Živim u gradu koji je u stalnoj potrazi za svojim identitetom.
Živim u tijelu koje je u stalnoj mijeni. Živim u jeziku koji je moj koliko i bilo kojeg političara. Živim u kući koju sam izgradio.
Grad otkriva svoje ulice sve brojnijem turistu. Porast je eksponencijalan, s jednog turista, koji je pogrešno skrenuo s ceste za Dalmaciju, jer je vidio znak za trajekt, došli smo na dva, a turistička zajednica više ne može, kao dosad, na ljetni kolektivni godišnji odmor.

NOSIM SE KAO ŠTO GRAD NOSI
LJUDE ONI DOLAZE I DOLAZE

prvo ih nema djeca naganjaju
lopte rastu pored suza ispred
   
vrtića maminih potresa zbog
    fantomski otkinutih udova
onda se odjednom pojave
nose ih njihove brade maskare
    
gihtovi hemeroidi granulomi
     čukljevi katarakte vode u koljenima
ljudi dolaze i dolaze
njihove duše su bezgranični prostori
    
slobode omeđeni propadajućim
     tijelima ali tko može reći da istina
ikada izlazi na vidjelo kad je jezik
najmanje cijenjeni organ vida

Moje tijelo više ne može pratiti ono što um misli da bi tijelo trebalo. Imam 44 godine, to je normalno. Iz prstiju bi da mi cure patetični izljevi poput: postao sam rob svojeg tijela, ili: moram pomaknuti svijet da bi mi tijelo funkcioniralo kako treba, ili: odustanem od putovanja kada shvatim što sve moram spremiti ili ponijeti sa sobom samo da bi mi tijelo radilo.

Onda se odmorim u jeziku.

SPREMIM JEZIK U RAKETU
PA TAKO 66 PUTA

raketa nije veća od mene
ali milijun je puta ubojitija
   
66 raketa stavim na leđa

    nosim kroz mračnu šumu
svaka stopa izmjerena je

slovom prirodnog zakona
   
66 raketa stisne moja leđa led

    na njima ulazi u povijenu kičmu
kada dođem pred raketni bacač

manji sam od kristala vode
   
tražim svoje agregatno stanje

    i mjerim
koliko topline u jednom običnom

pali!

Ali.

PROMIJENIM SE I ODJEDNOM
JE TEŠKO JEZIKOM OTVORITI

konzervu očaja koji je hranio gladna
dječja usta i cvao u proljeće uvijek u
   
proljeće Sunce u prozoru moglo je

    promijeniti tijek igre da nevidljivi
neprijatelj nije već bio pred vratima

a kad se kuća počela preslagivati
   
očaj je pobjegao iz karantene mutirao

    u paralizu i sad hara hara kao da
ništa na ovom svijetu nije vrijedno

riječi koje je nemoguće izgovoriti

Iz moje ulice, slijepe ulice, barem za automobile, put vodi u šumu, na mlinove. Nikada nisam bio tamo. Ali planiram to učiniti. Tamo ima stranaca. Koji nisu turisti. Nekada ih zovu migranti, da ne bi rekli izbjeglice pa udarili po vlastitoj savjesti. Onoj iz devedesetih.

Svi smo mi migrant.

POSRĆEM ŠUMOM JA SAM
MIGRANT ZA KOJEG NE VRIJEDE
ZEMALJSKE GRANICE

ne tražim pasoš ne trebam eure
ni mobitel rezervne gaće ako mi
pred granicom popuste crijeva
   
moja šuma nije tamna i strana

    utroba kita koja probavlja snove
    kao boćata pomorska policija
za mojim stopama ne trče bijesni

psi i odore koje posrćući pucaju
iz svojih pištolja ne ja nisam taj
   
migrant moje migracije iscrpljuju

    obzori u kojima se tvoj pogled toči
    na kockice leda u kristalnoj čaši
one nisu egzistencijalne

i pomalo ih se sramim a opet
ako postojim samo kao prazan
   
utor za tvoju glavu na mom

    ramenu moje migracije su teške kao
    kap s tvog nosa kad si ono odlazila

Nisam samo ja, iako se ponekad tako čini. Moja kuća, koja nije baš potpuno moja, u mom je gradu, koji nije zapravo moj, koji je u mojoj državi, a koja nikada nije ni bila moja. Nikada nisam osjetio ponos zbog pripadnosti, bilo čemu. Možda je to moj problem i možda je ekološki.

OKRENEM STROP I HODAM
IZBJEGAVAJUĆI LUSTERE

svjetlo ne pada pravocrtno
šume su daleka postrojenja
   
u bruto nacionalnom dohotku

    sudjeluju s 10 posto kisika
ostalo dolazi iz saborskih hodnika

po kojima se šire mirisi dinstane
   
kapule i pravedničkog znoja

    meso koje su izrezali za ručak
nije zaboravilo svoje kosti

sjajan kamen temeljac za
   
pluća poreznih obveznika

    kojima tlo izmiče podove

Onda sam dosjetka. Ili se tako čini ciničnom oku.

