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"Ye-Ye!" would sound stupid along with all these idiots with revolvers… But, it was gramophone needles that embroidered the flag of the sixties… And a yellow brick road unfolded in front of us… At least we had various Che Guevaras…And, major deceptions… It is the youth that blows in one breath, like powdered sugar from a pumpkin pie… Protests of the seventies were more a reflection of a style… Because, a pitcher filled with freedom was poured out for us… At least we had travels…Railway platforms, tears, and kisses… The red passport with no deficiency that passes borders without many problems… TV reports of the eighties were scribbled over bright postcards… The World was masking its face because of us… At least we had those dreams, which hardly come true… And dreams are usually worth the most when they turn grey with you…Age with you… Not everything is on a steelyard…Money can buy miracles… But, there are no piratical dreams… Then, the nineties have come, sorrowful and grievous…Wicked…. The Lord has smelled gunpowder, and has escaped behind the clouds… Once, when dams burst, there is no salvation for us until rivers stop… But, such day will dawn…Eventually… Then, the nineties have come, sorrowful and grievous…Phobic… Ordinary bums broke into text- and reading- books… It is too late to panic…We gave a chance for the madness to become official… And now we are like simply surprised… At least we had something to do with the planet and people… It was known who wears a robe, and who wears a flower in the hair…Lucky, the crazy ones… A lie got bold, nowadays…And the last scum administers morality… So that the "OK coral" is raised around us… Fuck you nineties, you can only be swore at… Nobody will grieve after you, nor will they forge verses for you… You have brought one youth to madness, be happy if even a stanza is dedicated to you… In front of a church of real values… Fuck you nineties, your story is over, too… And God forbid that they ever remember all these morons and distrustful ones… When the law sweeps with its broom…or it lets them beat each other up… Which has its advantages…  Nobody alive remembers so many misfortunes for one vizier… Neighbors are building bulwarks of rage and contempt around you… That has not happened, yet…Fools are glad…Others are embarrassed… Black chronicles and accordions…Easy Rock & Roll… Tales about the good ones staying at the end, do not work anymore… The dark side of the globe can best see the good people fleeing… Toronto sidewalks…Eyes with a color of the front…Password of us all… Where is the story going to be carried? Freedom slogans… Walkers-flyers? Weak support… That is not "heads or tales"…We either are or we are not? This heart beats an endless rhythm of Resistance: To live freely…To echo with the World… With a hawk's feather decorated…Like a charm against shackles… To live freely…To conquer through a song… Your banner is on every town, where somebody feels delighted for you… To try the South, like a grain of grape, from the Virgin Mary's palm… To lick the salt off of that iron which they tie small boats to… To listen to the winds as they fiddle through white steppe ash-trees… To hold on to the waters, which evoke redeemed genes within us… Helmets flash as soon as the phantom of the change gets mentioned… God, feel sorry for the elderly ones, they close in, as soon as the masters shout… Children make efforts to get their own fathers away from habitual lies… What is at the end? Passengers for Sydney, take that exit… How long is the evil Wizard of Oz going to fool us around? How much of that stupid joker "Shush, it's good?" Even if the entire plunder is collected, they still cannot buy you… As small change, to count off your youth… To live freely…To echo with the World… With a hawk's feather decorated, like a charm against shackles… To live freely…To conquer through a song… Your banner is on every town, where somebody feels delighted for you… Every morning is a new river mouth…Start running like a small river… Let the thorns denser interweave…The sky is your short cut… And crush the fake diamonds like an empty walnut shell… Let boulevards of the World remember the music of your steps… A small house by a ramp…Sheaf of a yellowish lamp…And resources of sadness… Unfortunately, an ugly dream… Pa, a heavy drinker…Ma with a chop board for onion…Models for grief… It was all up to him… A finger, light on a cock…A hurricane in the heart…And a jump over the rainbow… Grumble of trailers… And at the age of twenty-two he already had everything…That's when he saw her: Duckling, I am crazy about you, but I am crazy anyway… I have been looking for you ever since I have known myself… Be my pal, kitty, it is not easy for me… To blow away all that great money alone… I overheard that tomorrow might not exist? So we better try everything right away… Buy me, for small change…And spread those wild blackberries on… I am crazy about you, but this time is the time of the crazy ones… I will saddle the fear for us… And you kiss me until evil comes…Until I lose my breath… She…A village lily… A night bus from province…"Miss No