Happy Birthday Olja!

To you Olja.
My dear Sister:
May every birthday be better than the last.

X

Untitled 2

Put all the stars back in the night sky.
Raise the sun from its resting place,
And call the moon to see its lover,
Eternally seperated, by time and space.

Call upon the mountains to kneel,
Halt all the rivers and brooks.
And Order the ocean to stop,
its rapid current to now seal.

May the wind stop its sonorous yelps,
And may the air lay steady at this hour
May all blossoms not fall to the ground,
And may the honey never again be sour.

May the trees lay in trepid wake.
May the birds stand ceremoniously of withered branches.

Call upon the gods from the sky,
The mountains.
Rivers.
Or wherever they may lie.

Let Zeus kneel and hand you his intrepid wit;
His lightening bolt,
Let Aphrodite offer you here beauty,
Upon which all shall halt.

Let Hera happily surrender her cunning,
Her intelligence and wit,
Let Athena,
Bath you in her loyalty and grit.

May the Angels sing their hymns in your name.
Those sonorous calamities with rhythm so beautiful.
And may Dionysus himself with self-possessed ecstacy,
Dance to the rhythm of your life;
Lamenting, enviously glaring at his maneads in strife.

Let all the lions know to keep silent,
No roar to be heard,
All prided muted.
And let all the eagles know where to circle
Upon which sacred ground you have once passed.

Allow all beauty to rise from the dark corners of the globe.
And Melody to flow through every enchanted grove,
Allow Divinity to sweep the streets clean,
Of evil, melancholy, and anything inbetween.

For you, my darling,
This world shall rise to its feet,
And those of great honour,
kneel at your majestic seat.

Time shall stop,
Clocks shall not tick a second forth,
And all will stop stare,
As it is your day of birth.


Happy birthday Olja!

Remember That Wishing-Bone?

For those that have been forced out of familiar territory.
May it be a home,
An idea,
A life.


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I will not tread upon that soil, that soil over yonder,
That you now call your own.
I will not shed a tear on that soil, that soil over yonder,
That you now made your own.

Nor will what I spawn ever walk the valleys,
Or climb the trepid cliffs,
Dig their hands into the dirt,
And spread their little finger tips.

Nor will the sun rise on my cool roof once more,
Over yonder,
That you have now made your own.

I will not, ever once more,
Feel that familiar zephyr through my linen shirt,
I will not! ever once more,
Consider a compunctious act for those friends I once hurt.

Those friends no longer linger on that corner over yonder,
That you now have made your own.
Nor do they now ponder,
Of what you have done to their home.

Friends which now lay deep in soil,
Because of your malice!
Your selfish turmoil!

I will never now, walk the boulevard of memories,
Over yonder,
That you now call your own.
That boulevard that we together,
Lay brick by brick,
The one with the buried wishing-bone.

Nor will i blissfully dream of a return,
A Future; For which i eternally yearn.
Nor will i feel love; happiness; joy and passion,
For anything new that you and your friends may fashion.

I will not -
as much as my heart aches me so -
In that abode over yonder;
Love. Laugh. Cry!
Now long desolate,
Bodiless and devoid of a love once so familiar to its whitewashed walls.

I will not be able to share mutual aspirations with my children.
Nor will they ever delve into the deep blue forest I once loved.

I will not!
They will not,
Love that soil,
That soil over yonder,
That you now declare your own.

My Home.
My Backbone!
My Life,
Which you now call your own.

Forgotten Friends

I just wrote this. Took me some ten minutes; the usual.
So it should be read with the same critical eye as any of the rest.

Hope this stir some emotions.
Hope this can create a pandemonium between old friendships.
Hope this sparks a passion long forgotten.

Hope this reminds those of friendships long adandoned.

Do not let the present friendships rust in the trepid weather of time.
Do not let the present friendships rust in the trepid weather of lethargy.

Hope you guys enjoy it. :)

:)
:)


Poem to a Vanished Friend

On which corner of the globe are you now, dear man?
What kind of life do you lead in this wild world?
One of secrecy maybe?
Of adventure?
Or of nocturne?
Do the southerly winds still sweep those waves of hair off your face?
And are you still battling the same inner pain that has maliciously, incessantly, lasciviously denied you entry to serenity?

Do you dwell on lives long lived?
Do you wonder paths long walked?
Do you gather friends long lost?

