Monthly Archives: Kolovoz 2015

The Ground Beneath Her Feet- Salman Rushdie


For a long while I have believed – this is perhaps my version of Sir Darius Xerxes Cama’s belief in a fourth function of outsideness – that in every generation there are a few souls, call them lucky or cursed, who are simply born not belonging, who come into the world semi-detached, if you like, without strong affiliation to family or location or nation or race; that there may even be millions, billions of such souls, as many non-belongers as belongers, perhaps; that, in sum, the phenomenon may be as “natural” a manifestation of human nature as its opposite, but one that has been mostly frustrated, throughout human history, by lack of opportunity.

And not only by that: for those who value stability, who fear transience, uncertainly, change, have erected a powerful system of stigmas and taboos against rootlessness, that disruptive, anti-social force, so that we mostly conform, we pretend to be motivated by loyalties and solidarities we do not really feel, we hide our secret identities beneath the false skins of those identities which bear the belongers’ seal of approval.

But the truth leaks out in our dreams; alone in our beds (because we are all alone at night, even if we do not sleep by ourselves), we soar, we fly, we flee. And in the waking dreams our societies permit, in our myths, our arts, our songs, we celebrate the non-belongers, the different ones, the outlaws, the freaks.

What we forbid ourselves we pay good money to watch, in a playhouse or a movie theater, or to read about between the secret covers of a book. Our libraries, our palaces of entertainment tell the truth. The tramp, the assassin, the rebel, the thief, the mutant, the outcast, the delinquent, the devil, the sinner, the traveler, the gangster, the runner, the mask: if we did not recognize in them our least-fulfilled needs, we would not invent them over and over again, in every place, in every language, in every time.



Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.

Sylvia Plath- The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath



Iluzija je da samo

čitaš ovu pjesmu

stvarnost je da je ovo

više nego


ovo je prosjački nož. ovo je lala.

ovo je vojnik što maršira

kroz Madrid.

ovo si ti na samrtnom odru.

ovo je Li Po koji se smije

pod zemljom.

ovo nije jebena


ovo je konj koji spava.

leptir u

tvom mozgu.

ovo je đavolji


ti ne čitaš ovu


stranica čita


osjećaš li?

to je kao kobra.

kao izgladnjeli orao

što kruži po sobi.

ovo nije pjesma.

pjesme su dosadne,

od njih ti se


ove riječi tjeraju te

u novo


blažen si,

gurnut si u

zasljepljujuće polje


slonovi sada


sa tobom.

krivina prostora

savija se i


sada možeš da umreš.

možeš da umreš jer je

ljudima suđeno da




slušajući muziku

postajući muzika,




Charles Bukowski

Eulogy to a Hell of a Dame- Charles Bukowski



Jane Cooney Baker

some dogs who sleep
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best
in that dark green dress
and those high-heeled bright
black shoes,
you always cursed when you drank,
your hair coming down you
wanted to explode out of
what was holding you:
rotten memories of a
past, and
you finally got
by dying,
leaving me with the
you’ve been dead
28 years
yet I remember you
better than any of
the rest;
you were the only one
who understood
the futility of the
arrangement of
all the others were only
displeased with
trivial segments,
nonsensically about
Jane, you were
killed by
knowing too much.
here’s a drink
to your bones
this dog
dreams about.