Chance"…Only the extra one of luck… Film that has been cut… Pa, an educational mouse…Ma, a shabby plush…Sister, ugly as hell… He was her kind of guy… First night was on a love seat…Second was on a couch…And third…Ah, the third… Let them all burst out… When her young Don places her on a throne…Like a cherry on top of wiping cream… Duckling, I am crazy about you, but I am crazy anyway… Bad déjà vu again… Morning, wet like a fisherman…And a professional caliber…Perpetrator, unknown… In an obituary… Two full pages…The Mafia…And The National Security…Unanimously mourn after him… The Balkan Tango always ends up on a sidewalk… Devil chalked a point in…And down an old street, she went slowly… Looking for a rich sponsor… While a bell-clapper on her purse counts the time following the rhythm of her steps… And while she is being looked at like a fresh chick… Crumbles a day into white powder…And mumbles a refrain familiar from somewhere: I am crazy about you, but this time is the time of the crazy ones… I will saddle the fear for us… And you kiss me until evil comes…Until I lose my breath… Never in a deal with bastards…Never siding with anyone…Owing nobody… All in all, with good smarts you were armed… What can I say, I do not know anyone who is alike you, nowadays… Ready right at noon to push aside the weak ones, without even thinking… And like Gary Cooper, to get in front of tramps all alone… Yes, here and there I remember a girl we know each other by… Capricious, rainy summer…Seventy and something…The year of Cancer… When my high school love left me for a cop? OK, it was long ago…Seven seas since then, have flown down Danube… While winds propelled a sail of my coat along the turbulent sea… Two, three stars landed on your epaulets… That is when priests arrived…Then cannons…Then thieves… And the whole World misshaped… Graspers crawled out…Then liars…Ingenious ones… But who would dare to remind you of who you are… Only the first in class is well remembered… I do not know, Blue…It seemed to me that Belgrade was celebrating… Big resurrection of the spirit…All the graffiti…And then a cordon… For God's sake, in front of those children as in front of some horde… You know what follows…Still, she was something valuable… If we did not get into a fight that month of June because of her honor… Are we going to do it now, for these desperados eager for power? As long as we got these freaks with a full bag of tricks… Nothing that is worthy will be worth a thing… Are there really no ways under the invasion of boors… Well, you have been educated to arrest that Sediment… And not to allow them to give you orders… Sorry, Blue…Off an on, the head regulates the heart… What happened to the old friends…Some went crazy, some have gone away… But you are just great brother, if you can peacefully sleep… And scribble a street song in the Cyrillic… Hardly would others be able to solve that hieroglyph, But, Somebody would know I am here… Some white, small shoes would stop and translate The verse on the asphalt… Once I will disguise in a ballade… In a refrain, which can still be caught over There… And I will pass by Stara Vlaska… Move her hair with a breath… And quickly get lost behind the corner… And in front of a frightful governor's nose, like Peter Pan's shadow Will pull the hat forward… Over a roof and an attic, feeling dizzy from distances… Will put a branch of lavender among her dresses… Wrinkles easily appear…Very little is left the same… But eyes, of my Croatian girl cast spells with the same magical glow…. Drawer full of pearls scattered across the sky… In the fall wind takes on the smell of the Bosut River… Initially nothing is wrong with me, but already after a couple of drinks An easy sound arrives from the far… Followed by tercet of dry leaves from one oak-tree by Belisce, Shamefully, to the full… Why in hell did I give her a white rose that grew widely… Why did I give her a ride on my bicycle… Wrinkles easily appear…Very little is left the same… But eyes, of my Croatian girl cast spells with the same magical glow…. It is the story of an antichrist and a squanderer... The so-called Geda, who inherited a vast piece of land from the late uncle, and pottered away everything... There've been incidents like that before... Where someone squandered and wasted a piece of land... But that someone wasted our land, now that is something we haven't been experiencing... Which is when we from the family became a little pensive and put a finger on our foreheads, Though there've been suggestions to rest a thing or two against Geda's forehead as well, but that didn't pass... I mean, the idea hasn't passed out of my head... Geda, you blockhead... You flung away the entire land... Wasted everything, shame on you... Geda, you drunkard... It happened once that Geda went to a trade fair... And rode a young bull on a wager... Ever since he tumbled down, he's been curving his lip a little to the right, shaking and talking wild... And then on a different occasion, Geda went to a theater... And saw a play with that Knight and the Dragon... It was then he decided to, as soon as he's grown up a little, marry a dragon. (REF: Geda, you blockhead...) Then, one