Blesok no. 66, May-June, 2009

Violently Interrupted Poem
Translated by: Danijel Brcko, Tomislav Kuzmanović, Lovro Škopljanac

Marko Pogačar

To the Gardener

The brier is budding in its beds, nobody is stating their opinion,
the figs, dry and fresh

both types hollow from beaks, over our heads the absence of earth
which is the sky. the scarecrow is not doing its job anymore.

the curves extend time, but they do not fill it. precise,
like telephone wires that force us to be close, that connect us

with other beings. the scarecrow works in an entirely different way
from the telephone. this morning the dog drank up the marrow from its legs

and it fell, a carbonized cross in front of a black person’s house, clothes
you cannot take off. that is nature’s mechanism:

everything we saw sprouts, in spite of minor obstacles, long
afternoons, and inner balance, everybody always says: sure

and all the friction invested in transforming love into infinitely
small packages of life is worth nothing: the brier dried, the time extended and clean,

the earth’s unconditional offer to love me rottening in my chest, all around us
free vowels, palms of hands, weed and much more.

To Female Tailors (In Plants and At Home)

A path of tiny punctures, a sketch of a recently delineated new continent.
if you follow it you learn

how fabric is converted into a system. the way out of abstraction:
the world is a reflection of an already existing folder, instead of vice versa –

you know, trouble with parking spaces, small barriers in the blood,
October, the expected torrent from the sky. clothes soiled by the body.

another abandoned temple, transformed into wine, into crumbly bread
for the night, leaving behind

crumbs that will, once all this is over,
get you home safely, keep your eyes from getting pecked, your sol from another

soul, and pair of ears, from Barbra Streisand who bends like a water
pipe in a Jewish neighborhood and vomits, always vomits rain.

thus a continent, in the manner of a fantasy novel, becomes worn out forever,
all its mammals in your golden album

kiss through the plastic and never, never swallow each other.
the ready-to-wear clothes is hanging, like a shadow, over the emptied body shell.

everything has become tight. the paths no longer lead anywhere, the seams get eaten by birds
and the stuffed ones fall on the city later on, like beaked snow, everything

dies; but the disco kings live for a thousand years, tough, with their head high,
no kind of death could be played: by the bow on that throat.

Every Woman Adores a Fascist (To Sleepy Housewives)

Light bulbs, balls of light in the sky replacing the sun. one day
you get blind from looking up, just like that.

you are no longer able to see the walls. dust decides to land
a dead colony upon your face. but even what appears to be alive

is mostly not anymore, something has died between the eyes,
it is no longer you talking. the spaghetti is boiling in the pot. a rebellion

of loose pipes, countless, dangerous asparagus. you play along:
you are lying on the linoleum like in a dark vertex river,

awaiting his return. when he enters the walls shake.
he loves you like he does the feeling of satiation, discipline. disciplined and strict.

he loves you like he does the radio. the foam from the pot crawls onto your inaudible lips.
night leaves afternoon’s skin, flies into the room like a butterfly, sneaks

under the carpet together with the toes. the light bulbs readily leave the sky.
something has been born inside of you, but will never live, you are full of time

but time refuses to be full of you: there are no eyes for crying, the hair
is leaving the vertex, love takes place in the living room, those are the consequences.

To the Neighbors (This Morning My Flesh Is a Lowered Flag)

Honey is melting in tea, completely, unlike me in you
and you in classical music,

too long telephone calls, never a free table
when you need one, elevators always out of order,

stairs unfolding into infinity, like discussing politics,
and just as somebody observes that totalitarianism and democracy

differ solely in the system of numbers
the picture disappears and we are back at the beginning: voices oozing out of walls,

utterly bodiless, evening settling on palms of hands, like a miner
into a pit, still, shoes left

at the doorstep prove that the living exist. but what does it mean to live,
as winter comes rolling like cold breath from my throat,

and builds its nest in the dark alphabet; all those hurried unknown
people with familiar names, an afternoon broken in two, like Korea,

tea in which honey had already melted, inseparable,
and this viscous solution is love; how do I get to you; how do I grasp you?