What is it, my dear man, that attacks at your viscerals?
What is it, my dear man, that makes your heart ache now?
What hides, my dear man, beneathe those elusive eyes?

Which road did you take
Towards the goal we all strive for?
Which turn did you make,
that time we parted?

Was it the wrong turn, my dear friend?
Were the nights long and heavy?
Were the roads deep and unsteady?
Were the voices in the forests vulgar?
Were the voices of past around to bother?

Why did our parting contain no Fervour?
no Passion?
no Ardour?
no Compassion?

no Love?
no Hate?
no white-fucking-dove?
no 'goodbye mate'?

However now,
I hope your heart beats steady
and your stride unfaltered,
I hope your brain reigns strong
and your eyes never melancholy,
I hope the horizon is at your feet.
I hope the sun greets you while you are at your seat.
I hope your heart is full of desire;
Not reminiscing about a dissappearing fire.

My dear friend.
My long lost friend.
I hope your flame burns bright still,
While you hold your flag;
waving proudly on tha hill.

May no evil harm you,
And may no good look past your light.
May no harm reach your doorstep,
And may every virtue come voraciously knocking.

May whichever ground you lay your foundations,
Provide furtile soil upon which you shall foster.
And may wherever you may be,
One day,
Become visible to me.

This is for you, my dear friend.
My lost friend.
This one is for the love we shared.
And with what endless passion we cared.

This one is for you.

1.61803399

Something for all of you.


Something that might bring solace to empty hearts.
Something that might bring inspiration to others.


Hopefully no negativity is fostered by this, this that I wrote.



A Chantation for Those in Need

This one is to those that once were. That once were, how we all once remember - weightless and carefree. This one is to those in dark corners, in places of perdition, in rooms in need of solace. This one is for the wondering souls of earthly purgatory; of replaced lovers on corner benches - to those whos love is long forgotten and seldom told.

What may they be thinking of? Which corners of the globe may they return to for the yearning of nostalgia? What horrors pervade into their conscious states? What daemons do they account for as paramount to their ebb. May it be the neverending endeavour for constant affection? Maybe. Maybe the long forced need for a counterbalance? Maybe.

May they find there way in the darkest of places. May this declaration, this eulogy, beam light in the most desolate of passages. Walls also, may they be luminous and wise - leading the way to salvation. May this, this chantation, lead those that wonder towards happiness. Towards hope.

May hope persist through evil and unjust good. For what is unjust good, but evil in a sunday hat? What horrors can be performed by such atrotious, malicious, pernicious deed? For those that move across precarious ground, may this lyrical prose provide you with support. May it place golden wings on your shoulders, and a halo above your benevolent head. May not the sword of Damacles hang above your dear figure. My darlings, may all the evil of this world look upon you in reverance. May they falter upon their clandestine acts of spite. May all the world turn from your effulgent glare. My darlings, my never yielding darlings.


This one is for you. For how you were. For how we all once were.

Im BACK!

Hey, I know I haven't posted in quite a while. I believe I gave up on expressing how I thought or felt. Then, I came back on here - rash decision - and found some really nice comments. It really is fuel in my Coupe DeVille. Thanks to those anonymous and those not so.

I haven't got much to say right now. However I find it paramount to leave you with a little something I wrote.

This ones for those that understand it. This one is also, for those in dark corners.

Ode to the Moon

Moon,
My lover,
My concubine you also are.

May you not wither from the sky, you alone eluminate
Like the roses at night,
Do not surrender your soul to the lure of Sleep
- Lascivious in her ways, she is,
Devious.

You who stays awake with my every brazen whisper,
Solitary in my thought i can never be,
You ponder with your maple face,
Far,
Out of reach for this wayward traveller

Ponder not, no more alone, Moon.
Ponder not, about nights forelorn.

The sky shines for me now;
On you, lies that prudent fate,
Not only are you for me, but I for you.

Oh, who would you be my darling without my face to feel your delicate caress,
The light of your omnipresent hand on my cheek.

And to the Ocean, do not go,
When his messenger Dawn is at your Steppe.

And to the Ocean!
May you fear my rage,
A thousand suns will not procreate from
Your bosom - That horizon,
If for a moment you keep her away,
Away from me at dusk come,
For incessantly she will come,
Out to greet me at my finest hour of day
- I hope.

