communism

your girl versus my girl
it’s a draw
your crocodile versus my crocodile
it’s a draw
your pineapple versus my pineapple
it’s a draw
your combine harvester versus my combine harvester
it’s a draw
your missing part of the text versus my the missing part
of the text
it’s draw
your text message versus my text message
it’s a draw
your damocles sword versus my damocles sword
it’s a draw
your star wars versus my star wars
it’s a draw
your euripides versus my euripides
it’s a draw
your minotaur versus my minotaur
it’s a draw
yours versus mine
it’s a draw
one takes the lead another catches up
nobody wins nobody loses
and vice versa
there is no way of knowing which one is whose
we have no way of knowing
how to share equally

translated by Anna Halberstadt

Panta rhei

I stand before the mirror, hoping to receive the consolation of a semblance of recognition. I approach it tentatively, as one approaches a great revelation. I am convinced that this mirror is the last bastion of truth, for it is only in its reflective surface that I can see myself, divorced from my own projections. It must show me as I am, not as I believe myself to be. My gaze, however, meets only shards and cracks as my desire goes unfulfilled. I do not recognize this fractured figure, although I know all too well that it can only be my reflection.

The mirror is in a state of perpetual degradation. Its integrity is continually perturbed by the daily tragedies and turmoils that otherwise leave their mark on everything that is man-made – man-made and hopelessly fragile. The closer I get to it, the better I am able to discern the fractures that snake across the planar face of the glass. They writhe, expand, and ripple out, and my image follows suit, becoming less and less of what I knew it was and hoped it would still be.

And all I can wonder in response is how much my reflection must truly change before it is no longer mine, before it becomes an other…. How many fractures of the glass would this require? How much environmental trauma ought to take place so as to result in the absolute decomposition of my features, in the irrevocable and irrefutable divagation from the unblemished original?

Running a hand over the shattered surface, over its blooming ridges, and ignoring the blood this draws, I consider my internal discourse and question it further. It may very well be that the mirror has always been broken, to some extent or another, and that the image that I call the original, and against which I judge all other iterations of this sensory experience, features cracks that I could not identify upon first viewing, and that my consciousness thereupon quickly absorbed and accepted as part of my veritable reflection. I suppose that our standards for normality are conditioned by the nature of the universe in which we gain consciousness. Our standards remain rigid, while the surrounding world changes. What hope can there be for recognition and satisfaction, when  I find myself face to face with chaos, with change, and witness the destruction this imposes upon a medium that does not know how to cope with it, and ultimately relents to its pressure?

Everything flows; I notice it in the passage of time, in the movement of the clouds across the sky, in the cries of newborns and the final breaths of elders. Everything flows; the direction of the wind changes, trees are uprooted and saplings grow. Everything flows; my blood flows from my palm and down my forearm, before christening the ground in a succession of drops. Everything flows, but for our manufactured reality, our brittle natura artificialis.

I take note of my earlier tendency to think in discrete terms. Is it not a fallacy to do so? Could it be that the discrete nature of these terms does not arise out of my own volition, but is rather enforced upon me by the rigidity of the mirror, by the sharp vertices of its cracks, by its evident breaking point and inherent lack of ontological continuity? Am I not, for this reason, mistaken in looking at it as a representation of reality? If truth is what I seek, can it be found here at all, reflected in a surface that can offer at best a momentary glimpse before it shatters altogether? I step away from the mirror. It has become clear that I will not find the answers I am looking for within the confines drawn by man. I will not find them reflected in his tools, in his static, polished surfaces.

In the distance, a faint, undulating melody draws me close. I find myself on the bank of a river that stretches from infinity to eternity. The river, engaged in a race against itself, flows forcefully, effortlessly overcoming any obstacles in its path and unperturbed by any intrusions in its domain. I take in the fragments of light that spot its restless surface, that melt and expand along with its motion. And I notice one more thing: my reflection, whole and unfractured, despite the constant motion of the medium that hosts it.

Everything flows.

