Trishtim
Streetlamps in fog:
such elegance, such courtesy
spilling the blood, tying the vine
burning the trees
always on edge
always on the edge of everything.
As book becomes leaf
and blood becomes brine
and bone becomes root
and love becomes pain
and brain becomes god
may gods become love
that is more than a feeling,
more than the reason for living -
may gods become wine
may gods become rain.
May
we become healing.
Refusal and refuse of years,
life is hardly a refuge.
Stupid to weep at the end
when the whole of it calls for tears.
Lakuriqësi
In
the dog's eye, not in ours, there's honesty
and in the cavity where the tooth once was
and in the wood before the page, before the poem
and in the mirror where we -
awakened curses - shrivel.
Like gods, we get smaller,
become goblins,
awakened curses.
Dogs want so little
and
we give them even less.
Those of us not spiritually dead by the end
of childhood
have been murdered by the end of puberty.
Even before the dewdrops vanish
each upon a thorn -
we start the daily sowing of the seeds of Hell,
each of us a mirrored cell:
the hunted, the hunters of happiness.
Man is God's original sin: life-abuse
We
think we're improvement on Nature.
Bones and stones in
the caveman's shelter
rumours scraped from enemies
the other half. The gory
brain and bear-skin.
O knife
O word
O welter
give us glory!
Give me, give us glory-life
glory glory-lord
of
red anemones.
O Lord of sin.
Fatkeq
Words are the particles
of madness
gurgullim, turbullim.
Among the ruins of the desert-world
will crawl the wrapped-up, wrinkled few
who have been able to afford
the capsules of eternal life.
Carrion sunset. A
dead dog.
The timeless realm
The kind domain
of utter solitude
The other side of language.
Barkas
One of the Tower Seers
observed that beasts
cope better than we can ever do
with the world we have degraded.
The Spiritual whimpers
like dying stars behind us
who are black holes between life and death
never living enough to learn that
wisdom is the opposite of sex, and belief
is the opposite of love; that visions lack perception,
truths lack truthfulness, that we desire control
of everything but desire, and all things bitter
taste only of self. The only way to make
connection with anything is to cut the crap
knowing
that we are crap
upon vast deserts of our own banality.
The Pharaoh's and the leper's
waters lubricate the rutting mouth:
the sum of disembodied voices
in the sponge before the endless
emptiness of eyes mixes grey destruction
in a field of mud and guts quagmired
by bursting cows.
What is reality, and what is talk
about reality ?' And do I leave
before or after my sad hut is trodden down ?
Butterfly of truth
The animals slowly starving
stinking in the abandoned Sarajevo zoo
Black walls of Kabul and Kosova,
black cows of anguish -
all of us need all the help that we can get'
Through unnavigable noise
the garbage of my DNA,
gurgullim, turbullim
the sewage-barge - and yet, repeatedly,
I'm like a horse who - before the whip falls
-
leaps into himself
into
nothing.
Rrëmbimthi
Farmstead of time:
fortified, mindraping manstump
dribbling falsified, serial sagas
through wounding, through pain
Marrying, massacring, moaning
again and again and again
How many barbs
in the worldwire ?
how many deserts are folded
in scrotums whose spermfall
bleaches the ore-plundered
body of earth
beyond my dearthbody ?
Everything
viscous
dishwasher-water my blood
my meta-
phors trans/
lating/fer-
rying/posing
to you-other-dying
my Charongrey brain-banal
emptiness,
teeming narcissus-nothing
that refuses to die
before the stuttering
shuddering
yet-to-be self-annulling
werewolf-witness...
O the unutterable,
almost-unimpeachable
pointlessness of writing poetry!...
Teposhtë
Sleep dreams alone
Sleep weeps himself to sleep
his face a lake
We only think we are awake
For oars - a ladder
No consolation for consciousness
but wilderness crying
crying wildness crying beyond rhyme
in wilderness of voice, of womb, of steel.
Sperm, boy, man, skull, ghoul -
the wrong dead row like slimy spies
having secreted stagnant ponds more than
they ever would reveal
through paper, the texture of time.
Njollë
The flower on the axe
is flesh
The landscape like a dog tied up
and beaten to death
The fields force-fed and raped
The hills on hunger-strike
Day upon day, like a
coffin-boat hewn in the forest of feeling
I feel ransack of people digging the worldgrave
their science hollowing
hallowing the woundhole
The spirit sputters
goes dark
and drops -
BYK! -
into
the nothingness-mine of the soul.