Mellifluous as the zephyr is at that sacred hour,
Indulgent as the seasons may be,
All is perdition without my Guardian's smile,
Without her electric glance from yonder.

My Moon, my Opiate, my Heroine.
My everlasting desire.

Okay, as I usually do with an introduction, I want to explain my thoughts behind this. Everything has influenced me to write this. It is originally my thought, speaking in the modern meaning of the word. That is: knowing that absolute originality is never possible, but rather it is a combination and resultant of ideas running through my head, that I read, heard, thought of over time. Of course, since it is my one, I am still building on it to make it a lot more concrete, but sometimes building upon ideas makes their foundations a lot more precarious than initially. Also, sometimes instability is a temptation for me, a taboo temptation, which more often than not, I, with blissful excitement linger towards.

Hope you guys get through it and comment. Cause otherwise it would have been pointless to post.

Thanks :)



Idea of Freedom, and Forgetting.

As I mentioned before, that it is plausible, for me, in this state of mind to believe that without the past, we would have a freely floating conscience which in turn, to be logical, describes the state of nothingness, and weightless being.

Hence, I came across a paradox in my thoughts: If the idea of freedom is letting go of all our bonds that tie us down or categorise us, does this not logically mean that we should ‘free’ ourselves from our past, as our past is the only unperturbed anchor that grounds us to reality and that forms our basis of Self. Would this consequently lead to forgetting the past since the only way to be free of something is by forgetting it ever had an impact on you? Will this not lead us astray? And encourages us to wipe clear the earth of human personality? Does it also mean that we will succumb to the ever-growing nature of non-self, non-conscience, and anti-being?

While forgetting the past, we move to juxtapose our current human existence; which is that of past influence, memory, remembering and feelings in regards to stimuli and behaviours learned through previous repetition. To speak in empirical correctness, we could possibly become the antithesis of our humanity, by setting ourselves free. Because isn’t humanity that of succumbing to natures virtues and even vices, as you cannot have one without the other? Is it not humanity to breathe the air of every possible combination Nature – the external world – may through at us? Ultimately, I believe freedom is a result given to the walking corpses of this soil in return for their undying loyalty to surrender everything to the hands of pseudo-hope. In more clear terms, freedom is the finish line, after a life-long battle and endeavour fuelled by false hope. This is just an egocentric human invention, because they want to believe there is some special goal, or bonus that they work towards that comes at the time of death. Hope is that which urges us to endeavour after an obliviously fallible freedom. Freedom, is not only to free yourself from the tyrannical and forceful bonds that clasp fetters on your every whim, but freedom - and more so absolutist freedom - is that of forgetting oneself, of giving up ones persona, ones tastes, ones liberties, ones past: giving up that original sense of hoping for a superficial freedom. Is this not conscience death then? So I suppose Death waiting for us at the end of that finish line represents freedom? Maybe even God himself represents freedom. The final grasp towards the omnipotent, the one which shall show you freedom; you see it, just before you cross that finish line. At that point, you realise you have forgotten everything, even forgotten that you have forgotten, you are Death himself, looking back at the past with resentful nostalgia; knowing, knowing whole heartedly, that you had freedom all wrong. That it was instead a lure by God himself! Who gave us false hope that freedom, would set us consciously free. No! But rather it sets us free of conscience! It’s his evil trickery. A falsely magnanimous entity, that due to unfathomable greed wants humanity to exist only as a temptation, a long fucking strip tease, that in the end is jaded and causes the self-annihilation of all His beings, willingly approaching death with arms wide open. While death himself drops a tear of envy, for the human condition; and one in regret of the ignorance humanity possesses to misinterpret the true meaning of freedom.

Though I understand, my dears, you may raise your hand in indignation! Believe that I am fooling myself with such absurd ideas because freedom is not the act of breaking the fetters of one’s identity, but rather, the act of breaking away bonds of social boundaries. But kindly consider this my obstinate dears: What would you be now without the environmental and social forces that so dexterously moulded you to your present form? Is it not that external, ever-consternating, ethereal wonder that we so modestly call Mother Nature? The be all and end all of our human existence! our human identity! Oh, and don’t let me stop the flow of thought there my dears. Would it not be necessary to, with mouth ajar, and the most clamorous intonations announce that without this external maternal caresses we receive through a timeless period of our so called ‘living’ we would not hold an identity, nor whim, nor thought. She is our crafter, the creator of our conscience. Thus, no my dear readers, freedom is not the casting away of social boundaries as you might imagine, but rather the casting away of one’s soul; oneself; falling with the vertigo to abyssal darkness.

