- Everyone wants a bigger, more luxurious rooms, price is the same. Only this two people want a tiny room number five. With their mirror and unnecessary pillows. This two people, they are not logical to anyone. They don’t want to be. They don’t want anyone to understand, justify or approves or not. They have each other and the room number five.
Written down or not, it's a good story...
- I think we'll title it "Room number five."
- Even if it remains only our story, unwritten, I find it beautiful. Because it's real.
And this kind of stories are the most miraculous one.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
You say that you are contentment
while You warm yourself up
tucked next to my heart
and that I sleep largely peaceful,
rarely snore, and that I do not toss and turn endlessly.
But tonight , tonight for the first time, I talked in my sleep
I was mumbling, leaning against your back
You said, that it was rather beautiful
The true, real me, the unconscious me
the core of me that you love
the magic essence of (my) being.
In the morning You make coffee
and hum in the bathroom.
Our afternoons and our morning
the string that conjoin them
the light in the mist of life.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC