2015 - Winter

Poems by Miljan Micakovic

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 Eraser


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.


The Mess


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.

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