ADRESIRAM SVOJE STRAHOVE U
ARITMIJU ZIDNOG SATA I ČEKAM

najbolji put do mog srca je
između četvrtog i petog rebra

U kući koju sam izgradio je i hostel. Hostel je propao ove sezone, još jedna tiha žrtva virusa. Želim kupiti taj hostel, koji je moj prvi susjed. Želim kupiti mog prvog propalog susjeda, jer onda ću znati koji je, kakav i od čega. Kupit ću ga da ga izgradim, kao što sam izgradio i kuću koju sam cijeli život htio, u gradu u koji sam došao, u ulicu koju si crtam kao dragu otkad sam je prvi put vidio, koju grad ne voli, gdje je kvadrat jeftin, ali donedavno ipak mi nedostižan. Sada kada je sve to tu, nije ostalo drugo nego prionuti poslu.

Zen i umjetnost fugiranja ciglenog zida. Uzmeš jednu mjericu bijelog cementa, jednu mjericu riječnog pijeska, tzv. „nule“, u to umijesiš petinu bijelog ljepila za pločice i vode do konzistencije gustog šlaga. Pustiš da odstoji pet minuta. Uzmeš gleter i fugajzlu i kreneš. Uštediš novce koje nemaš, nalaziš majstora kakvog više nema u gradu koji gradi kuće samo za turiste, kojih opet nema, tek što su došli, jer virus… jer što bi se taj majstor mučio s tamo nekom ciglom, pa još unutra, u dnevnoj sobi. Tko je to vidio u doba knaufa.

Metamorfoza. Dom.

IMAM DVA SINA
OBA SAM NAPISALA GRABLJAMA U
PJEŠČANIKU ONDA IM

nacrtala osmijehe od čokolade
i kućicu od marmelade
pogled se popne po užetu kao
   
čigra po moždanoj kori

    čigra
    igra s tvrdim č
koja će zamijeniti karte

što vode do one kuće preko
kičmi bogova koji pamte
   
prokletnici sve te izmaštane

    čardake ni na nebu ni na nebu
    sutra ćemo zatvoriti
dvadeset peto poglavlje o

pristupu u uniju zaborava
a udaljenost koju budu
   
mjerili između nas dijelit

    će na sve dječje rođendane
    koji će paliti svjećice kao
fitilje na slatkim

praskavim
bombama

Kada izgradiš kuću, za sebe i sve tvoje, preseliš se potpuno u jezik. Od njega ne možeš pobjeći.

IZGRADIM KUĆU OTVORIM JOJ
PROZORE PROVJERIM TEMELJE

učestalost kuće u mojoj kući ono
je što me zanima i gdje se sakriti
   
kada neprijatelj napadne koliko

    siguran možeš biti ti zastava srca
otvori svoje ja provjeri učestalost

sebe u sebi i razmisli gdje si se
   
sakrio u kojim plućima te nema

    kojem krvotoku bistrom potoku
on teče iza kuće sav sazdan od

potoka koji podriva temelje ruši
   
koliko potoka u tom potoku!

    koliko zemlja u toj mrkloj cigli

Read more

  ♦  I live in a city that is on constant lookout for its identity.
I live in a body forever changing. I live in a language belonging in the same way to me and any politician. I live in a house built by my own hands.

The city reveals its streets to the ever-increasing population of tourists. The growth is exponential; from one tourist, seeing a ferry sign and taking a wrong turn from the road to Dalmatia, we jumped to two making it impossible for Tourist Board to go on collective annual leave as before.

CARRYING MYSELF JUST AS CITY CARRIES
PEOPLE THEY COME AND COME

at first there are no people children chase after 
balls growing up close to tears in front of
   
kindergartens of mom’s earthquakes caused by
   
phantomically amputated limbs
then suddenly they appear
carried by their beards mascaras
   
gouts haemorrhoids granulomas
   
bunions cataracts water on the knees
people come and come
their souls boundless free
   
spaces skirted by decomposing
   
bodies yet who can say that truth
ever comes out since a tongue is
the most downplayed organ of sight

My body is no longer in line with what my mind thinks my body should do. I am 44, it is normal. I would like pathetic outbursts such as: I have become a slave to my body, or I have to move the world for my body to function properly, or I give up travelling when I realize what I have to pack or take with me just for my body to work — to slip through my fingers.

Then I rest in language.

