Maybe
\nthe end
\nreally is nigh.<\/p>\n
In February
\n+ 18\u00cb\u0161C
\nabove me
\na huge white
\ncloud
\nin the shape of a rabbit’s head
\nI call it
\nBig Heff <\/p>\n
Last night
\ngets back at me
\nwith these alcohol-induced terrors
\nthe only thing I want to think about
\nis
\nJenna’s
\nclit piercing
\nin the new movie
\nproduced by the Wicked.<\/p>\n
California
\nyou great big crypt
\non the other side of
\nthe world,
\nright now the night
\nholds you in its arms
\nand
\nJenna Jameson is
\nasleep.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
21 Matches<\/strong><\/p>\n “My name’s Buddy. Been dead for about 10 years. That was the text which, one night in May, I took a stroll around the flat, took a leak in the kitchen sink, and went out to the arcades.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Charlie Manson Came to Serbia<\/strong><\/p>\n Charlie Manson he arrived though nobody invited him they saw him inspecting the banks on the last floor (and later dumped them and this has nothing at all to do maybe it all has to do with maybe some things <\/p>\n Subtraction<\/strong><\/p>\n I was reading a poet I never met him one June afternoon without hanging up then from the kitchen I finished my conversation I was thinking about the poet and the creative surge <\/p>\n Caf \u00e9 “Time”<\/strong><\/p>\n The asphalt tonight And again that teenage At Time Caf \u00e9 Beyond the ropes The snow is white again Once I moved That’s all.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Matriculation<\/strong><\/p>\n The kisses on the quay When the spring comes I never went In expectation <\/p>\n On High Cliffs<\/strong><\/p>\n In the most incredible of places <\/p>\n Stereo Memories Club<\/strong><\/p>\n Today at the market place For years I had been seeing it Yesterday in a bar We were talking about writing Or it was that Today on the balcony Piled up memories Sometimes <\/p>\n Memories Exist For Those Particular Reasons<\/strong><\/p>\n You see In toilets When we were their age But all night long <\/p>\n Neon Insomnia<\/strong><\/p>\n All that was necessary This land All it had ever To shoot ourselves Or And leave it Those were the words At night In Italy <\/p>\n Pale, But Not Dead<\/strong><\/p>\n Through the glass The phone isn’t working They didn’t make it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Wine in a Carton<\/strong><\/p>\n One more time I’m waiting for my wife to return On another TV channel In a movie I’m thinking about Similar to If we really Those tiny tracks <\/p>\n
\nIn a very mysterious way, my spirit has come back to
\nearth and entered the body of this boy in order to help him
\nfulfill his earthly mission to be the best
\ndrummer in the world. Don’t distract or sidetrack him
\nin any way, thus compromising destiny’s course.”<\/p>\n
\nI wrote on a piece of paper and left on the kitchen table
\nso my parents would give in and buy me a set of drums.
\nInstead, on the very same piece of paper they wrote
\nthat I should finish school first, and not repeat every grade.
\nI just knew: nobody can ruin your life so thoroughly
\nas your parents. They never understood anything.<\/p>\n
\ncame to Serbia
\nthough no one thought
\nit could happen<\/p>\n
\naround the same time
\nthe Gu\u00c4\u008da festival
\nwas promoted
\nto an event
\nof national importance<\/p>\n
\nCharlie Manson
\ncame just
\non time<\/p>\n
\narmed and walking
\ndown dusty
\ncountry roads
\nshooting at everything that moves<\/p>\n
\nof the Danube
\nand throwing a knife
\nand chunks of dismembered bodies
\ninto the river<\/p>\n
\nof a tall building
\nin the bathroom
\nhe packed bloody remains
\ninto plastic bags<\/p>\n
\nin containers)<\/p>\n
\nwith the fact that the Stones
\nplayed here at last
\nat their satanic
\nmajesty’s request<\/p>\n
\npolitics
\nand transition
\nor maybe not<\/p>\n
\njust have
\nnothing to do
\nwith anything.<\/p>\n
\nwho felt sorry
\nfor a bee
\nhe had killed<\/p>\n
\nto ask him
\nif he ever repented
\nfor what he had done<\/p>\n
\njust before a storm
\nI was on the phone
\nwhen a bee flew into the room
\nbuzzing
\nand bouncing off the glass
\nfrom time to time<\/p>\n
\nI grabbed a notepad
\nand on second try
\nplastered it against the windowpane<\/p>\n
\nI took a napkin
\ncollected the bee
\nwiped the stains
\noff the glass
\ncrumpled it all into a ball
\nand threw it in the trash can<\/p>\n
\nsat in an armchair
\nand looked out the window<\/p>\n
\nwho wrote the poem
\nabout a bee
\ndarting around his face
\nas he read the newspaper<\/p>\n
\nhe must have felt
\nthen.<\/p>\n
\nis smoked glass
\nmaybe footsteps can tell the way.
\nI missed it once long ago.<\/p>\n
\nflame catches up with me
\nand again that
\nfeeling of flesh on bone.<\/p>\n
\nwhere it all began
\nhigh school dreams
\nand slim joints made of sighs.
