Voleti Sarajevo-voleti u p***u materinu!

Hello.Otvorio sam ovo da malo proširim svoj objavljivački prostor.Inače pišem pjesme i priče,najčešće u pijanom stanju,kraj opušaka i lokvica pive.Možete me naći s bocom jeftinog piva,u zagrljaju raznih cura,ili s čašom apsinta,u otrcanoj odjeći i s izgubljenim parom zelenih očiju koje gledaju negdje...

He blessed nonentity with every curse
And spiced with sorrow the dull soul of sense,
Breathed life into the sterile universe,
With Love and Knowledge drove out innocence
The Key of Joy is disobedience.



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Peter

The Doors
Johnny Cash
Led Zeppelin
Country-sve živo,sigurno stvari koje nikad niste čuli
Blues(apsolutno sve)
Nightwish
Gothic(tu i tamo)
Nine inch nails
Pink Floyd
Balašević
Azra

KALEIDOSKOP

U ulici jednoj, sred sanjana grada,
bit će ko kad prođe ovaj život strašan:
trenut istodobno žestok i nejasan...
O sunce u magli koja se raspada!

O krik s mora, zvuči što ih šuma lije!
Bit će kao da nam ništa nije znano;
iz metampsihoza buđenje lagano:
stvari bit će iste više nego prije.

U ulici posred grada začarana
orgulje u suton napjeve će mljeti,
mačke će se na sve šankove popeti,
limene će glazbe ići sa svih strana.

Bit će tako kobno kao da se mrije,
na licima suze od slatkoga plača,
smijeh prepun jecaja u lomu kotača,
dozivanje smrti da dođe što prije.

Neke drevne riječi ko uvelo cvijeće,
od plesova čut ćeš buku uzavrelu,
udovice nose cekine na čelu,
roj se prostakuša med kurvama kreće,

koje se muvaju, strašni klapci s njima
i lišajni starci, bez obrva, bijeli,
dok na drugom kraju narod se veseli
uz bljesak raketa i miris urina.

Bit će kao onda kad se od sna budi
i ponovno zaspi i ponovno sniva
te ukrase čudne, pune cara živa,
ljeto što nam travu i zuj pčela nudi.
Voltaire
Izet Sarajlić

ROĐENI 23 STRELJANI 42


Večeras ćemo za njih voljeti
Bilo ih je 28
Bilo ih je pethiljada 28
Bilo ih je više nego što je ikad u jednoj pjesmi bilo ljubavi
Sad bi bili očevi
Sad ih više nema.

Mi koji smo po peronima jednog vijeka
Odbolovali samoće svih svjetskih Robinzona
Mi, koji smo nadživjeli tenkove i nikog nismo ubili
Mala velika moja
Večeras ćemo za njih voljeti.

I ne pitaj jesu li se mogli vratiti
I ne pitaj je li se moglo natrag
Dok je posljednji put crven ko komunizam
Goreo horizont njihovih želja
Preko njihovih neljubljenih godina izbodena i uspravna
Prešla je budućnost ljubavi

Nije bilo tajni o polegloj travi
Nije bilo tajni o raskopčanom prvom dugmetu
Tamo gdje se svršava vrat
Nije bilo tajni o klonuloj ruci s' ispuštenim ljiljanom

Bile su noći, bile su žice
Bilo je nebo koje se gleda posljednji put
Bili su vozovi koji se vraćaju prazni i pusti
Bili su vozovi i makovi
I s' njima, s' tužnim makovima jednog vojničkog ljeta
S' divnim smislom podražavanja
Takmičila se njihova krv.

A na Kalimegdanima i Nevskim Prospektima
Na južnim bulevarima i kejovima rastanka
Na cvijetnim trgovima i mostovima Mirabo
Divne i kad ne ljube

Čekale su Ane, Zoje, Žanet
Čekale su da se vrate vojnici
A ako se ne vrate
Svoja neljubljena ramena daće dječacima

Nisu se vratili
Preko njihovih streljanih očiju prešli su tenkovi
Preko njihovih nedopjevanih marseljeza
Preko njihovih izrešetanih iluzija

Sad bi bili očevi, sad ih više nema
Na zbornom mjestu ljubavi sad čekaju kao grobovi
Mala velika moja
Večeras ćemo za njih voljeti.

Večeras ćemo za njih voljeti.

The Bee Meeting
Sylvia Plath

Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers----
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.

I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voces are changing. I am led through a beanfield.

Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its children.

Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?

I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a virgin,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.

Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,

Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins

Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?

I am exhausted, I am exhausted ----
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.


Hymn to Lucifer

Ware, nor of good nor ill, what aim hath act?
Without its climax, death, what savour hath
Life? an impeccable machine, exact
He paces an inane and pointless path
To glut brute appetites, his sole content
How tedious were he fit to comprehend
Himself! More, this our noble element
Of fire in nature, love in spirit, unkenned
Life hath no spring, no axle, and no end.

His body a bloody-ruby radiant
With noble passion, sun-souled Lucifer
Swept through the dawn colossal, swift aslant
On Eden's imbecile perimeter.
He blessed nonentity with every curse
And spiced with sorrow the dull soul of sense,
Breathed life into the sterile universe,
With Love and Knowledge drove out innocence
The Key of Joy is disobedience.

Aleister Crowley


The Arrow And the Song

I shot the arrow in the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
Longfellow