my desk is crammed with extinct languages
without living descendants in sight
my ceiling heavy with gruesome attacks by serial killers
survived against all odds
my garbage can is a handful of banalities
my plate full of wars fought in vain
my fridge fraught with tears torn on the barbed wire
carefully stored and deep frozen for future use

my lamp shows me life in the spotlight
though it hates being left alone with my thoughts of tomorrow
swallowed by the sun
my coffee cup gives me a sardonic smile every time I tell it
I want him to love me in person, not in the abstract
my doors scream false pride and irregular accomplishments
my baggage begs me to reconsider
my mouse my only ally, deleting geography

my floor is a liquid mixture of
visceral bleeding and spilled brains
my mirrors aching mourners at the funeral
(blessed are not those who mourn)
the insistent audience demanding
encore after encore
(sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t stay to the end of the movie)

my state of being is
a series of running and passing plays
my state of mind elsewhere
my head, a concert with fireworks timed
to the music of untuned percussion instruments
an extended clattering of pans and cutlery in the kitchen
my happiness beyond compare –
the medieval conception of justice


* You can read more of Bojana’s work at Blogging with Bojana




  2. I agree with Basilike..there is so much of this that is amazing. Every line a perfect, poetic paintbrush that is like eating Thai food for the first time: the flavor changes the more one eats.

    This is just perfectly wonderful.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I remember eating Thai for the first time. I fucking loved it. It was an explosion of flavors in my mouth…so this is an amazing compliment. Thank you.

      Remember what I told you after reading your poem In my head?
      I said I was working on sth similar, yet different, and was, as you can see, in a pretty gloomy mood. (You know how much I love gloomy.) Soooo, this is the outcome. I was obviously stressed out and anxious, hence this ‘suicidal’ poem, as I call it, though you know I’m not the kind. Thant’s why I had to end it in a slightly jocular manner.
      I’m feeling good again, so back to new (or old) me. Wait and see.

      Thank you so much.

      Liked by 3 people

  3. Trust me to be the last one to the party. I feel like I’ve walked into the morning-after scene of an explosive Halloween party, stepping over the sleeping corpses of those who gorged and gulped their way through a decadent feast of other-worldly delights.
    I agree with Amitav, you are a natural and only magnificent things are borne of your museful loins.

    Liked by 1 person

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