Blesok no. 92, September-October, 2013

The Death of a Siamese Twin
Translated by Elizabeta Bakovska

Zoran Bejkovski

The Little Rabbit

We buried a little rabbit behind our building,
soft, dead, swollen from the grass.

His stiff paws
did not dig out the soil.
We forgot to make an amulet
from his little tail.

I held a little rabbit in my arms,
alive, soft, ticklish…
freshly deceased, dehydrated.

We planted a little rabbit behind our building,
we soaked his little ears with resin,
covered them with plastic bottles
so he is not cold in the winter.

Many little rabbits sprouted behind the building,
we grafted them with shirt intestines
and sharp teeth.

The little rabbits eat insides
– they eat hearts.

The little rabbit climbs the stairs
in the evening with his stomach full.
He does not believe in ghosts,
he is still alive.


Inside your never, when I melted as a child.
Inside your never, we played a game of basketball.
Uncle Alzheimer knocked on my scull doors and opened my hemispheres.
Two halves drained on a plastic orange drainer;
they were too big to fit;
small pieces hung on the sides.

The drums, wrapped by hand, assisted the expectation of an encounter.
The mutual spite brought forward false loves.
The plastic years melted into Barbie dolls smelling of barbecue.
The aledged artists made lights of pumpkins and lit alternative allies.
Next to this there was a pool, desperate hookers waiting for their dose behind it.
The dozer did not work so I finished the whole bottle.
The forgotten hugs squinted jealously.

Love remains shivered with cold making verses;
they reminded of the times when
the young carelessly made love “like dogs”.

Damned be the day when I sold you for a handful of words and new experience!
Damned be all newly written poems!
I love you like a frozen snowman loves the winter
– melt me in a new love.

The Death of a Siamese Twin

My Siamese twin died of a heart attack.
His half-asleep head
fell from the second elbow,
full with cannabinoids.
He died,
with his arm in a new jacket sleeve,
with his hair combed back,
his face shaved,
his side waxed.
With his gold watch,
his briefcase and
his credit card that was never dusted in white.
I lent him my useful limbs.
Now I will wait for the rest to dry
to peel away like an acne.


you, with an ideal fat distribution.
You, with wide hips and
firm breasts,
with veins and milk glands ready;
tears of the future baby cry
and softness as a baby hair.
Woman in eternal blossoming,
turn my sperm into blood and flesh.
Breathe inside me a new life,
awake my sprouts,
grow my trees and
cut them as much as it is needed.
So they do not fall from their own weight
or rot barren and small inside
the nothingness of the immobile time’s smog.
Feed me with your passion.
Because I don’t know any different,
I don’t know of love.
Give me birth.
Give us rebirth.
Because it is the last thing from me in this world,
and you smell like a mother.

To the Poppy

My girlfriend has a body of vines
and spider legs from her waist down.
She has a poppy head and two cuts instead of eyes.
Blackness drips from the cuts,
I, her sun, turn them into tar.

Her right arm is nothing but bones,
her left one, with open veins and needle fingers
– a bow and a violin.
She rubs them against each other, making sounds
and she wraps me with her silky legs.

Wave me and hide me in your hair,
lift the fallen leaves,
blush again and be a shy poppy.
Or grow blue, white and be secretly intoxicating.

I put you in my mouth, oh, bride in a black gown
I suck your smoky blackness,
the burning multicolor cause.

Had I not met you green
I’d have seed for thousands like you,
poppy blossoms
– only the one who hasn’t cut you doesn’t know your real sweetness,
doesn’t know your real pain.

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