by Vinko Kalinic
classic song has rhyme. modern one has metaphors, philosophy, play of words and lots of bullshitting. my song has nothing. just you. naked. pure. with a smile of an angel and a look of a whore. ( but yes! – the most beautiful angel and the worst possible whore!) literate. concrete. stripped. so eternal. so null and void. transient. and because of that, so ultimate. and because of that, just like that, unique, I’d like to preserve you in my memory. like the live wellspring where all my dreams will emerge from. always young, new, untainted...and reproducing you with the same power. with faith full of brutal craving. with memories. and reminiscence.
once when you wouldn’t be so young, so you can be prettier than any bride has ever been. once when everything will be dead, even this time that is so alive just because of you, so alive that it appears to us as eternity, when that time is dead too, and some other hands – hands young and thirsty for life! – when those hands will be digging through yours, and mine past, when they will be twisting, and grubbing, through its own past. through the time which will then be dead, like this time will be too, if you weren’t living in it, so shamelessly timeless – when they find me, shrivelled, and buried, in the dead words, so the dead letters will tremble. and those young, live hands. with bones inside them. like my bones too, and my hands tremble. now! full of you, in front of you, you who are so full of life. and in front of every trace they left behind, now already dead people. people who were live before – so alive, like I’m alive now, because I see you! – people who were trembling before us, witnessing themself with tremulous existence, witnessing you and me, and all those who will yet come. like I’m witnessing right now, that all what the life trembles for, is worth life and all that we love unconditionally. at the end, because the life also trembles in front of us, like we do in front of it. – the time is trembling! – it walks over everything that is temporal. all that is from Earth you return to Earth. the lips fade out and the eyes dry up. that’s the truth! sad and live truth. – but the smile remains! and the look! and eternity! the same smile, and the same look like yours. believe me. the man can’t be dead in the presence of this. nor even sad. the one that erase the time. the one in front of I tremble alive.
and which one is not made of Earth!
your navel contains more information than Wikipedia. With 2 metres of your skin I would be able to cover the whole world mankind: the dead one and the one that is getting extinct, and the one that is yet going to be born. Even the one that has never existed, but also the same one without our dreams would never have existed.
because of you, I’m out of my mind, like all of those who have their own transience transfused into the letters. because of you I write poems crucified like Christ on the seventh heaven. In heaven where there’s neither God’s Father, nor God’s Mother, nor Holy Spirit, nor Karl Marx, nor the Archbishop of Zagreb...nobody! – neither the one who would save us, nor the one who would cremate us.
who burn by my eyes. naked like the earth. and life. and everything alive in those eyes.
and inside me.
if I stop writing You, never will anything be so mine. if I stop singing You, never will ever be anything – neither of me, nor the earth, nor the poetry.
seriously! before Your smile all facts are being demolished! On their own. Like before the power of sea, those sand castles we used to build when we were kids. beside you, I will never grow up. I’ll never get equal to your fucking smile. that’s why I love you, because you are as well as the Love, essential: real and – impossible!
counting stupid things: the sun without heat, cold fire, water without clearness, nationalism, beer in the sun, recession, life without you...what is life without passion?
passion. passion. passion. pile of passion.
you howl like a bora beneath Velebit mountain. You have whirled me up like a hurricane scirocco when it whirled up the fishermen on Palagruža Island.
those fishermen, from the tales of my grandpa – galley slaves.
that isn’t silly!
if you didn’t exist, I would’ve been dead.
to the very last particle.
in a desert.
Last updated September 28, 2011