i am sick of myself.
my sweet and overly ripe words
i need not to even think of myself in any other way
i am already sick
the prolonging of my so called existence
the falseness which clings to me
i kick it and hide it sometimes
only to find myself
unsuccessful and worried  
that it shows off.

frivolousness.

it leaks and sprouts through every cell
incomprehensible extinction  
of my lost way.

a disgrace.

for being sick of myself only i can be
for no one else could even tackle the madness of the inside plot
of fluid wandering
of scattered taint of rotting business. unfinished.

uncertainty.

once again.

dip. once. dip. twice.
a dip into a crystal lust

so sweet. just so forbidden.

just so that it lures
a retaliation
on high grey rocks
stupendous ash rocks

top. one. bottom. two
dare to jump into an abyss of blue shame
dare run around
naked
chasing crystal lust

only when in water it shall dissolve

tvoja drugarica slikala je ono mesto
gde sam pojela svoju prvu tufahiju.
tvoja drugarica slikala je ono mesto sa istog onog mesta gde sam ja sedela.

smazala sam i tvoj šlag.
progutala vodu i čežnju da vriskom ispljunem nekakav svtlucavi okean žudnje za ponovnim
prati nas tišina.
gledaš
ja se borim da te ne volim
pa te onda pogledam i davim se
u šlagu
u izvesnosti sebe
u lakoći gledanja u tebe

izmislila sam te. to znam.
sad kad se još uvek borim da te ne volim.

I wanted to write a poem for my sister
one about the sycamore tree

its crisp petals beneath all our shared beds
mother womb treasures split in silence.
starting from her frail bones and opaque blood
the rise of her feet
her night flower soul.

I wanted to write a poem about my sister
to gleam like a mirror
in the agony of infinite sundays and sun rays
as she calculates each sun
so it can celebrate her and reflect
from my deeply clogged adoring throat.

under and above the fig tree we lay
around us ripe round fruits
sticky with perpetual juice
rotting with skid marks
bearing the ghosts of past generations
yet a whisper is dropped
how the woods, the ocean and the desert are good
they nourish the stars.
So we move to our own dust.
Perhaps in illicit seasons we find flare
for guidance in finding a different sky.

our spring was sublime,
summer we missed out on
it was cold 30something degrees
a chip in the ice plaza

Sara iz kosmara izlazi na ulicu da proseta kera. U parku sama, vitla sebi po glavi.  Po parku govna, plasticne cinije sa pirincem natopljene vodom i uljem, lisce mrtve lipe,  flopovi kao putokazi poredjani.
Misa, taj kao neki njen momak, ko muva neuhvatljiv a isto tako i zaboravan samo se po govnima mota i plete mrezu romanticarske lazljive ideologije istine i solidarnosti. On se kao providnim celofanom uvija u svoje reci ali sad vec kao da je pod reflektorima nabubrelog meseca i nema kud. Proziri se. Ne konzistentan. Kukavica, shvata ona.


Shvata da Misa je kao sarena laza-
Ili mozda ipak nije bas sve tako. A kako li je? Kako prazan prostor puni je sumnjom ali i nekim leprsavim osecajem ljubavi.

I woke up sometime in the night.
didn't know the hour
soft caressing blows of wind were gone
it was so quite
warm
gloomy
parched

I woke up
in longing for the soothing wind
away from dreams of flying fish and short kisses
I am a woman, naked, traversing in search
a child clutching for a nightlight
then I went back to sleep
back to a nightly life
to a new start