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

Not seas, speed, glory

In you is sea, but what is that?
Who will clarify, words will not. I dare not say, I just carry, sea.
There is connection, drops, vapor, rain, ice.
Measures are faulty, in breakage of deep, waves touch, sky, stars.
No word, dare I say.
And so he is quiet, in her pupil.
Sea, between walls, stale water.
And then ardent breath, is that speed?
Soul raptures like geyser, one experiences glory.
You wish to be taken, by her quiet, to rest, from idiocy.
What broke you?
The secret of sea, speed of bird, glory of God?




Now you are on God’s side

You are in Eden, fig’s leaves all around.
You run away from trees, forest burns.
And twigs and shades, tearing at dawn.
Elements are too rough, force lures to liturgy.
Believers chew chips.
They are foreigners, song is sad.
You will go into dusk, into the makeshift nest.
Wet spiders glide on rain.
Escaped from eggs, dandy fireflies.
How will he kill you, the God who falls?
He walks through shards, what is his longing?
Flower opens, gene is yellow.
Dusty road, cockeyed roof.
Dark strawberries, sticky milk.
Dust presses into soles.
Cat will bring field mouse.
Mouse will be dead.
He will not arise.
Sky is gray, it’s just dawn.
Colors have no meaning.
Quiet catbird.




Philosopher in the Cave

There is a cave eternal.
There, ideas are clear, dry, like ham.
With baked potatoes, well goes brandy.
The idea of murder, on top of pickled foods.
Slaughtered children, garnished with highest good.




Study the Rat

Teeth, snout, feeling.
Fear you, blue winged.
Evil is in people. Disease is cured, by undead.
Force bends their bones, minamata.
Tide of soot, down northern hills.
Study the night, as it falls.
Torn tendon, belly bloats.
As the Book had cracked, new standards, new strength.
Prose is weakness of gravity, reason is basket, wolf blows it away.
Meteorologists from sky, contempt from guts.
Shepherds in pens.
Father comes.
Now he will slay.