Love is a subject
glorified by apparitions
by lengthly ghosts passer-bye’s
good-bye hosts. Love was not
Cohen’s victory march, rather
a fluid stream that embedded
when evaporations took breathing
under mud, seriously.
I look for love, always/all ways linger(s/ing)
in shadows and store-fronts
bewilder(ing) face brows in question marks across mindless thinking
Love lingers just on the corners of my mouth
tasting like wine or brandy or nothing
just a phantom of a kiss
before bruises unwelcome
trying too hard to find
Love is a subject expanding, contracting
yet-never really going anywhere
just dancing in the strobe lights of existence
fluxing with prescribed perceptions
winged she wills to fly free when mirrors
are slates-free from creases.
Love forgive me if I trespass too long
you just smell like a garden I remembered
from an ancient place, before time.
Trešnjica (by Petar Vasić)
In 1983 a man was tested to see if he could sense god if all his senses were taken away. Every sense nerve in his brain was disconnected. He could not feel, hear, see or smell. He began reporting he could hear the voices of the dead and gave precise details that he could have not known. He then said he could see them and began clawing at his eyes, it turned to screaming and biting chunks of his flesh off. His last words were “I have spoken with God, and he has abandoned us” and died.