Planet’s hip turned like a woman
making last check ‘fore going out
to allure the universe,
showed some skin,
Australian placket
amidst the blue gossamer flutter,
sunset sucrose, moor and bogs,
an alligator ripped the waters,
and gulped my bliss:
the fatherland.

I’m no Greg Norman, hats don’t go well
on me, defeated
I leave behind
the bunker sand,
heavily weighing on my knees,
my handicap, the fatherland,
one of us -
wrong hemisphere,
as he won’t come, I go to him
cutting short
through heart of Earth:

fagots like runic letters,
wet twigs burning bitter smoke,
smoky ash,
teary eyes,
cooled down billies,
a tripod limps
on ember as
a lame fakir
on two legs only,
totters, sways and falls down -
world’s Trinity - o bunker sands
under the palms,
can’t you take
my mind away,


Callaway, imperfect swing, “Fore”!

I recollect,
I’m no Greg Norman, my hats don’t pass
as fashion’s cruel, my land’s no cotton
and no cashmere,
wrinkles hidden
in carefree

competing English wools in mixture
reduced the price,
‘cause season’s out, apparently,
or it’s the global warming rise.

We make love long in longing’s beds,
sleep separately as if afraid
to mix the dreams like mix the drinks,
separate homes, separate graves,
a scythe cuts short the meadow “hope” -

a dog's tale.

Abschlag, dogleg,
I leave perplexed the bunkers’ sands,
global - the loss, not the warming,
one size fits all now stands for failure,
a unisex barber for hermaphrodites
cuts deep and short my long-curled guts.

Eighteen black holes toss down my worlds,
fingers of death on ebonies only,
afar the echo, sounds through and through,
through satellites
under my ceiling
and golden domes
screaming beyond my hills of eyes,
grand pianos of my fatherland
blew brutally through them long brass pipes

7.62 mm,

uncalled “Fore”!
like a colic cry ‘fore final putt
of a decade’s major tournament.

Aliens from area 51,
believed by 6 out of 10
and true, therefore,
do ask in digits
what death’s about
and why’s
while storing golf globes
in cosmic bags.

A bruised Maxfli:
my layman’s hit,
my no-Greg’shit,
black eye’s right there,
where Balkan is,
the shiner’s center
that land of womb,
the land of wound,
projects all my points of view,
angles of anger, my Destin, too.

A good 60% of me – the alien part, of course, believes
in Albanian stain
on the sheet of time -
a virgin Brane speckled by crime,
concentric circles, barks of borders,
slow capillaries of feared waters,
slow moisture that still gains on you;
the wakeup brings you to yourself,
wine vapors coat the glasses with
amorphous air from all Southeasts

of world –
Shiraz, red like crime,
organized in perfect glasses,
Australia skins on our belts,
half naked reptiles in half waked marshes,
Country clubs’ medieval names,
don’t want to bear the world’s big pains,
OK, darling?
I’m tantalized by a dark cult,
the cult of small man; hence English loans
and English lawns
ala St. Andrews, here I come,
Country clubs with squares and slacks,
rhombic designs, Japanese Jacks,
and German Frauen with wax for skin (and sex for win – unwanted rhyme, stay the hell away from me!)
Echt und nicht Wahr (by Zeiler, poetry … and by Paul Eluar),
respectable boredom like a correct grammar
- the appropriate stain
in the proper half
of brain
does twinkle:
“Which of species
to be a martyr of Charles Darwin”?

Mother Nature can be deceived
with a little effort
and thought and tricks,
and you don’t lack protestant zeal
of Weber, do you?
Wagner takes Pfefferminz Tee und Apfelstrudel
all approving,
the grand piano of the world
breathes out its deep dark sighs,
Bachhh… a creek that gurgles
into some dim unknown direction
just like a Balkan criminal,
skintight goats
on Balkan hillsides
mistakes to be for Saurian fossils,
it is the unity of matter
mixing up all geographies,
unites Australia with UK
in a co-op city of its own kind;
“I did escape world misery”,
I say,
“my right for the right organic food
is indisputable,
so is the right
for jojoba oil,
aloe, aloha”…

The blue sky hair is combed with care
by the 60 billion fingers of world,
so, why do clouds shapelessly
hang over the bald skulls of mountains?

Curly cultured disobedience,

the hemispheres are in your head
and your head only, you poor thing,
Abendland, sunset soil,
desert’s oil, thought turmoil, it’s all a magic pot in boil,
trap sands upright like the midday
while, like smear,
the Sunriseland after your heels
and under them, unshakable,
follows you to everynowhere.
The blue sky combs the hair with care.

Fore! – it’s not a golf ball flying
taking over its own shout,
rather it is a shooting star,
supersonic, meteor,
looking for
your dinosaur.

It never misses its shots, distinct
discrete, discerning and countable
by ancient, dry, primitive numbers.
Man, in fact, dies only once,
no matter how many times he lives.


Death does not!

It’s not a Balkan wedding shooting
in the dark,
it’s rather us,
weddings are silenced
in eveningland,

silenced like the barrel of a smooth gun
of a son of a gun of hit and run,
once hit and hide, now hit and ride,
better don’t ask about the bride…

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