Slobodan Skerovic - from a Poetic novel EARTHPHOBIA, not yet published

Flambeau

That’s why gods are secretions of God, worms crawl between two skins.

Eternal forms, awkwardness, and pecked out livers.

Heroes, congenital mutes, super soldiers, chimeras and balrogs – all that inhabits Champs d’ Eliseè.

Gnoseophobes lying in trenches.

You have peace within, and all else is there.

Here-there, you cannot die, immortal you are.

You think you are, and know you’re not.

True, Messiah took a walk, atoned everything.

Come, he shouts, while drowning in pond.

Frog jumps!





How does it respond?

When you find harmony, not to fall asleep, swim sideways.

When fallen asleep by the sea, imagine snows and icy cheek.

When hungry, enjoy the freedom of poetry.

When alone, walk fast.

Before the abyss, prepare for the inconceivable.

Who will call you, from the storm, from the anthill?

Pain will pass, rejoice while it lasts!

And all you have missed, you will never satisfy!

What is now, do not memorize.

Let what you have, be short like flash.

That long is the eternity.







Into Death

Once again, Rumi died.

Al Dabaran is his home. He spreads wings in star’s magma.

Visions reach for infinity. One more death prepares he.

Thus horizon glazes the eyes.

Joe, fallen into deflated hay. The Roman, in Persian gabardine.

Current of spirit in mountain’s speech.

Beloved death is prudent, Sufi’s friend; she hunts from ambush, the sick. But, here, in stable, lying on set down straw, she is hunted.

Into death, together, ruby and sword. Sword of God splits by force, ugly dreams, naked affections.

As you shop the window, horde gathers from afar.

Angel lowers silken shawl.

Uninvited, death nestles you onto faraway bosom.

Into new home, Betelgeuse.







Lalkason sighs, silk falls

In cold night, hell is empty, he calls ferryman.

Those are not secrets, it is blindness, empty docks.

Lalkason, his wings folded, his arms crossed; before him water crawls. Soul ablaze within heart-bomb.

He dives in golden powder, gold like eyes, doors are pupils.

Syringe spurts backwards.

Oh yes, him, quiet in the underground, in your head.

Like a fugue, in time, here you disappeared, opened your eyes into the abyss.

So small in such perspective, voice tears you apart. This isn’t you.

And moth inseminates, before silk, letters from name.

Right and left halves of brain, gray medulla, body’s aura.

Now it chops speech from cocoon. Within mystery’s marrow, why would you see? Before reality of fire, merged with cold between flames. They invoked him, they came on their own. Filaments of lightning, playing. Flashlights play, that’s all.