Fillor
In the bitter end,
our wonderful
intelligence (the only source
of cunning unreason and evil)
into our meddlesome,
voyeuristic shallowness
our wonderful
intelligence
overwhelmingly
produces - from deserts
of
its own banality -
only suppression of itself:
deserts of its own banality:
suppression of itself:
deserts
desert
BORN IN A FOREST,
DIED IN A...
Terrorist: another
word for nothing to be gained.
In the great cellar of the Palace
of Dreams lies the Pale Dreamer
of Dreams dreaming
every dream that has ever
been dreamed:
KNOWLEDGE IS
SEX,
UNDERSTANDING IS THE
OPPOSITE OF...
meaning
(but what's the point
of complaining ?)
Suffering's the only
god
and everyone's
his profit
In many countries cruelty
to dogs is considered meritorious -
and in some dog-meat is considered tastier
if the animal is beaten to death
as it hangs from a noose
Paraqítje
Keeps the wind out
keeps the wolf out
the moon
the night
the light
the flies
the noise
but not the echoes
out
A door
keeps the spirits
and the victims
out
keeps hell and heaven
god, the world
and you and you
and them out
keeps me and the terrible
small mirrors in.
Shpjegúeshëm
They are all me - all
the beasts in unspeakable
pain from what my species gets no joy
but only grim dissatisfaction from doing.
So I intoxicate myself with the rancid
realisation of despair:
Ujko!
a guilty beast, silently howling.
Trembur
In 'undemocratic'
times
men of power went to poets, poetesses,
beasts to gain some insight -
then promoted wars.
Wolf is hell-teacher, heaven-mocker
unheard messenger
Wolf is cinema, wind-prophet, lustral luster,
fugitive and charnel-house and truster
who drags his bones
through radiant darkness
dying stars.
Bulmet
Guns and marble
White alphabets on black skin regiments
marble-white of spate
of sperm and bones and milk and bread
No matter whose corpse you lift you expose
those who need the protection of corpses
Truth liquefies beauty
Meat bleeds the unsayable unsaid
The infinite silence
of terrible answers
Tearshroud
The dead
unable to imagine the opposite of meaning,
the hungry dead whose lives are fed
by hunger:
hunger after hunger
black milk of money
hungering
for what cannot be said.
Pabuzagaz,
Parafundit
Over eighty (unaborted)
children were reported
recently to have been eaten
(heads and all ?)
by a Russian cannibal
Is life a hole we dig ourselves out of
or into ?
Unburiably, shit also shits
Let me know if
I hit a vein.
In antique days unwanted
children
were "exposed" on mountainsides.
Now all must be wanted, and all
are offered eagerly, entire
as tribute to the State
For us the Unspeakable Us
bleaching our Shadow
alone teeming alien
Words are no path
Language no bridge
no
tool of wisdom
but weapon and wound: The Fall
We find
and keep on seeking, speaking, leaking
And the shows
are whatever is and nothing less.
Nothing more than all of us
in balconies and rows
and boxes of a million mirrored
stageless theatres.
Better to have paid
not to be here
vc-vomiting in space:
eating our children is the nearest
we can get to grace.
Shkatėrrim
It's not the meaning
of life
(which is only
absurdity) that is
important, but the meaning
of death
the soft liberation
of unmeaning
into which I
truth's uncertain bride
turbullim, gurgullim
Vrka-vc
must leap or dance
or elide.
Though earth is in
all of us
we don't care to know
we really don't care
(Just let me know when
I hit a vein)
We count spoons with
computers
count lies
Men's seed
is tears rolling back into
navel-tight eyes
ruptured moons
into rotwork
We
need
(though neither giving nor receiving
has much to do with whatever might be meant
by blessedness)
We need to give
vūkojebinje
what we most need.
COLOURS
Blue passes for sincerity.
I worry about white.
Stainless and murderous
it chops hearts and minds.
Red seems like resistance
and purple broods on
the melancholy of pleasure.
Black is deep truth.
Grey is the silent witness of stones.
Brown is beauty, dung,
earth in harmony with
the green of Manless Harmony
and yellow is sunrise-eagerness
and orange is sunset-resignation.
But white is frightening freezing
and sterile eating with stainless McDonald's teeth like cancer
through everything everything.
