As soon as the kisses bark up the neck
\nmy dear child
\nyour sugar nipples will bloom
\non my carpet<\/p>\n
A: why are you beating on me?
\nB: here’s some more!
\nA: big baboon
\nB: here’s some more!
\nA: big baboon climbing up to the moon (sings)<\/p>\n
your lips are
\na reserve of unplucked kisses
\nyour years are
\nthe aging poets’ desire<\/p>\n
brutality is not my dream
\nbrutality is my purpose
\nbrutality is not my dream
\nbrutality is what you feel<\/p>\n
move it
\nmove like the little hand on the clock
\nand promise you’ll never, ever
\npee in the bed again<\/p>\n
o pee-pee pee-pee not, o pee-pee pee-pee not<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The Monster’s Lullaby<\/strong><\/p>\n Breathe in the heat fascination Siberia is a place where nothing ever happens my favorite lullaby starts with: heavy drugs get the bloodstream going \u2026From SILVER SURFER (1991)<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Giant Sand<\/strong><\/p>\n Too much optimism just laugh me<\/p>\n is what you always say the rebellion’s long forgotten<\/p>\n in Du\u00c5\u00a1anova street it’s summer<\/p>\n and you don’t leave the bed someone’s ringing the doorbell<\/p>\n the gods have decided with a cross under the pillow<\/p>\n earthly days stand and wait tissue dies off <\/p>\n Marlena’s Tale <\/strong><\/p>\n From midnight to morning your knees are marble pillars never explain from midnight to morning \u2026From MAMA MELANCHOLY (1996)<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Belle de Jour<\/strong><\/p>\n Piles of food in the shop windows \u2026from EXTRAVAGANZA (1997)<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Waiting for Things to Just Happen<\/strong><\/p>\n I was reading you weren’t ready I made a mistake while I lie still I sit in the house and read <\/p>\n Corto, Come Back<\/strong><\/p>\n Black light on the porch you can never rely on I probed reality alone by tomorrow I’ll be different where these sidewalks end \u2026from DARK HIGHWAY (2001)<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Death by Chocolate<\/strong><\/p>\n You daydream in the living room you already possess all my secrets I notice <\/p>\n More Miracles<\/strong><\/p>\n Always the same erotic dreams about the girl I try to console myself one has to live through the tub overflows I try to find the right reasons to do it miracles can happen <\/p>\n Everyday Desert<\/strong><\/p>\n Certainty marks the end of the spell I left the tiger paws on the shelf I was I fabricate too many worlds that swells in waves<\/p>\n \u2026From STRIPPING (2004)<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n His trilogy The Diary of a Deserters<\/em> is the first such project in 21st-century Serbian literature, and is comprised of the novels More Than Zero<\/em> (2004), Four Walls and the City <\/em>(2006), and Three Snapshots of Victory<\/em> (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 \u201clost generation” \u2013 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<\/em> went through three editions, while Four Walls and the City<\/em> and Three Snapshots of Victory<\/em> placed as finalists for the NIN Award, the most prestigious annual literary award for fiction in the country.<\/p>\n His books of poetry are: His poems have been translated into English, Greek, Hungarian, Bulgarian, Macedonian, Slovenian, Slovakian, Czech, Ukrainian, Germany, and Polish. His novels include More Than Zero<\/em> (Ni\u00c5\u00a1, 2004, 2005; Belgrade, 2006), Four Walls and the City <\/em>(Belgrade, 2006, 2008) and Three Snapshots of Victory<\/em> (Belgrade, 2009, 2010)<\/p>\n Today Zvonko Karanovi\u00c4\u2021 lives in Belgrade as a free artist.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" have you ever imagined yourself I notice By Zvonko Karanovi\u00c4\u2021<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":119,"featured_media":28678,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[484,7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-28660","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-maintenant","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28660","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/119"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=28660"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28660\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":111935,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28660\/revisions\/111935"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/28678"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=28660"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=28660"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=28660"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n that paralyzes the green and yellow blinds
\n of everyday eyes
\nshoot the fever into that
\n shapeless jello
