3:AM Magazine

By Zvonko Karanović.

Big Baboon

As soon as the kisses bark up the neck
my dear child
your sugar nipples will bloom
on my carpet

A: why are you beating on me?
B: here’s some more!
A: big baboon
B: here’s some more!
A: big baboon climbing up to the moon (sings)

your lips are
a reserve of unplucked kisses
your years are
the aging poets’ desire

brutality is not my dream
brutality is my purpose
brutality is not my dream
brutality is what you feel

move it
move like the little hand on the clock
and promise you’ll never, ever
pee in the bed again

o pee-pee pee-pee not, o pee-pee pee-pee not

 

The Monster’s Lullaby

Breathe in the heat
            that paralyzes the green and yellow blinds
            of everyday eyes
shoot the fever into that
            shapeless jello
                    that shivers all night
            on vacant asphalt

fascination
vibration
energy
frustration
are the names of the streets you walk
when you exit your Tower of Babel
and they’re the signs that you’re slowly growing old
with that face no-one
notices
and this is why you should greet
            the skyscraper division
                    standing watch over the city
greet the night guard
waiting for the next shift
and for the globe to turn
that one last little flicker
                    until dawn
                    until the first bus
                    that murders the night
and tramples the gold dust from the nostrils of
                    the Monster

Siberia is a place where nothing ever happens
I spray painted on the wall of the
police station
and then walked to the nearest newsstand
broke the glass, and with
my young
        young
            fifteen-year-old flesh
            hugged the splinters of the flashlight’s
            beam
all because I wanted to say:
TOMORROW IS MY DAY
and
not
TOMORROW IS JUST ANOTHER DAY
stillborn
            mongoloid
condemned to instant oblivion

my favorite lullaby starts with:
Gene Vincent knew too much
to live any longer than
a New Year firecracker
and that’s why
he devoted his life
to rock-n-roll and fast motorcycles
            and that’s why he practiced only with his right
                    just that one punch in the chin
the strong and fast
invisible bite
of the pneumatic drill
and that’s why he wore sunglasses
            to hide the eyes that betrayed him
                    and their wilted light

heavy drugs get the bloodstream going
and the world turns
spring, summer, fall, winter
BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH…

…From SILVER SURFER (1991)

 

Giant Sand

Too much optimism
is schizophrenia’s waiting room
the inability to unstick the eyelashes
from their sweet trance
and German soaps
fragrant and waterproof

just laugh me

is what you always say
though you know very well
that the small Jewish boy
met his end in a shiny car
on a humid afternoon such as this
little James Dean
the king of the centerfold
you cried for him every time
your hair touched
white starched pillowcases

the rebellion’s long forgotten

in Dušanova street
where we left our best friends
mute witnesses
of marital fights now stand
asking themselves
where life as they knew it
has gone

it’s summer

and you don’t leave the bed
you’re not an artist
because you’re always looking back
and all I want is to be
friends with you
in the times
when all we’ll have left is
to wear out our own pasts

someone’s ringing the doorbell

the gods have decided
to step off the election posters
and give inspiration to suicides
O yes, you’re so sleepy
that I can’t forgive you
for not throwing me out of this
aquarium with so many
spectators

with a cross under the pillow

earthly days stand and wait
for you to save my children
with their tattooed veins
the room is a toy
the garage is a ghetto of harmless love
in the giant sand
crabs walk backwards
and don’t let themselves be fooled

tissue dies off
twice as fast as time

 

Marlena’s Tale

From midnight to morning
and never back
you find only ashes
your skin doesn’t want to remember
the powder that covers your dream
could be white
white snow

your knees are marble pillars
on which the fate
of all of us who’ve met you
is told
the unrest of your soles was
a hasty wisdom roused
on the first
high-school class trip

never explain
your life to anyone
maybe I’ll do it for you
and they’ll all have to come to me
to show them how to forget you
in a plastic bag
the goodnight glue
for the long trip through
Ray-Ban mirrors

from midnight to morning
and never back
you keep giving
your skin away bit by bit
to people you don’t know
in the black water
with hoods for eye bags
life is the slowest
of all the deaths

…From MAMA MELANCHOLY (1996)

 

Belle de Jour

Piles of food in the shop windows
dogs soaked through on sidewalks
abandoned bikes and few cars
a girl
in a tweed skirt suit
slim legs and straight blond hair
walks listlessly
a supermarket cashier with no job
ice-cream carts closed shut
the rain won’t stop
and still
under a small umbrella
she walks with no rush
stops
in the middle of the street
she’s nauseous
maybe she’s pregnant
she can’t even think about it
she climbs the stairs
unlocks the apartment door
and disappears into the bathroom
she looks at herself a long time
in the mirror
thinking
she’s been with so many
but for a long time no-one has kissed
her lips
she was able to
keep that little bit of intimacy
to herself

…from EXTRAVAGANZA (1997)

 

Waiting for Things to Just Happen

I was reading
something reminded me of you
how lounging
in the back seat of the car
you stubbornly spurned
my kisses
those ruinous ocean waves
when sails
ripped open in the wind
and lifeboats were
remote

you weren’t ready
your chin quivered
as night passed
down the outlines of
your hips
in the flame of the lighter
you held so nervously

I made a mistake
I let you go
and now
in vain I describe
the hotel rooms where you
strip
just for me

while I lie
head on my arm
and smoke another cigarette
you’re left naked
with a scarf around your neck
a long silk scarf that
like a great pendulum
falls between your breasts
and swings as you draw near
and the cigarette burns out

still
that scarf
so light and distant
is some kind of pain
the line you
never wanted to cross
it’s hard to understand

I sit in the house and read
I imagine trees
with thousands of flowers
trees laid along the ground
and the gusting wind
I’m not expecting anyone tonight
except despair
except the cities
drawing near

