Letter

I have almost started this poem
with
“Long time ago”.
With this displacement into indefinite past
I could easily commit an error.
Remain motionless,
free from the cracking of moments
which permeate the body with warm patience.
Without a blissful smile
that slowly matures.
That turns suffering into a smooth beauty.
That can be sipped straight from the lips,
then sucked in like a phantom
which offers a different outcome.
It is late.
From the window to the door there are
only a few steps.
When I pause
I am seized by panic,
I feel the barren time invading:
from the floor,
through the cracks of the walls,
the errors multiply,
the ones I was not aware before.
When I think about what I missed out on,
I tremble.
What do I feel? What do I give?
What can I receive?
“I write with my body”,
I used to say.
To be without scruples,
invading the void slowly.
Finally, I waved my head,
finally, I could recall.
I did not shout, I did not sigh,
I did not wave my hands.
I was sitting down.
Staring dully I tried to reach what was left
of the trifles.
I held that my desk was a machine
for the erasure of forgetfulness,
and the fine layer of dust on it
was the imprint of time.
From one of the photos applauses,
merriment caught in passing.
I want to tame that which you
could call unthinkable,
than turn it into a letter –
expected,
received,
displaced,
forever lost.

What are you waiting for? I screamed, I think,
amazed.
In an opportune moment I could hop,
wring the body like a dirty rag
and be forever devoid of desire.
Eroticizing particles
which have separated us and brought us together
are now just a sediment
that can slip away forever.

Do you want to?
I could walk over
to the window again,
and recognize in the branches the same aggression
that radiated from the skin I used to caress,
the skin that I can now hardly remember.
I can’t sleep.
To watch, to watch in silence,
to remain without words,
without wonder.
Listening for the sounds which
represent perfectly nothing.
If they were only words
that I could take up,
and suck them into my body and
than resist clumsiness carelessly.
While I type
I sense the aimless incertitude
on my fingertips.
Do I really write with my body?
Or is that longing reaching out,
greedily looking for a place on
a piece of paper?
Nothingness
, Emptiness
, Nightmare
. The decision ground into tiny particles,
unmelted sugar crystals
lost on the upper lip.

I got the scissors
and started cutting off the tips
of the leaves on my plant.
Suddenly I discovered the uselessness
which trickled across the leaves
in tiny jets
becoming a mere pile of dust.
I will lick that dust,
push it into my nostrils,
and finally turn into something that
trembles in the faintest wind.
I may go out,
abandon myself to the unknown drives
just barely inscribed in my cornea
and strain my eyes looking for
some sharp contour on the horizon.
Or I will stay at my desk
and tremble from time to time
from newly found pleasure,
and sighing loudly write
a sentence which I avoided before –

“In the past when I took every mistake
for a defeat,
I believed that it is very easy to love”.

pismo

pismo

Malo je nedostajalo pa da prva rijec
koju želim napisati bude
“nekoc”.
Takvim pomakom u neodredenu prošlost
mogao bih lako pogriješiti.
Ostati bez pokreta,
osloboden onog pucketanja trenutaka
koji tijela ispunjavaju toplom strpljivošcu.
Bez blaženog smiješka
što dozrijeva polagano.
Koji tlapnju obrce u glatku ljepotu.
Koji se može posrkati s usana,
zatim usisati kao utvaru
što daruje neki drugi ishod.
Kasno je.
Od prozora do vrata samo je
nekoliko koraka.
Kad zastanem,
obuzima me panika,
osjecam kako nadire prazno vrijeme:
s poda,
kroz pukotine zida u uglovima,
kako se pocinju rojiti greške
kojih ranije nisam bio svjestan.
Pri pomisli na propušteno,
hvata me drhtavica.
Što osjecam? Što pružam?
Što mogu primiti?
“Pišem svojim tijelom”,
rekoh.
Biti bez obzira,
lagano cupkajuci osvajati prazninu.
Napokon, zamahnuo sam glavom,
napokon, mogu se prisjecati.
Nisam povikao, nisam uzdahnuo,
nisam rukama mahao.
Sjedio sam.
Tupo zureci nastojao sam dohvatiti preostale
sitnice.
Pisaci stol shvacao sam kao stroj
za brisanje zaborava,
a fini sloj prašine na njemu
kao otisak vremena.
S jedne fotografije dopire klicanje,
razdraganost uhvacena u prolazu.
Hocu ukrotiti ono što bi se moglo
nazvati nedokucivim,
zatim to pretopiti u pismo –
ocekivano,
primljeno,
zametnuto,
zauvijek izgubljeno.


Što cekaš? – povikah, cini mi se,
zaprepašteno.
U zgodnom trenutku mogu poskociti,
tijelo ižmikati kao krpu
i zauvijek biti lišen želje.
Erotizirajuce cestice
što su nas dijelile i spajale
sada su tek talog koji nam
može iskliznuti zauvijek.
Hoceš li?
Mogao bih se ponovno uputiti
do prozora,
u granama prepoznati istu onu agresiju
koja je zracila s kože što sam je nekoc
milovao,
kože koje se sada jedva sjecam.
Ne mogu spavati.
Gledati, gledati nijemo,
bez rijeci ostati,
bez cudenja.
Osluškivati zvukove koji ne
predstavljaju savršeno ništa.
Da su barem rijeci,
da ih mogu prisvojiti,
usisati u svoje tijelo i onda
spokojno odolijevati nespretnostima.
Dok udaram u tipke,
osjecam besciljno vrludanje
u vršcima prstiju.
Pišem li zaista svojim tijelom?
Ili je to cežnja što izbija van,
pohotljivo tražeci mjesto na
stranici papira?
Ili je to jednostavno
Ništa
, Praznina
, Mòra. 
Odluka izmrvljena u sitna zrnca,
nerastopljeni kristali šecera
zalutali na gornjoj usni.


Dohvatio sam škare za papir
i s ukrasnog drveta poceo izrezivati
vrhove na listovima.
Odjednom sam otkrio beskorisnost
koja je preko listova curila
u tankim mlazovima
postajuci samo hrpa praha.
Polizat cu taj prah,
ugurati ga u nosnice,
preobraziti se zatim u nešto što se
njiše i na najslabijem vjetru.
Uputit cu se možda van,
prepustiti se nepoznatim nagonima
tek navlaš upisanim u šarenicu oka
i žmirkati tražeci neku oštru
pukotinu na obzoru.
Ili cu ostati za pisacim stolom,
s vremena na vrijeme zadrhtati
od iznova otkrivenog zadovoljstva,
pa glasno uzdahnuvši napisati
recenicu koje sam se ranije klonio –

“Nekoc, kad sam svaku grešku shvacao
kao poraz,
vjerovao sam kako je voljeti veoma lako”.