\nMy gaze on the moon’s skin
\nmakes another bloodless
\ngroove.<\/p>\n
\nin the fiery arena
\nstand together
\nex-girlfriends and bad prospects.
\nThey don’t look so good
\nanymore.<\/p>\n
\nas
\nby the front entrance
\nI wait
\nfor the light
\nto rise up from the dark.<\/p>\n
\nlike the wind
\nand now I give up.<\/p>\n
\nAre no longer our
\nKisses
\nAnd the lips dried
\nBy the wind
\nHave been healed a long time<\/p>\n
\nLonging is its traveling companion
\nAnd high heels pierce through
\nThe asphalt
\nMore mercilessly<\/p>\n
\nTo my prom
\nBecause I never had one
\nAs with each tedious occasion
\nI overslept it<\/p>\n
\nOf a genuine thrill
\nAnd the world which will
\nChange
\nOn its own.<\/p>\n
\nI was seeking God
\nWere the final words
\nOf Dan Osman
\nA cliff-climber
\nBefore the invisible
\nGlue
\nWas completely washed off
\nHis palms.<\/p>\n
\nI bought a book
\nOf stereo lyrics
\nAn old greasy shabby
\nAnthology of rock poetry<\/p>\n
\nOn the shelves of people
\nWhose book collections
\nGenerally
\nDidn’t contain
\nMore than ten volumes<\/p>\n
\nOver a beer
\nAfter many years
\nI was sitting
\nWith an old friend
\nA writer<\/p>\n
\nAnd times past
\nIn which not everything was
\nSo gloomy<\/p>\n
\nWith every
\nSuccessive round of drinks
\nThe reality
\nLooked different<\/p>\n
\nComfortably seated
\nI’m leafing through the low-price
\nBook
\nSinging the lyrics
\nUnaccompanied by music<\/p>\n
\nAre like books
\nSome irreparably good
\nSome irreparably bad<\/p>\n
\nThey are better
\nLeft alone.<\/p>\n
\nNow high-school kids
\nAre shooting porn clips
\nWith their mobile phones
\nOf the latest generation<\/p>\n
\nClassrooms
\nCountry houses
\nPassageways<\/p>\n
\nThings were simpler for us
\nWe had no
\nMoney
\nUnless we surreptitiously
\nTook out a thing from the house
\nAnd sold it on the street<\/p>\n
\nWe would be
\nLying on the floor
\nIn semi-darkness
\nClose to each other
\nAnd smoking
\nStaring at the ceiling<\/p>\n
\nWas but a moment
\nBetween two blinks
\nOf a neon ad
\nBeneath our window
\nSo you could pronounce
\nWhat both of us
\nHad known for long:<\/p>\n
\nWill never again
\nBe ours.<\/p>\n
\nGiven us
\nWere two
\nDamn possibilities<\/p>\n
\nIn the head
\nWith water pistols<\/p>\n
\nTo go ASAP<\/p>\n
\nWhile it’s still dreaming
\nOf a better future
\nWhich will surely come.<\/p>\n
\nI’d been expecting to hear from you
\nAll those years
\nAnd
\nI held you tight
\nBecause I didn’t know
\nWhat else to do<\/p>\n
\nWhile blood was gushing out in the ring
\nOn TV<\/p>\n
\nBogdan Mitic
\n(But not our son
\nBogdan Mitic)
\nWith a shameful decision
\nLost
\nA match that was already won.<\/p>\n
\nI’m watching
\nThe rain falling.
\nOnly 40 more days to spend here:
\nIt’s good\u2014
\nI’ve survived the war.<\/p>\n
\nThe radiator is heating perfectly
\nWhile I’m playing
\nWith my duty gun
\nWatching the flies
\nDying of age.<\/p>\n
\nI’m having a sip from the bottle
\nSix Euros a piece
\nToo much
\nBut it’s not a blasphemy
\nLike wine in a carton <\/p>\n
\nFrom work
\nWhile on TV
\nA politician
\nIs reading his poems
\nThey say that
\nPoetry
\nIs what nobody understands<\/p>\n
\nA monk is explaining how
\nWomen will have an issue with God
\nIf they wear pants<\/p>\n
\nA girl
\nIs offering cigarettes
\nTo a guy with a crew-cut
\nI don’t smoke, he says,
\nI have asthma
\nAnd she
\nBlows some smoke into his face
\nProbably because of some unsettled accounts<\/p>\n
\nPaul Schrader
\nA hero
\nOf contradicting genres<\/p>\n
\nSoft porn
\nToo much sweat
\nWithout
\nAn obvious reason.<\/p>\n
\nLike
\nThis city
\nLet us
\nGive it
\nThe only thing we have<\/p>\n
\nWe’re leaving behind
\nWhen we finally
\nSet out.<\/p>\n
![\"neon_insomnia_-_cover\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2011\/06\/neon_insomnia_-_cover.jpg\")
<\/a>![\"neon_insomnia_-_cover\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2011\/06\/neon_insomnia_-_cover-150x150.jpg\")
<\/a>The asphalt tonight