I PACK LANGUAGE IN A ROCKET
AGAIN AND AGAIN 66 TIMES IN A ROW

a rocket is no bigger than I am
yet a million times deadlier
   
I put 66 rockets on my back
   
carrying them through dark forest
each step measured by
the letter of natural law
   
66 rockets shrink my back ice
   
on them enters into my bent backbone
when I approach a rocket launcher
I am smaller than a water crystal
   
looking for my state of matter
   
and measuring
how much warmth there is in a simple
Fire!

But.

I CONVERT AND ALL OF A SUDDEN
IT IS DIFFICULT TO USE A TONGUE

that fed hungry children’s mouths and blossomed in spring
as desperation tin opener, always in
   
spring sun in a window could
   
change the course of a game if only an invisible
enemy had not been at the door
and when the house began to rearrange itself
   
desperation broke out of quarantine mutated
   
into paralysis and now raids raids as if
nothing in this world is of no worth
except for words that cannot be uttered

From my street, which is a dead end, at least for cars, a road takes you towards forest, to the mills. I have never been there. But I plan to go. There are aliens there. Not tourists. People sometimes call them migrants to avoid using refugees and stirring their own conscience. Dating from the nineties.

We are all a migrant.

I STUMBLE THROUGH FOREST I AM
A MIGRANT FOR WHOM LAND BORDERS
HAVE NO RELEVANCE

I want no passport I need no euros
no cell phone spare pants if my
bowels let go before the border
   
my forest is not dark and strange
   
belly of a whale that digests dreams
   
like brackish water police
mad dogs and unforms do not run after me
and stumblingly fire
their guns no I am not that
   
migrant my migrations are exhausted
   
by horizons in which your look is poured over
  
ice cubes in a crystal glass
they are not existential
and I am slightly ashamed of them yet
if I exist only as an empty
   
groove for your head on my
   
shoulder my migrations are heavy as
   
a drop from your nose that time when you were leaving

It is not just me, although it might look like that from time to time. My house, that is not quite completely mine, is in my city, that is not mine, actually, in my country, that has never been mine. I have never felt proud of belonging, to anything. That might be my problem and it might be ecological.

I TURN THE CEILING UPSIDE DOWN AND WALK
AVOIDING CHANDELIERS

light does not fall down in a straight line
woods are distant plants
   
accounting for only 10 per cent of oxygen
   
in gross national income
the rest comes from parliamentary corridors
smelling of fried onions
   
and righteous sweat
   
meat chopped for lunch
did not forget its bones
an excellent cornerstone for
   
lungs of taxpayers
   
losing the ground under their feet

Then I am a joke. Or so it seems to a cynical eye.

I ADDRESS MY FEARS TO
CLOCK’S ARRYTHMIA AND WAIT

the best way to my heart is
between the fourth and the fifth rib

There is also a hostel in the house I built. The hostel has gone under this season, as another silent victim of the virus. I want to buy that hostel, my next-door neighbour. I want to buy my ruined next-door neighbour because then I am going to find out what it is and what it is made of. I will buy it in order to build it, just like I built the house that I wanted my whole life, in the city to which I came, in the street I have portrayed as nice ever since I saw it for the first time, the street not loved by the city, in which square meters are cheap, yet beyond my reach until recently. Now when all this is here, the only thing left is to get down to work.

Zen and art of brick wall gruting. Take one scoop of white cement, one scoop of river sand or so called “base”, mix in one fifth of white tile glue and water until the mixture has consistency of thick whipped cream. Let it stabilize for five minutes. Take grout float and margin trowel and off you go. You save the money you do not have; you find a master like no other in a city in which houses are built for tourists only, but then again there are no tourists, they just turned up but the virus… why would this master bother himself with bricks, inside, in a living room? Who would do it like that in times of Knauf?

Metamorphosis. Home.

I HAVE TWO SONS
BOTH DRAWN BY RAKES IN A
SANDPIT THEN I

drew them chocolate smiles
and little marmalade houses
my glance climbing up the rope as
   
spin spinning on the cerebral cortex
   
spin
   
pin with an s
that will replace the maps
leading to that house across
backbones of remembering Gods
   
you damned ones all those make-believe
    castles in the air in the sky
will be closed tomorrow
   
twenty-fifth chapter on
accession to union of oblivion
and distance to be
measured among us will be divided
   
into all children’s birthday parties
   
lighting candles as
    fuses on sweet
bursting
bombs

When you build a house for yourself and all your people, you move entirely into language. You cannot get away from it.

I BUILD A HOUSE OPEN ITS
WINDOWS CHECK FOUNDATIONS

frequency of house in my house and
where to hide is what interests me
   
when enemy attacks how
   
safe can you be flag of heart
open your true self check frequency
of you in yourself and think of
   
your hiding place in which lungs you are no more
   
in which transparent blood(stream)
it flows behind the house all made of
stream that tears down foundations undermines
   
many a stream in that stream!
   
a lot of earth in dark brick

Read more

Scroll to Top