To not confuse you on a level that is beyond redacting, I would like you to consider one more crucial point. The freedom we veraciously seek is in fact the omnipresent feeling of collapse. A collapse of the proportion spoken in physics: Falling towards a single point; collapsing, into the centre of society and environmental surroundings. The idea of succumbing to every force, every pressure, every possible altering of the human condition by its external virtues and vices is what we so commonly misinterpret by the word freedom. Or maybe, no, we don’t, but the word itself deserves to be corrected, its semantic meaning is outdated. Freedom is to succumb to our every experience, to our every thought, our every taste, virtue or vice: taboo or holy. To have no boundaries in the boundaries of social and environmental impact: to be beyond good or evil. This is true freedom. Because who is that ignorant to say that they know all social and environmental strata, and believe to break free of their ominous bonds? These bonds are not those created by man for man, they are instead universal, scientific and infinite – something we are yet to grasp. Like looking at the meaning of freedom from a converse lens.

Lastly, my readers, do not excuse yourselves as the complex creatures of Mother Nature, the one she solemnly nurtured and lifted above all else to crucify those that did not follow Your order of dwelling, Not Hers. Do no shun me from your thoughts just because I came to the logical conclusion of that which you yourselves did not dare take even an inch the length. Do not excuse your cowardice for common sense. For these are my beliefs, and these are my tastes, my past, and to give in to the false idea of freedom is to repudiate the very essence of my being and to announce Mother Nature nothing more than a fraud. This I cannot do. This I shall not. For I announce that she is still my maternal bosom, by succumbing to social strata and accepting my past. You may keep your freedom, and false hopes, your liberties; for to give up my Self for them world be murder.

That which you so ignorantly perceive as fetters, I so jovially accept as a looking glass into humanity itself.

I belong to the earth; And this earth alone.

What can I say?

I always ask the question of what politically correct identity I could stand aft with: looking toward it with the utmost confidence, lifting my glass of wine like the sacrificial blood of Seth and pronouncing my unfathomable love, longing, and connection with it.

What inclination do I have to identify myself with any politically designated surface of this earth?

I believe - and I would like to strictly bring attention to my wording here; I believe, does not mean 'I Know' - I believe that I had/have a pro-Yugoslavian predisposition to accurately assessing my identity and for that reason belong to that specific nationality. But more importantly the philosophy and epistemology of my life belongs to that time. Hence, I blindly search for the past in my future oblivious to my inevitable foredooming failure.

My nationality, so to speak - as much as I believe that term is kitsch - died and fell, as bombs fell not only around the walls and willows of my home, but also on the heart and mind of everything that was to be prosperous, promising and amiable in my future.

No more shall the sun rise upon fertility. And no more shall the rays of welcome enter those desolate rooms so eerie; so tired of silence. Those rooms that once stood like Godly palaces upon fields of zealous grass that would not seize there nimble growth not even in the harshest winter, now, rain to the ground like ashes of cremated bones.

I hearken back to these times; through memory, through story, and through literature. With wishful thinking nothing can be brought from the past. But to hope for the past is something pleasant at breast, like a maternal bosom.

Hence why I believe I do not belong to any particular area, which in popular vocabulary means I don’t stand for any nationality. If there was an instant where I could have belonged to any other part of this globe it would have been Bohemia. But my dreams were disembodied the day the Bohemian bodies were underneath the tracks and scope of that vivacious juggernaut that so shamelessly oppressed peoples in the name of Socialism! This happened long before my birth, so to even consider it is absurd. But what a mind, Oh! What a mind would be without the reason of the absurd? But a speck of dust in a nebula cloud.

As I write this, it is becoming clearer to me that in fact, I am in constant and abyssal battle against my own past, rather than the dilemma of identity and nationalistic connection. Maybe one day ill elaborate on that, when I myself get my head around it.

Now, I will not raise my glass and announce my concluded endeavour for nationalistic identity. Even though I do not believe in it - as stated above - it does not mean I do not wish to be superficial enough and call myself by something. This 'something' at the moment is Serbian.

But Serbian is a state of mind, not an outline on a globe-lamp.