day, Geda went to a dance... How hatefully...and arrogantly that drummer was sizing him up! "Stop staring at me, you with the hair!" Immediately, Geda used his nose to smash the drummer's fist to flinders... On another occassion, Geda barely brought himself to go to church... But even there, he embarrassed himself greatly... What a shame and trouble: Father Paja sent him outside... Because he was belching loudly... (REF: Geda, you blockhead...) This is the second chapter of Geda storytelling... Geda is...how'd I describe him physically...has a very trenchant gaze... Cuts right through a melon... But his other parts are blunt, he wrecked the entire land... On one occassion, Geda went to build a little bridge... And caught his thumb under a plank... Sucking at it to decrease swelling, he arrived at a better plan: to simply pile some dirt over the creek.... And then it happened that Geda didn't go anywhere for a change... Which unfortunately meant that he was coming up with yet another, worse misery... He is resting on the settee..."Look how modest!", one might say. But we know Geda well... (REF: Geda, you blockhead...) Once, long ago, Geda went to a movie theater... A sad Russian war-movie touched him deeply... Full of tears, he says to his wife: "Now that's what I'd like to have: Wars, and armies!" And it happened once that Geda never went to court... Although they keep chalking in his "minuses"... Oh my, everything is going to heat up when the panic breaks loose... Unlucky we will be with Geda... And everybody will tell him in a choir: (REF: Geda, you blockhead...) This is the third chapter about Geda, there would be more chapters... Geda is like a Mexican TV-series with a happy-end... 'Cause, you see, there will be a happy-end either way... For us or for Geda... It happened once that Geda went on people's nerves...vexed the neighborhood one by one... So now in the end, who is the crazy one? Geda, or us who tolerate Geda? Brother, Geda just wouldn't stop being extreme... The land could only take so much... I propose that our Geda, once everything starts changing for the better, be happily buried. Which is when the pastor will say: (REF: Geda, you blockhead...) I dreamt of a crying shepherd girl in a plum-orchard… Thunder crashes…Hayricks burst into fire…Her herd falls apart… Smoke entangles in a curl…She says Bosnia she is called… Strange name for a girl? For someone Drina runs on the right…For someone Drina runs on the left… Even if it ran into depth…Cutting the World in two halves… I know a secret ford, my fawn…Where I step, a bridge spreads out… Even if black horses drag me…There is no side for me, while you are on the other one… Left is this old compass in the chest…And no-trespassing field sprouted… Black shadows which nest in people, fly over me like ravens… I used to travel across Moon…Through a band of highwaymen… And now, human eyes scare me more than wolfish… Hundred times have friends been mentioned in a prayer… Will they be delighted for me? Or will they turn their heads away from me? What to lie? What to tell them? You cannot save the World with a song… Their worries, are my worries tonight as well… While I am getting ready for the way home…For the way home…To the unknown… We were dissipating around the World as a string of pearls…Carried on carpets across the sky… Were those really better days, or were we better? We used to fraternize by gazes…Surmising that we dream the same… Even God was indifferent if we christen or bow… Just when I think you are asleep… The sateen rustles…Darkness gets disturbed… And like a wave, you come across… Summer is wintering in your navel's shell… There, you keep the Sun crumbs for us… With your touch, desire rhymes… While, like a wave, you invade onto… And nothing else matters… The face of the World, evil and fake, shortly fades away… And nobody else matters… Everyone is just sand, disdained and tiny, sand beneath our feet… Silvers of March are smithing a ring for your finger… Along your crupper, a star has fallen… I clasp you to my bosom ineffectually, as to a cross… Like a wave, you elude… You leave salty, clear drops… And a flock of nice smells of Istria, you spread around the room… You leave a deceptive pledge of foam… In the heart of this cracked stone, which you are breaking… On whom the Moon, a gold coin from the sky's treasure, barely falls every time… A timid doe trembles under a shield, forever chased by contours of fear… The doe, which gets anxious, even from peaceful slopes of dream… I miss our love, sweetie…Without it, life crumbles vainly… I miss you the way you were…I miss myself…as I used to be crazy… I know that time dislikes heroes…And that it made every temple dirty… But see, nothing besides the two of us was any good to me… When I search for the path to the core of myself, the pathways become narrower and narrower… And I hide in your ear's shelter, like a double cherry earring… But I manage to resist once again, whispering, loving you in a Russian way tonight… What are words…A flint-stone that eventually becomes shabby… I miss our love, sweetie…Without it, this wolf changes in nature… I miss you the way you were…I