Blesok no. 101-102, November-December, 2015


Istok Ulchar


    I see my comrade in the beer bottle,
    Out of which he recently drank.
    I read my comrade in the words of
    His favorite writer,
    Which he spoke on one occasion.
    I hear my comrade in the Tozovac vinyl,
    Which he gave to me before leaving.
    I greet my friend in the Da Djaka Nakot record;
    The day it was released was the day of our first encounter.
    My comrade is everywhere throughout my room,
    No matter how many rhymes, how many splits
    And how many tags away he is from here.
    Translation from Macedonian by Mario Savovski


    Poetry is the easiest way
    Of grinding diamonds.
    Poetry is an explosion of the soul,
    Which births a new star.
    Poetry is the fulfillment which
    One feels after
    Running to the other side of the world.
    Poetry is
    The most ruthless weapon
    Ever used
    Against the enemy.
    Poetry is music created
    By the beating of the heart.
    Poetry is a means of communicating
    Between the sensitive ones.
    Translation from Macedonian by Mario Savovski



    Currently, I am in my home
    I have the shape of a wasted Übermensch,
    Willing to conquer the floor,
    Although the pillow is more important to him.
    The Sun’s hallmark burns me.
    With the new Apollo 50
    Made out of Strontium
    I land on Mars and become
    It’s first colonizer.
    I turn into a chemist
    Trapped into two triangles
    By the Arab inquisitors.
    Songs, sticks and stones
    Are walking under the he-goat’s hoofs
    Creating the prohibited number.
    I feel my Fatherland’s
    Suffocating me,
    Taking my sight away.
    I am now chained
    On wall-colored Sun
    And a man in a uniform is about
    To tear my body apart.
    Tearing my skin up,
    He sets me free from reality,
    So I fall asleep on the mattress
    Made of the ashes of the ideologies.
    Good might!
    Translation from Macedonian by Elena Prendjova


    light a candle for the sinners
    set the world on fire
    (Brian Warner)

    I’d like to have the powerful look.
    I’d like to have the look
    That can strip girls naked,
    That can rape virgins,
    That can disturb the indifferent,
    That can attract the absents’ attention,
    That can change the mind of the decisive,
    That can silence the loud,
    That can frighten the courageous,
    That can write out the pages
    Of all the books with the sentence:
    “Drop the bomb, exterminate them all!”

    I’d like to have the look
    That can tear down buildings,
    Highways and railways,
    Bridges and tunnels,
    That can destroy factories,
    Power plants and transmission lines,
    That can flood the cities,
    That can set countries on fire,
    With their rulers and flags,
    With their Ministries and Parliaments,
    With their Courts and gaols,
    With their armies and headquarters,
    With their banks and media,
    With their hospitals and madhouses,
    With their schools and universities,
    With their stores and shopping malls.
    I’d like to have the look
    That can assassinate assassinators,
    That can crucify racists
    On burning crosses,
    That can place Nazis in gas chambers,
    That can freeze communists to death
    In Siberian forests,
    That can eliminate dictators,
    That can legally shot anarchists,
    That can take Christians to inquisitorial courts,
    That can war jihad against the Muslims,
    That can extinguish atheists,
    That can execute all religious fanatics,
    Political extremists and totalitarians.
    I’d like to have the look
    That can torture,
    That can cause famine,
    That can stone,
    That can whip,
    That can tear asunder,
    That can lynch,
    That can choke,
    That can strangle,
    That can hang,
    That can behead,
    That can eliminate,
    That can eradicate,
    That can uproot,
    That can bury,
    That can make people insane.
    I’d like to have the look
    That can set woods on fire,
    That can dry oceans up,
    That can melt the Poles,
    That can intoxicate Earth,
    That can die flowers out,
    That can dry all the fields,
    That can gulp down bugs and microbes,
    That can devour animals and humans,
    That can wipe out objects and phenomena,
    So, in the end, can destroy itself,
    So can disappear the last witness
    Of this gross misanthropic massacre
    Caused solely by the look of mine,
    Leaving just a mere impeccable nothingness and crystal silence behind,
    Which nobody, not even it itself,
    Can’t take pleasure in.
    Since perfection is but nonexistence.
    Translation from Macedonian by Elena Prendjova


    I puked my life in a plastic bag and threw it out of the seventh floor.
     (surfing TV stations)

    I am Jack’s cold sweat.
    I have all the characteristics of a human being:
    Flesh, blood, skin, hair; but not a single, clear,
    Identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust.
    But there is nothing like the sight of an amputated spirit.
    I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.
    Everybody be cool, this is a robbery!
    We train young men to drop fire on people,
    But their commanders won’t allow them to
    Write “fuck” on their airplanes because it’s obscene.
    We came to wreck everything,
    And ruin your life. God sent us.
    You can’t handle the truth!
    And ideas are bulletproof.
    I am Jack’s wasted life.
     (You don’t know what it is)