To the Lost Halves (A Violently Interrupted Poem)

When steel cranes dropped the last nuclear power plant on the city
your origami heart burst like a glass ball

which Ted Nugent’s high C capes into shiny emptiness. yes. that’s how it started:
a film in which a woman, a vulgarly fit young woman,

finds her lost half, yes, that’s how it started.
a street turned into Finland, the northern fleet made of paper

swallows the asphalt faster than the cracks the earth sends
from inside to make it smile, an executioner, cuts sharp replies

like fingers; the air so transparent I want to see it. absence,
the poem’s main feature, makes way for the bodies of children, who retreated

back into houses, carefully, after one call. the smell of just flushed water which,
a bellhop on cocaine, tirelessly goes up, hides, in nostrils

founds a disgustingly liberal syndicate, in the end stays calm, for a second, somewhere high,
and falls down again. absence. a triumphal vacation which you never take.

tea: crumbs dipped into teeth and the surface that stood still is on the move,
our halves find us or remain hidden. all that is real surpasses us.

voice, your own narrator, says that you are now complete
in a safe tone it moves across the canvas, like a psychoanalytic Buddha, and knows

knows that all is never lost. a rhetorical corkscrew that pierces your eyes. sucks your
brain out, that’s how it ends. all the psychoanalysts and zombies and Buddhists the moment they appear

destroy every attempt at an end. only Christians are worse. even after the Apocalypse
something happens.

God Is A Big Breasted Switchboard Operator Using A Silky Voice to Tell You That the Number You Have Dialed Has Not Been Recognized

Somewhere the ferries have capsized. A telephone has informed that the angel
is the primordial and only being.
this is the week I take notes.
today I've learned something new. I write down everything I see.
every single thought.   
if there exists an enemy of poetry then,
in this case, that would be me.
should you somehow manage to get rid of the alluvium
you may get struck by definite meaning.
just like the teeth of some singer/model/actress, for instance
Vesna Pisarovic. the selection is by no means random.
she knows what phonemes are
and that meaning is relentless.
you may succeed in finding the right question. for instance when
our celebrities will start adopting children. when the techno
revolution of boredom will consume its first child.
somewhere the ferries have capsized. the angel cannot come out of the receiver.
this is the week I take notes and I'm trying
not to leave anything out.
water is dripping in the kitchen.
four weeks ago the cherries blossomed. I'm listening to the radio that says
there's no significant change in the weather and no significant change
in anything else.
the stars are smiling and entering our houses via horoscope.
meaning comes in waves, just like it should
or shouldn't.
the ferries have capsized.


Hug me and I'll let you picture me naked.
from this day on
I'm the Judith Butler of the emancipation of men.
I've stopped thinking since it leads nowhere. from now on I look
when it's necessary to look.
if it were indispensable for me to think right now, it would be about god.
or, again, about emptiness. about the space between arms,
the dark substance,
the things left between vegetables, it makes no difference at all,
the point is in no man's land.
about how beautiful hair is when it's falling out. about the last days of May,
the space left when emptiness turns black.
when you picture me that, in the same way, means filling an emptiness.
at the key point
everything is reduced to exotic particles. minestrone. you have no idea
what's inside, but everything works. the point is, trust me,
in what's between.
a well-filled out emptiness is love's limit.
the principle is the piece of skin between toes, picture me
before I do that to you.
hug me in any way you like except with your arms. arms are a rural weapon.
leave them to Croats.
take out all the silicone and use it to build a house. flatten yourself against a wall
like a virtual shadow, step forward
into a volume of defense and a time of unconditional freedom, a point of clear danger.
be considerate while stirring that minestrone.
make it as thick as possible. reduce the emptiness to a bare minimum.
even those who are now squatting in these plants sometimes become depressed
by all the space surrounding them.


My ex-girlfriend
did not sing like Elvis.
she just couldn't
make the right tone.
nonetheless she
always mixed it with water.
it isn't necessary to say
how successful
she was at that.
besides, the peanuts were great
the brilliantine was open;
the wreath of little roses was spread out
over heart's honest blade.
Elvis was under ground, long ago
and that was the thing which I just
couldn't possibly

Translated by: Danijel Brcko, Tomislav Kuzmanović, Lovro Škopljanac

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