miss myself…as I used to be crazy… I know that time blurs colors…And that it obscures strong brightness… But see, nothing besides the two of us meant anything to me… Sometimes again in my felt hat, you drop your smile down like an enchanted gold coin… And then, I am my own…Regardless of the name they call me by; I am only your personal Harlequin… Sometimes again…A tear spreads ink all over…And like a domino, a wall crashes down in a labyrinth… That simple…Sometimes again, we come to ourselves… I miss our love, sweetie…Without it, the cold crawls up along my veins… I miss you the way you were…I miss myself…as I used to be crazy… I know that time always takes its share…And I do not know, why would it spare us? But see, nothing besides the two of us was worth anything to me… Early daylight weaving its dark needlepoint on a thin gauze… Murky faces, alone, with sins… In a passage with no return… My bird entangled in a black bush… Carried away by the flickering morning star… And breath is late, while a cold scalpel steel slides along the thread of beads… There is a plan for the angles to steal her away… Or for a moment…to bring her back among them… For sometimes the sky creates a big ballade… And seeks a rhyme for the main verse… Delicate, white legion is rushing at the city… The month of January is unfolding its finer carpet… In the collusion are the first snow and I… So, that this winter, waits for her foot-prints… Unworthy are stories that I already know… Lies, for her sleepy eyes… I am inventing a fable…Strange, inversed lullaby… To keep her awake… There is a path choosing the ones intended… Mysterious road…Always favoring those who are the best… For sometimes the sky only plays black key pads… And seeks a note of that tone… Somewhere on the bridge now, a boy stands confused… For he only suspects that you exist… Some studded song waits somewhere inside of you… Which nobody alive knows, yet… A chain is clinking within you with its mysterious rings… You will be a mother to many mothers… There is a plan for the angles to steal you away… Like the ones built to be marveled at… No…It was more like the ones built for throwing a look down … And...Kissing under them...for the first time… Yet…Often, She crossed it with her vain, cadet-like step… With the moonlight like bream, caught in the net of her hair… Because of that, you see, I'll remember it… Like a drunken wedding guest, war passed through the field… Partied all night… Brazing its anger over early wheat-plants, and buds of melon … Why? Don't ask yourself, for…it's better not to…God even agreed… Wars pass, but people, after all, stay on… For evil, I'm too idyllic…but, that's an old story… You know already: there were two brothers…and such… When I put together the mosaic…Only a piece remains in my hand… And…It's us, you see? Fling your slippers into the air, grieving Panonnian fairy… For your pearl button, my kingdom I bestow… Strike the tambourine on your side…Pour April over shoulders… And humiliate this darkness with your lucid glow… Start your dance…barefoot and defiant… While over Novi Sad the Devil ignites his incense… Dark jade on the river as soon as dusk thickens… Before dawn, Danube is hasty… The ghosts on a barge sailing through fog scare you? No, fear is not the right color for your lips… Forget about it, for eternity… And trust the star refracting your ray of life… It's not the first monster threatening with the flaming breath…no… But love is a knight… Archangel with sword, ready to crush even that beast to death… Yes…It's only waiting for your sign…. On which surprisingly, a familiar joke was aired… All those gags and identical faces…Picture-book, with pages that flip over… Sadly, like a notebook found on a chest bottom… A smile freezes for a moment…Where are Laurel and Hardy now… And this cross-eyed mad man…And his white doggy? They are all dead…Taken away… Ivy has long ago covered a verse…. Done, are they, with evils and worries… But, beautiful madness, like an aureole, still murmurs around them… There was a vintage…A photo only left from it…Year of our Lord, unknown… Well, whatever…Those barrels were emptied out, long ago… Dad, with a famous tweed cap, slides his satchel down the back… Grandpa, dropping swaths of hay in front of a black horse… I recognize the mother by her blouse through brownish shadows from peach trees… And, like I hear a meeting of villagers, joined for work…And giggles down the road… But, they are all dead…And blessed… Ivy has long ago covered a verse… Saved, are they, from evil times… And a trace of honor and kindness, like an aureole, still murmurs around them… A school year book with important faces of the cool and the brains… But, only one motto: Hold on, Planet… Dreamers…Geniuses…Champions…Sacrificed as pawns… Flags fell at the age of forty-five… Whenever I meet them, they complain…Whispering as conspirators… But, a drunk breath is a wind, which cannot raise a dragon… They are already dead…And they walk… I was not born to wait for the World's demise…My life is not for sale… But when you weave your aureole…there is no better place for that…than dark |
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