Image: © Miljan Micakovic
Author: Miljan Micakovic
Inside and Outside
Marshall went to the shop,
To by some milk and meat,
He even ate some Pop-
Corn while starring at the cashier’s tit-
-le, yes, she was “cashier in chief”.
Marshall was greatly surprised
For her face led in disbelief,
Indeed, lacking an eye under the left lid.
He tried to makes sense in vain.
He paid the goods and, outside,
As he was peeping again,
He perceived what was blackness inside.
The woken claim a piercing speech
Crossing, cutting the morning glass
How long will it take for each
To realize away they pass,
To see that the sleeping never cry,
Nor that any sound drifts in the air
And yet all throw far away an eye,
With the other at themselves they glare,
With the never-ending question,
“But what is my name?”
Out loud and fishing for attention,
They shout with no sense of shame.
A Light-hearted self
To feel like a monster, a common fate,
Falling on the head completely unprepared,
Seizing all, mind, hands and eyes
Forcing all to follow a soft voice:
The inner one, the one that comes along
That is familiar but to you alone.
Yet a pleasure flowing everywhere
For an instant so real yet so true;
At last, pulling you down from
Where all aroused, you shall see
That you’re flying back and away.
Perhaps, that wasn’t the wrong way.
Oh boy, my paper’s black,
The ink even got to the back!
What a mess I’ve done!
All that work made for none.
Okay, Okay let’s do it over
Again, but this time no shower,
No diluvian rain of chemical
Texture, baby, let’s get clinical!
Precise and neat, straight and clear
Like an athlete throwing a spear
Throw, throw my thought throw
On the paper that must be hollow.
The Smoky House
Among others around it,
Almost identical; same number
of floors, same wideness and height,
All having little flames burning in
through the windows, none but one,
This house, pours the grey smoke.
Among those lights, it perfumes
The air without invading, harassing
The senses, yet distinguishable and ironical.
The fire, alone, becomes the father.
Childless, bright and clear, fires
burn, consume the smoky air.
A straight line above another, those rails Stop where the page ends, although no pages are the same, nor the paper, nor the ink And the words look odd because none are Thought but from the white alone.