"bosnian" poems
Sabi
My Bosnian honey
The rarest of beauties
Truly an Unicorn amongst steeds
With fleet feet
My heart races towards you
Like a rag of mustangs
Wild and free
As you are
As you make me
Though I'm a world away
I can feel your heart beside me
Beating
Thunderously
Like hooves kissing open earth
If only in spirit
It alone sustains
Our kindered hearts
Amongst the world's stampede
With wise words you used to mend
My open wounds past sustained
My debt remains unpaid
Having little to my name
I declare my love
My commitment
My everything
As a token of my endearment
As an answer to your affection
My dearest Sabina
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 12:57 PM UTC
I can name you
The exact date
On which he was shot:
June 28, 1914.
Who killed him?
Gavrilo Princip,
Member of the Bosnian Nationalist
Movement: The Black
Hand.
Suddenly this montage
Of bullet chambers
And dead wars
Shift -
Hands. You. Me.
Your fingers,
Which I long to hold.
Your voice,
Which I long to hear.
Which I have forgotten -
Sometimes it is hard
To trace the annals
Of history. Our
****** pawprints
Make the trail of
Arms and hatred
Harder to keep straight
Than sin and so
We walk backwards.
****** trail of footsteps
Perhaps stepped
Into
By a meandering
Mao, or ******
Or Tojo. Muddied further
By the presence
Of an Alger
Hiss -
Your voice
Is a whisper,
It sings to me in
Secrets - I do not
Know you but I
Am in love,
You are beautiful and
I don't know why
But there's a
War. In my heart.
A war of attrition. Subtraction
Of causes. And the Archduke,
Well the Archduke
Is glad to see you.
Hear his dates blur
Into yours -
History tests,
And love notes
Crumpled away folded
And stored
In the same junk
Folder.
I imagine his hands
To have folded
Quite slowly,
Searching for something
To latch onto.
Like mine.
Empty palms flickering
Amidst a trail of
Blood and dust -
Oh, and yeah
The history lessons
Of course.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
“Jurt,” she
curtly spurts out
and stops
not knowing if
she’s going to
continue to
speak unknown tongues
or if
this emanation, this
interjection,
spoken on strange
impulse,
is Icelandic
or Bosnian
or Serbian,
and if
the middle one
how not the last,
when they both mean
the same thing, yurt.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 7:43 AM UTC
bosnian bumble bees bounce borrishly
'bout Bambi's barnacled buttocks.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
Me, me, me: I'm just up for dem purple notez like dat purple cow from dat commercial: a Milka spot, no tiramisu, me i got a really black leather jacket, originally stolen by my brate in da name of da hood: we robbed a rich family in my city
dem apartment was closed, but my brate kicked dat door in wit his bosnian feet; 79 inches, balkan handz, workin wit a digga he be carryin dem lockerz; me tellin my brate: we got all dat yayo, so just do it
and now we be eatin cevape and börek, while dem cops are lookin for two of these yugo-haircutz; bluelightz all over da place, sirenz and carz, me carryin da bag no ****** around wit home depot
dear god, just help me dat time: i need me a benz wit dem mega-rimz
now come on and see it, and take it like quick: da yugo-cheater, i'll be rippin off dat cash
Nov 27, 2020
Nov 27, 2020 at 10:56 AM UTC
Amanda dish
rag tell
her tag
yet her
scrumptious immortal
date bag
told of
a tree
once harbinger
of seedling
if apostrophe
a jeering
speech that
answers the
question of
a Bosnian
ax grinder
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 8:13 AM UTC
You've forgotten why you lost contact with your closest friend but you haven’t forgotten the days you invited him over to play video games and instead conducted two-man airsoft skirmishes in the forest behind your house
nor have you forgotten the short films you created, in which you portrayed a murderous Bosnian chef who cooked toxic meals, and he played the fourth-wall-breaking cameraman who hurled plastic bananas at your head as you ran through your unscripted spiel.
You still can't forget the weekends you’d bike to his house to point and cackle at comedy television, nor the nighttime drives during which you two would talk about where you wished to be in ten years: he in a log cabin nestled in a Finnish forest, you somewhere in France.
The younger you believed you’d grow alongside him and build those dreams.
Now you hope you’ll one day find him sweeping through the Finnish glades and he’ll ask you to walk with him.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC
First purple page, plagiarizing plums crushed like candy between incisors
First new wave, going right over the reef with aquatic teeth
Wish me luck, tango la suerte y la magica
Listening to the Bosnian adhan, for fun, 2:14am
Stainless steel ice reservoir, killing for a taste of nicotine air
Got sick of chewing my smoke
Not dead broke quite yet, need a haircut and I'm set
It's a bet betting on me, make an investment and see
Tight lines at quarter time, spilling rhyme reasonless
**** your system, digest aggression, **** out plastic
Okinawa brig **** white woman tapped my back give me my shot God ******
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 5:17 AM UTC