\n that shivers all night
\n on vacant asphalt<\/p>\n
\nvibration
\nenergy
\nfrustration
\nare the names of the streets you walk
\nwhen you exit your Tower of Babel
\nand they’re the signs that you’re slowly growing old
\nwith that face no-one
\nnotices
\nand this is why you should greet
\n the skyscraper division
\n standing watch over the city
\ngreet the night guard
\nwaiting for the next shift
\nand for the globe to turn
\nthat one last little flicker
\n until dawn
\n until the first bus
\n that murders the night
\nand tramples the gold dust from the nostrils of
\n the Monster<\/p>\n
\nI spray painted on the wall of the
\npolice station
\nand then walked to the nearest newsstand
\nbroke the glass, and with
\nmy young
\n young
\n fifteen-year-old flesh
\n hugged the splinters of the flashlight’s
\n beam
\nall because I wanted to say:
\nTOMORROW IS MY DAY
\nand
\nnot
\nTOMORROW IS JUST ANOTHER DAY
\nstillborn
\n mongoloid
\ncondemned to instant oblivion<\/p>\n
\nGene Vincent knew too much
\nto live any longer than
\na New Year firecracker
\nand that’s why
\nhe devoted his life
\nto rock-n-roll and fast motorcycles
\n and that’s why he practiced only with his right
\n just that one punch in the chin
\nthe strong and fast
\ninvisible bite
\nof the pneumatic drill
\nand that’s why he wore sunglasses
\n to hide the eyes that betrayed him
\n and their wilted light<\/p>\n
\nand the world turns
\nspring, summer, fall, winter
\nBLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH…<\/p>\n
\nis schizophrenia’s waiting room
\nthe inability to unstick the eyelashes
\nfrom their sweet trance
\nand German soaps
\nfragrant and waterproof<\/p>\n
\nthough you know very well
\nthat the small Jewish boy
\nmet his end in a shiny car
\non a humid afternoon such as this
\nlittle James Dean
\nthe king of the centerfold
\nyou cried for him every time
\nyour hair touched
\nwhite starched pillowcases<\/p>\n
\nwhere we left our best friends
\nmute witnesses
\nof marital fights now stand
\nasking themselves
\nwhere life as they knew it
\nhas gone<\/p>\n
\nyou’re not an artist
\nbecause you’re always looking back
\nand all I want is to be
\nfriends with you
\nin the times
\nwhen all we’ll have left is
\nto wear out our own pasts<\/p>\n
\nto step off the election posters
\nand give inspiration to suicides
\nO yes, you’re so sleepy
\nthat I can’t forgive you
\nfor not throwing me out of this
\naquarium with so many
\nspectators<\/p>\n
\nfor you to save my children
\nwith their tattooed veins
\nthe room is a toy
\nthe garage is a ghetto of harmless love
\nin the giant sand
\ncrabs walk backwards
\nand don’t let themselves be fooled<\/p>\n
\ntwice as fast as time<\/p>\n
\nand never back
\nyou find only ashes
\nyour skin doesn’t want to remember
\nthe powder that covers your dream
\ncould be white
\nwhite snow<\/p>\n
\non which the fate
\nof all of us who’ve met you
\nis told
\nthe unrest of your soles was
\na hasty wisdom roused
\non the first
\nhigh-school class trip<\/p>\n
\nyour life to anyone
\nmaybe I’ll do it for you
\nand they’ll all have to come to me
\nto show them how to forget you
\nin a plastic bag
\nthe goodnight glue
\nfor the long trip through
\nRay-Ban mirrors<\/p>\n
\nand never back
\nyou keep giving
\nyour skin away bit by bit
\nto people you don’t know
\nin the black water
\nwith hoods for eye bags
\nlife is the slowest
\nof all the deaths<\/p>\n
\ndogs soaked through on sidewalks
\nabandoned bikes and few cars
\na girl
\nin a tweed skirt suit
\nslim legs and straight blond hair
\nwalks listlessly
\na supermarket cashier with no job
\nice-cream carts closed shut
\nthe rain won’t stop
\nand still
\nunder a small umbrella
\nshe walks with no rush
\nstops
\nin the middle of the street
\nshe’s nauseous
\nmaybe she’s pregnant
\nshe can’t even think about it
\nshe climbs the stairs
\nunlocks the apartment door
\nand disappears into the bathroom
\nshe looks at herself a long time
\nin the mirror
\nthinking
\nshe’s been with so many
\nbut for a long time no-one has kissed
\nher lips
\nshe was able to
\nkeep that little bit of intimacy
\nto herself<\/p>\n
\nsomething reminded me of you
\nhow lounging
\nin the back seat of the car
\nyou stubbornly spurned
\nmy kisses
\nthose ruinous ocean waves
\nwhen sails
\nripped open in the wind
\nand lifeboats were
\nremote<\/p>\n
\nyour chin quivered
\nas night passed
\ndown the outlines of
\nyour hips
\nin the flame of the lighter
\nyou held so nervously<\/p>\n
\nI let you go
\nand now
\nin vain I describe
\nthe hotel rooms where you
\nstrip
\njust for me<\/p>\n
\nhead on my arm
\nand smoke another cigarette
\nyou’re left naked
\nwith a scarf around your neck
\na long silk scarf that
\nlike a great pendulum
\nfalls between your breasts
\nand swings as you draw near
\nand the cigarette burns out<\/p>\n
\nthat scarf
\nso light and distant
\nis some kind of pain