 

Corto, Come Back

Black light on the porch
gold rings on fingers
the wedding portrait
above the marriage bed
are useless
like describing ecstasy

you can never rely on
someone who had
an orderly childhood
only the chosen
are handed the keys at birth

I probed reality
more than the rest of them
my liver is the hardest worker
in show business
and still
I know I won’t die in the street
although I always wanted to

alone
when night comes for me
I’ll recognize my loves
the lonely women
full of madness and ego trash
and that will be enough

by tomorrow I’ll be different
though many think
they know me well
by tomorrow I’ll be crueler
though no less polite

where these sidewalks end
abyss begins
the final guard
en route to the East
I have to be ready

…from DARK HIGHWAY (2001)

 

Death by Chocolate

You daydream in the living room
do your nails and nibble on chocolate
your silk dressing gown
and a pair of pink slippers
with their tousled white pompoms
rest next to the armchair
above which
you float
ever so slightly
your breath barely audible
without wings or other such tricks

you already possess all my secrets
I already told you to fly
into temptation
to become
a Kabul wife
have you ever imagined yourself
as one of those women
whose eyes are the only spark of life
whose body is wrapped in
a grey casket of
balloon silk
if you have
then you should leave me

I notice
tall army boots
on the feet of girls who just
passed us by
no
we’re not going to the museum
I look for the bus that will take us
to the water bed
filled with champagne
crazy as astronauts
tragic as the heroes
of the civil war

 

More Miracles

Always the same
midmorning daydreams
dodging the early start
& the departure for work
looking at the sky and
waiting for a miracle
in high heels

erotic dreams about the girl
from the seventh floor
strong red wine
and the neighing
and bread
and chocolate
miracles can happen
is what I always say

I try to console myself
with two quick beers
not to think of myself
as a loser
and not to disappear
whenever it’s time
to sign a contract
with real life
groceries
and drugs

one has to live through
traffic lights
bills
soaps
razors
be the colorful parrot in a hencoop
die at twenty seven
rise from the dead
at thirty three
you name it, I’ve done it
and it makes no sense to sink deeper still

the tub overflows
and sponges float over tiles
the kids didn’t take their keys
the wife’s at work
it’s suicide time
and a quick resurrection
it would be
another midmorning miracle

I try to find the right reasons to do it
but the light’s on my side
in the elevator
the neighbor
with the pornstar breasts
and a divinely plunging neckline
slips me a note
with her cell phone number

miracles can happen
is what I always say
but please
don’t think about that

 

Everyday Desert

Certainty marks the end of the spell
like the end of a game
like white panic
like time bursting open
I can’t stand dirty sheets
I’d make a good cadet at an SS camp
anarchist & emigrant
assassin of love

I left the tiger paws on the shelf
sweatband & the basketball
I came back to win
and became
a pirouette of hot verses?
the tree that bears fruit in winter

I was
a Sufi dervish in a mystic trance
the dark scanner of everyday habits
and now I wait for the one
who comes slowly
but does come
step by step
line by line

I fabricate too many worlds
soldiers & doubles
I fabricate
too much solitude
tired from arrivals
tired from departures
tired from victories
tired from the sadness

that swells in waves

…From STRIPPING (2004)

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Zvonko Karanović (1959) is a poet and fiction writer born in Niš, Serbia. Like the poets of the Beat generation he takes as his models, he has traveled widely throughout Europe, hitchhiking and often changing jobs. He has worked as a journalist, editor, radio host, DJ, concert organizer, and for thirteen years he was the owner of a music store.
His writings draw on Beat literature roots, film, and pop culture. A writer of distinctly urban sensibilities, steeped in the spirit of riot and revolt, he has written some of the most significant politically engaged poetry critiquing the 90’s regime in Serbia. For many years he was an underground cult figure and a seminal influence on a whole generation of younger poets. He is the only Serbian poet with a fan club (“The Silver Surfer”) – founded in 1991 and still operational.

His trilogy The Diary of a Deserters is the first such project in 21st-century Serbian literature, and is comprised of the novels More Than Zero (2004), Four Walls and the City (2006), and Three Snapshots of Victory (2009). Taking place in the period between April 1998 and October 5, 2000, the trilogy chronicles the lives of three young urban men who, fighting for their beliefs, attempt to live freely in an unfree land. His trilogy is dedicated to Serbia’s “lost generation” – those who, in the 90’s, either left the country, perished in the new Balkan wars, or suffered social marginalization due to their cosmopolitan worldview. All three novels received great attention: More Than Zero went through three editions, while Four Walls and the City and Three Snapshots of Victory placed as finalists for the NIN Award, the most prestigious annual literary award for fiction in the country.

His books of poetry are:
Blitzkrieg (Niš, 1990)
Silver Surfer (Niš, 1991; Belgrade, 2001)
Mama Melancholy (Belgrade, 1996)
Extravaganza (Niš, 1997)
Dark Highway (Belgrade, 2001)
Stripping (Kraljevo, 2004)
Neon Dogs – Selected Poems (Belgrade, 2001)
Dark Highway – Selected Poems (Zagreb, Croatia, 2008)
Box Set – Collected Poems (Belgrade, 2009)

His poems have been translated into English, Greek, Hungarian, Bulgarian, Macedonian, Slovenian, Slovakian, Czech, Ukrainian, Germany, and Polish. His novels include More Than Zero (Niš, 2004, 2005; Belgrade, 2006), Four Walls and the City (Belgrade, 2006, 2008) and Three Snapshots of Victory (Belgrade, 2009, 2010)

Today Zvonko Karanović lives in Belgrade as a free artist.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, September 12th, 2010.