Slobodan Škerović

Emotional Poems

A reaction to "Emotional Theory" - lots of talk, nothing firm, a pretense that emotions can serve the same role as intelligence - well, do I need to comment more on this? Yes, if there is a valid "Emotional Theory" it most certainly is in the realm of poetry...
Thanks Sherri and Michelle.

pyramids blues

when pyramids start moving
you know, totally electric blues
zinc blue tube and greenish cold
water, and loafs on table
and the girl measuring dimensions
and where is what to vertical,
all in carbon and beige
in a small theatre, one-act pieces
top of the city class
and those pyramids in bright valley
transposed through marble hills
floating in the mists of Naples-yellow valley
blue gray lilac, green river
and the girl measuring: phantoms
versus verticals, and in theatre
uranium blues blasts carbon ears
in short pieces, as the city falls
in floating willow alleys
and superimposing mirages
measuring in blues and cobalt
moods, and she is blasted
by marble cubes, the
floating pyramids

croissant, sedative

now you watch me

but suspiciously shedding shirt,
you dress
for gentle sundown in park.

wind taunts
touches waves.
deep slits
clusters of plumed curls, greasy rouge,
shadows in windpipes.

sips of vermouth and bags of cream
flames and tinder.
skin is burnt through, covered
with sour milk. insomnia, pleasant
warmth. body flexible from swimming.
but in burning fire is rotten rage.
and how it falls with drops of sweat!
into ponds of poison.
all that goodness mirrored in leaves.
soul already departed. here is only storm.

in spacious hotel room.
croissant on plate. wrinkled.
so well I see you, that
you are blazing in dark.
look at your hands.
look at window.
hum from thighs. smell of flesh
envelops you.
but now you leave,
like Prospero, into death of thought.

in the sphere of art

and they say that poetry…
and they set to teeming roads in brimstone
like from the circles in hell, barbed-wired
routes lead to hyacinth, bitter tears
and happiness of figurines, of alms
and they say… mothers of all
dug in earth to give birth
where scary myths crawl
and they say that poetry…

and they say… and when my soul
cries to impregnate the sacred ground
for those tiny legs to walk
and when my sobs invoke almonds
of red directions, in mirth
to soothe the wounds of thorny perimeters
and when hurting bloodstreams pound in
my blazing temples, when I grind in pain
to flatten folds of heydays
they say that poetry…

and they say… that my body
will rot anyway, and anyway
I dig humid burrows from the citadel
where tear-phials are stored, to wait
for crowds of repenting psyches to calm
and there to bless the unaware
who say, that poetry…

and here in the sphere of art
poetry, far away

elements of emotions

do you know, oh, you may-green eyes
that in elements you hide emotions
and in clarinets sobs
and as they ride over silica sands
crystals spree in colored marmalades
and in chase about to emerge
they, your silky refines, cloud
innocent visions, and brigs drown
and unnerved species brawl
and gently agendas sizzle…

in these steel-concrete shafts
where breaths are stuck
panic blinks red in buttons
and laminated floors roll
into another soggy day…

do you know…
do you remember…
spilling skies onto highway clovers
and indefinite mornings
hubs and tubs gleaming wet
warm breakfast-rolls
and subsonic tones of suspense
cursed stairways and ambushes…
and soft, soft cottons…

scarred banks where your fury
in staccato tumbled when unleashed
as actors do commercials, no poetry
and tins of justice squelch under piers
and when they are stressed to bleed flamingos
more scars are carved, more…

and the border lines of brows thin
in phlegmatic torrents of day
as evzones march to victory
and muscles shine in greasy sun
and there are many, many inspirations
in this lotus universe, and they spread
as curly tracks of your elements
in your saffron outlines

prophet of sands

there is sand in marble and it strokes
and Bias said between ecstasies: there you are,
the filth and gutters! and seven sages rumbled.
in the skies, where blue rules,
sculptor’s hand shaped specks,
and right and wrong sifted in Cora’s eyes
and the metaphysical you laughed in blues
and you see, there is a rift in mountains
where pillars sing, and creek spills opiates…

in stretching orchards earth is dry
and winds play with cicadas, leaves shiver in plight
unsure if they were loved.
sprinkling water, devious prophet is sad
he needs the sculptor’s hand to smoothen,
and the hand calls a little help from eternity
his conduct is like buzzing
as froggies jump about…

now fears are evident in contracted minds
tearing curtains of braided hairs, veils of thunder
and behind the hope, dark scenery’s drama…
the white columns pour from processions
as lambs are sacrificed.
and devil’s chains spread like garlands
so far from art…

where you sit, among glasses of blue
and green neon, and office walls, in cardboard boxes
your preening is just being bored, with wizened life
as though the hand never touched you
and you watch effects on TV,
and then static reaches you, gray specks of cold tumblers
and you’re in slime, you esoteric woman
in deep turquoise retch.

how they play, the smiles in white stone
though rocks never smile, and never cry
and their eyes in somber haze, as if memories of sun
herding blue whales in ultramarine songs
and Ahab’s wrath is but seeping bubbles of indigo
parched face in storm. can you see these lines,
white burrows of salt and transcending blues of night …


На Пројекту Растко објављено љубазношћу блога

На Растку објављено: 2007-10-04
Датум последње измене: 2007-10-03 22:35:28

Пројекат Растко / Књижевност / Сигнализам