\nthe line you
\nnever wanted to cross
\nit’s hard to understand<\/p>\n
\nI imagine trees
\nwith thousands of flowers
\ntrees laid along the ground
\nand the gusting wind
\nI’m not expecting anyone tonight
\nexcept despair
\nexcept the cities
\ndrawing near<\/p>\n
\ngold rings on fingers
\nthe wedding portrait
\nabove the marriage bed
\nare useless
\nlike describing ecstasy<\/p>\n
\nsomeone who had
\nan orderly childhood
\nonly the chosen
\nare handed the keys at birth<\/p>\n
\nmore than the rest of them
\nmy liver is the hardest worker
\nin show business
\nand still
\nI know I won’t die in the street
\nalthough I always wanted to<\/p>\n
\nwhen night comes for me
\nI’ll recognize my loves
\nthe lonely women
\nfull of madness and ego trash
\nand that will be enough<\/p>\n
\nthough many think
\nthey know me well
\nby tomorrow I’ll be crueler
\nthough no less polite<\/p>\n
\nabyss begins
\nthe final guard
\nen route to the East
\nI have to be ready<\/p>\n
\ndo your nails and nibble on chocolate
\nyour silk dressing gown
\nand a pair of pink slippers
\nwith their tousled white pompoms
\nrest next to the armchair
\nabove which
\nyou float
\never so slightly
\nyour breath barely audible
\nwithout wings or other such tricks<\/p>\n
\nI already told you to fly
\ninto temptation
\nto become
\na Kabul wife
\nhave you ever imagined yourself
\nas one of those women
\nwhose eyes are the only spark of life
\nwhose body is wrapped in
\na grey casket of
\nballoon silk
\nif you have
\nthen you should leave me<\/p>\n
\ntall army boots
\non the feet of girls who just
\npassed us by
\nno
\nwe’re not going to the museum
\nI look for the bus that will take us
\nto the water bed
\nfilled with champagne
\ncrazy as astronauts
\ntragic as the heroes
\nof the civil war<\/p>\n
\nmidmorning daydreams
\ndodging the early start
\n& the departure for work
\nlooking at the sky and
\nwaiting for a miracle
\nin high heels<\/p>\n
\nfrom the seventh floor
\nstrong red wine
\nand the neighing
\nand bread
\nand chocolate
\nmiracles can happen
\nis what I always say<\/p>\n
\nwith two quick beers
\nnot to think of myself
\nas a loser
\nand not to disappear
\nwhenever it’s time
\nto sign a contract
\nwith real life
\ngroceries
\nand drugs<\/p>\n
\ntraffic lights
\nbills
\nsoaps
\nrazors
\nbe the colorful parrot in a hencoop
\ndie at twenty seven
\nrise from the dead
\nat thirty three
\nyou name it, I’ve done it
\nand it makes no sense to sink deeper still<\/p>\n
\nand sponges float over tiles
\nthe kids didn’t take their keys
\nthe wife’s at work
\nit’s suicide time
\nand a quick resurrection
\nit would be
\nanother midmorning miracle<\/p>\n
\nbut the light’s on my side
\nin the elevator
\nthe neighbor
\nwith the pornstar breasts
\nand a divinely plunging neckline
\nslips me a note
\nwith her cell phone number<\/p>\n
\nis what I always say
\nbut please
\ndon’t think about that<\/p>\n
\nlike the end of a game
\nlike white panic
\nlike time bursting open
\nI can’t stand dirty sheets
\nI’d make a good cadet at an SS camp
\nanarchist & emigrant
\nassassin of love<\/p>\n
\nsweatband & the basketball
\nI came back to win
\nand became
\na pirouette of hot verses?
\nthe tree that bears fruit in winter<\/p>\n
\na Sufi dervish in a mystic trance
\nthe dark scanner of everyday habits
\nand now I wait for the one
\nwho comes slowly
\nbut does come
\nstep by step
\nline by line<\/p>\n
\nsoldiers & doubles
\nI fabricate
\ntoo much solitude
\ntired from arrivals
\ntired from departures
\ntired from victories
\ntired from the sadness<\/p>\n![\"z_karanovic_32\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/09\/z_karanovic_32.jpg\")
\nABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong>
\nZvonko Karanovi\u00c4\u2021<\/strong> (1959) is a poet and fiction writer born in Ni\u00c5\u00a1, 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.
\nHis 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 (\u201cThe Silver Surfer”) \u2013 founded in 1991 and still operational.<\/p>\n
\nBlitzkrieg<\/em> (Ni\u00c5\u00a1, 1990)
\nSilver Surfer<\/em> (Ni\u00c5\u00a1, 1991; Belgrade, 2001)
\nMama Melancholy<\/em> (Belgrade, 1996)
\nExtravaganza<\/em> (Ni\u00c5\u00a1, 1997)
\nDark Highway<\/em> (Belgrade, 2001)
\nStripping<\/em> (Kraljevo, 2004)
\nNeon Dogs \u2013 Selected Poems<\/em> (Belgrade, 2001)
\nDark Highway \u2013 Selected Poems<\/em> (Zagreb, Croatia, 2008)
\nBox Set \u2013 Collected Poems<\/em> (Belgrade, 2009)<\/p>\n
\nas one of those women
\nwhose eyes are the only spark of life
\nwhose body is wrapped in
\na grey casket of
\nballoon silk
\nif you have
\nthen you should leave me<\/p>\n
\ntall army boots
\non the feet of girls who just
\npassed us by
\nno
\nwe’re not going to the museum
\nI look for the bus that will take us
\nto the water bed
\nfilled with champagne
\ncrazy as astronauts
\ntragic as the heroes
\nof the civil war<\/p>\n