You stole the apple from Adam‘s hand and
fled through a mist of arms.

Your hair is wild, it escapes me like time.
You stole the noise from my heart.

The silence is wild, even laughs at god.
I am standing here still, sinking in tempest.

Have you got any bites left, Salome?
Here, on the precipice, snow is yet falling.




I stretch my smile, innocent before strangers. The past has arched up to the surface. From the deep corridors I know well, you escape so skillfully with your sticky horns.

From the profundity, one penetrates slowly, bending, feeling unbodied, heavy like a planet and down there the sun never shines.

The present is ripped and from the firmament of what is to come, underripe cherries are dripping on me. We are being separated by three years, ten thousand kilometers and countless pubic hairs pulled out. Your desires fly out of me and soar into the mexican sky.

I’m in a hurry while you use the moment to slowly dig into my ambitions. I am hiding from you that you are newborn in my arms, the blade and the glue. Again helpless, with my will torn apart, I fly towards you would we not merge together, but it is too late. Creation can not be interrupted, we are separated, I know, by the word – patience. Life emerges to the surface fresh, blind, cruel, divine, implacable and I will never be able to explain to you how painful are the swollen nipples of a woman nursing.

Only love can break through its own labyrinths.









Yesterday I had a dream about the yard where I used to often fall down as a child. It was one of those strange, awfully long dreams, as it seems to us later while we wash our faces.
The yard was deserted for a long time, like hospital halls at dawn. Maybe it was just that the time passed so slowly, I can‘t find the right words. Suddenly a bird flew by low, coming out of the apricot treetop, which looked a lot more lavish than it really was years ago, before age set in and had completely dried it. It was a crow, I think it flew fast. Finally, the yard lit up, letting color in, and a child stepped under the tree. It looked like my sister, but it was younger, I’m not really sure any more. It wasn’t smiling, and yet, it was happy. It was standing at the bottom of the courtyard, speechless, slowly swaying it’s arms.

Apricots started falling from the sky like cannon balls – quiet and soft. The child grew up, like forced, and became a man. Was it me whom he said: ”Waiting is silence and confirmation”? He disappeared.

Cannon balls continued to fall down when I was already rubbing my bleary eyes.



On the high seas of the desert,

your hair is floating.


you are the harsh morning of my life,

and even colder as the night.

1863 days I sit still

in your lap full of sand.

You are beautiful, mum Arizona.

A little longer and I’ll sink

in your hip and in your thighs,

stone Hesychia,

and we will become one

– red silence.




To shrug. To shrug
always seems like a good idea.
Trucks are blinking, days are dying.
You slept with him, it’s a shame, sigh.
Thousands of eyebrows rise in this instant;
he can, I still only falsely.
My lips stretched,
my step bloody,
I go into oblivion.

It was two in the afternoon in Bogotá,
The cabby didn’t know what Belgrade was,
the homeless man didn’t know he was being framed.
In cute little steps,
with his left pant leg rolled up slightly,
he circled with his nose fixed to the floor
around a guttered part of the sidewalk,
cane tapping as if he was going somewhere.
I thought of the vicious vastness,
and knew that it would break my heart
the coming nightfall,
the ripped plastic bag hooked to the old man’s backpack,
the cabby’s eyebrows in a spasm.

Poetry cannot do a thing, still,
I drown in buffets,
pleasant conversations,
same new streets,
silver pens and purses,
seems like a good idea
to shrug.
Latches in public toilets are clanking,
and I realize that my grandpa
understood what emptiness was
in Slankamen,
while we were having lunch on the Danube.


(At Charles de Gaulle, 09/12/2016)