A Love Letter to the Town That Isn’t Calling Back

you’re retarded and stupid

that’s why you’re my town

don’t ever leave me

lead me swaying and drunk

to my last bus home

I recognize it by the unique stench

the non-existent AC

the ojkanje on the playlist

my town

I love you I love you

forget Europe France Berlin

they got nothing on you

you have the most beautiful eyes

you undress me so thoroughly

kiss my knees with your bruised streets

you are my first fuck my first real cry

first drunkenness concerts friendships

my eternal weakness my love

never give up on me

I will never give up on you

you’re a full ashtray

I guard from waiters

out of you I am born

whenever gamblers cross themselves

and pull the handle on a slot machine

never believe my threats of abandonment

I’m just playing hard to get

because I want to be held tighter

to be told my love

read Cavafy all is true

one city one country one desire

you and me

my city

don’t be a stranger

I always wanted to belong to you

why are you pretending not to know me

say I am your love your favorite

that you remember me from my teen days

with a bottle of Nektar in the park

and puzzled eyes

I was looking for you

I hate you

your hundred faces

you are bare concrete and pigeon shit

well proofread hate speech

I am yours yours

why can’t you see me

to hell with you

and your Serbian teachers with colorful

scarfs around their necks

abundance of adjectives up their sleeves

they always know better

they always wore your wedding rings

and spat on my essays

because I claimed that the most Christian thing

is to give love to everyone

in return take love

but they saw only

whore whore whore

not one adjective preceding the noun

my town

you limp dick

you frustrate me you drive me crazy

I want to give you everything

and you’re just sitting there

counting sheep

developing paraplegia

what am I to you

some diploma to put out for the guests

a souvenir a seashell from Sutomore

that every couple of years

you put to your ear

pretending to listen to

the sea the storm the future

don’t give me that bullshit

you’re a junky who’s getting off

smack his whole life starting tomorrow

but the first chance he gets

he steals grandma’s pension

and chases dragons in a chemical toilet

my town

you hypocritical schizophrenic shit

I wouldn’t trade you for the world.

Vladana Perlić

LJUBAVNO PISMO GRADU KOJI SE VIŠE NE JAVLJA

ti si retardiran i glup

zato jesi moj grad

nikad me nemoj napustiti

vodi me lelujavu i pijanu

na moj zadnji bus

prepoznajem ga po jedinstvenom smradu

nepostojećoj klimi

ojkačama na plejlisti

grade moj

volim te volim

šta evropa francuska šta berlin šta

ti imaš najljepše oči

tako me temeljno svlačiš

poljubi mi koljena modrim ulicama

ti si moje prvo jebanje prvo pravo plakanje

prva pijanstva svirke drugarstva

moja vječna slabost ljubav

nikad nemoj odustati od mene

nikad neću odustati od tebe

ti si puna pepeljara

koju ne dam konobarima

iz tebe se rađam

kad se kockari prekrste

i povuku ručku na voćkicama

nikad mi ne vjeruj na prijetnje izbjeglištvom

to ti samo udaram čežnju

jer želim da me stisneš jače

da mi kažeš ljubavi

čitaj kavafija sve je istina

jedan grad jedna zemlja jedna čežnja

ti i ja

grade moj

ne budi stranac

uvijek sam htjela da ti pripadam

zašto se praviš da me ne poznaješ

reci da sam tvoja ljubav mezimica

da me se sjećaš iz tinejdžerskih dana

sa dvolom nektara u parkiću

i zbunjenim okama

ja sam tražila tebe

mrzim te

tvojih sto lica

ti si goli beton i golubja govna

dobro lektorisan govor mržnje

ja sam tvoja tvoja

zašto me ne vidiš

kvragu i ti

tvoje nastavnice srpskog sa šarenim

maramama oko vrata

obiljem pridjeva u rukavu

one uvijek znaju bolje

one su uvijek nosile tvoje burme

i pljuvale po mojim sastavima

jer sam tvrdila da je najhrišćanskije

davati ljubav svima

zauzvrat uzimati ljubav

ali one su vidjele samo

kurva kurva kurva

nijedan pridjev ispred

grade

malaksali kurcu

frustriraš me dovodiš do ludila

ja bih da ti dam sve

a ti tromo blejiš

brojiš ovce

razvijaš paraplegiju

šta sam ti ja

neka diplomica da me izložiš

za goste suvenir školjka iz sutomora

što je svakih par godina

prisloniš na uho

praviš se da slušaš

more oluju budućnost

zajebi me s tim

ti si đaner koji se cijeli život

od sutra skida sa dopa

a prvom prilikom krade babi penziju

i juri zmajeve u hemijskom klozetu

grade moj

govno licemjerno šizofreno

ne bih te mijenjala ni za jedan drugi na svijetu.

Vladana Perlić