Blesok no. 112, March-April, 2017

Translated from Macedonian: Elizabeta Bakovska

Josip Kocev

A Perfect Murder

    Someday I will wake up smiling and fresh
    and I will kill you with lot of class, with a style,
    with couple of words and your favorite
    scarf of fine silk.
    Without a fingerprint, without a drop of blood,
    with eyes that merge from ruby to jade,
    I will watch you disappear from all scenes
    of my movie line.
    It will be a perfect murder and
    not a subject, not a verb will be left after you.
    In a glass full with gin and three ice cubes
    I will drown the evil dwarfs that
    you let roam around my thoughts
    and I laugh out loud
    that nobody, until the end of the eternity
    will find you
    in no poem,
    in no verse,
    in no metaphor…

The Spirit of the Wind

    You can’t just disappear
    and turn into skies,
    without leaving part of your
    clouds in somebody’s soul.
    Mine was born with winds.
    If you leave me clouds,
    you leave me a tempest too.


    The two of us will separate as nations
    that speak the same language,
    and do not understand each other,
    and will divide among the two of us
    the dead writers and scientists.
    (Andric will be mine, and Tesla yours.)
    The two of us will rip out the stars from
    our foreheads, chest, hats and flags,
    and we will live in a much darker
    and longer night than the one back then.
    The two of us will hide
    the savage traces of our skins,
    we will exterminate the primitive tribes
    with animal names
    and we will be rediscovered,
    officially populated,
    polluted by the advanced civilization.
    Like America, my world!

Like a Bird, Like a Song

    Sometimes I release you like a bird
    – I open the cage of my memories wide
    and I spread your wings through crazy autumn winds,
    so you can find a quiet haven and warm south
    when monsoon winds come my way.
    Sometimes I release you like a song
    – the skies there bear the scars of the ink
    I write to you in the air,
    and your torso of clouds gives in pressured
    under the invisible knuckle of time.
    Sometime I release you like a bird, like a song
    – and all of a sudden somebody’s fallen feather hurts me…
    – and all of a sudden some lost verse breaks me…


    You too will leave me,
    you too will give me up;
    I will become an old table cloth
    you won’t feel like having dinner on.
    Kill this old age that has moved inside me!
    I am loneliness, I will crumble down between your fingers,
    you will blow me out with a sigh of desperation,
    you will heal from ashes and dust…
    Don’t feed me with time,
    don’t look for me to grow old together!
    Learn to get over it, learn, get over it!
    The biggest victory is to leave somebody
    With teary eyes and broad smile on your face.

Eternal Summer

    You did not enter like the others, through the gate, through the door,
    you entered through my skin, with the distillation to water and salt,
    on a February day that I will always owe to May.
    You entered, you touched me,
    and a flock of sparrows flew away from me, to the south
    to tell the hot Africa:
    “We will not come again, we have found the eternal summer”.

The Lost Loves

    The lost loves will never know
    with how many bodies we have approached them,
    and in how many lives,
    through how many receivers we were quiet
    and with what breaths,
    in how many nights we have betrayed them
    and with what beasts,
    on how many photos we have decapitated them
    and with which scissors,
    on how many streets we avoided them
    and with which hugs,
    in how many cafés we met them
    and in what dreams,
    in how many crowds “we didn’t see them”
    and with what looks,
    how much we lived after them,
    and with what dying…


    It hurts!
    My will is in my words.
    Therefore, I keep quiet.
    My home is among the stars.
    That is why I have no property documents.
    Unbutton me!
    Under this 100% cotton armor
    you will find seasons.
    Under these city manners
    you will find a gipsy soul
    yearning to me killed by
    the clarinet cry.
    Listen to the loud sound
    as I tell you this,
    because among us
    only an empty space is left,
    only a desert,
    a spacious nothing.

From the Inside

    Maybe I have to suffer you,
    deeply exhaling my breath
    in which a whole flock of sparrows can spend the winter.
    Maybe somewhere far away the creation of
    a new solar system and
    several young races of creatures
    depend on the end of this suffering.
    Now, when I fall under this slavery,
    mark your territory
    from outside, along and across this body.
    From inside I will always be nobody’s.


    This world has no walls.
    Why do you keep on searching for a door?
    Open your eyes,
    don’t hate the sun forever
    because of those few hot days in July.
    Let the fornication you squeeze in your hands
    wander on somebody’s bodies.
    And forget! You have everything that you need.
    All the spaces that I miss
    will be yours.
    Your bandage will be on top of all others
    stuck on my mouth
    by those that have deserted me:
    angels, demons, people…
    Yours will be the imprisoned voices,
    the golden needles on words unsaid.
    Make my silence strong
    and leave the wounds as they are,
    wide open across
    the meridians of our beings.
    Blood shall flow
    from the places where we are people.
    Love shall flow
    from the places where we are gods.

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