    To become part of soil,
    On which sages rot,
    And filth incarnates into god,
    On which the children are old people,
    Because they are with stolen childhood,
    On which the poetry turns
    Into political manifestos,
    On which our stomachs are full
    With whiskey and dead butterflies,
    On which our lives are walking
    On thin stretched linen thread,
    To become part
    Of this soil, Jack,
    Is most convenient.
     (You must now face authority)

    Let me enjoy, Jack,
    The dark landscape drown
    On my closed eyelids.
    Let me puke my life, Jack,
    In an organic plastic bag.
    Let the black demons, Jack
    Carry me in their chambers.
    Every place is better than this one.
    I don’t want a reincarnation.
    I don’t want once more to
    Go through these flames,
    Where the hotel-owners bankrupt
    Because of the huge internet-bills,
    Where beggars except credit cards, too,
    Where dead people run for
    Emperors, kings and presidents,
    Where the children mourn
    For closed web-sites,
    Where newborns are saving
    Money for their funerals.
    “Mr. Jones,
    The Death wants to visit you.”
    That’s the sweet voice of
    My secretary, Jack.
    “Let her in.” I’ll welcome her
    With my arms friendly open.
    The eternal freedom has finally arrived.
    Translation from Macedonian by the author


    I’ve pushed the button.
    Moss grew on every side of the world,
    the cactus spines turned into leaves,
    the roots of the baobab trees diminished.
    Blue fruits grew up on the trees.
    Men have wombs now,
    birds' beaks became mouths
    and fish became furry.
    Butterflies got titanium wings.
    Rain drops tore up,
    thunders sprang from the hailstones
    and mist turned into plasma.
    The Sun set fire to the Moon.
Everything was controlled
    by the people and their gadgets.
    Translation from Macedonian by Elena Prendjova


    Elizabeth I listens to “The Queen”.
    Gavrilo Princip listens to “Death in June”.
    Che Guevara listens to “Rage Against the Machine”.
    Mao Tse-tung listens to Chinawoman.
    George Washington listens to “Freemasons”.
    Nostradamus listens to “Psychic TV”.
    The Magnificent Seven listen to “Avenged Sevenfold”
    Jesus Christ listens to “Stoned Jesus”.
    The Holy Trinity listens to “Trio”.
    The Three Graces listen to “Three Days Grace”.
    The Three Little Pigs listen to “3 Doors Down”.
    Nikola Tesla listens to “Kraftwerk”.
    Maria and Pierre Curie listen to “My Chemical Romance”.
    Brønsted and Lowry listen to “The Chemical Brothers”.
    Tchaikovsky listens to “Swans”.
    Shakespeare listens to “This Mortal Coil”.
    Kafka listens to “Gregor Samsa”.
    Mozart and Stallone listen to Rambo Amadeus.
    Monroe and Charlie listen to Marilyn Manson.
    Jack the Ripper listens to “Whitechapel”.
    Armin Meiwes listens to “Cannibal Corpse”.
    Jamie Oliver listens to “Red Hot Chili Peppers”.
    Tarzan and Cheeta listen to “Gorillaz”.
    Forrest Gump listens to “Run DMC”.
    Harry Potter listens to “Owl City”.
    Tinky-Winky listens to “Deep Purple”.
    Laa Laa listens to “Yello”.
    Dipsy and Lile Popovska listen to “Green Day”.
    Koce-Metalec listens to “Metallica”.
    Ante Gotovina listens to Johnny Cash.
    Josip Kraš and Crash Bandicoot listen to DJ Krush.
    But nobody listens to the tiresome voice
    Of the Macedonian language professor who
    Exhausts everything around her with
    The lesson about vocal figures of speech.
    Translation from Macedonian by the author


    I am driving with Istok
    In our “Yugo”.
    He is reading “All Quiet on the Western Front”.
    The radio plays cuntye west.
    The host reports about
    The rap-collaboration between
    “Klan East” and “East West”.
    I remind myself of the films
    “North by Northwest”
    And “East of Eden”.
    On the North and
    On the South Pole
    Armies of the Wild West
    And the Near East
    Are at war.
    A black hole occurs
    That brakes the cardinal directions
    Into small pieces and swallows them.
    Above the compass, we are located
    In center, with Vaskoeftov.

    Zapad is a fan of Zappa.
    Jug likes Jung.
    And Sever is shame for the family and glorifies severina.
    Translation from Macedonian by the author


    I live in my fatherland
    And I speak in my mother’s tongue.
    I am being watched by The Big Brother.
    Uncle Sam is in the neighboring block,
    In the Uncle Sam’s cabin.
    Translation from Macedonian by the author


    Is turning our hearts into factories
    Whose chimneys are coming out of our ears.
    Our homes are filling with smoke,
    And the liquid chemical waste
    Is pouring in our kidneys.
    On our bodies,
    With black ink
    The memoirs of the world rulers
    Are being written.
    In the air are flowing the smells
    Of the Siberian snow and the Zyklon B.
    His armies are marching
    Through our intestines and
    Through our blood vessels.
    Voluntarily we obey
    His system,
    His religion,
    His new order.
    Translation from Macedonian by the author

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