The Jivin' Ladybug

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Ognjen Smiljanic

from “Rubble #3”




But love has no right to be reversed,

no answer that could match the thorn that minded his mind,

the gush of the tributaries of the sea

that lapped her,

that lapped his cunt

amidst commercials for canoe companies,

the places to paddle home to.

If I was but a leashed tiger pacing

around her dancepole,

if I was merely passing the swallowed flint-bone

axled on her image?

There was an ulcer grimace close up

that continually licked dick.

In the heat of the american bedroom, 

I saw a dormant mask flinch

getting fitted on the contours of a void,

where the wall between

him and her posing in pig-tails

becomes my mouth telling

the way of the night

pounding her navel.


I only wanted  to sniff her fistbud,

her yeast of burden,

lick the salt on the Wound

that replaces all wounds.

I can only wish greatest 

spiritual exercises

to the startling cuts

where the primordial makeup

liquefied  runs down. 


I plunge into her straining,

into the stress of surrogate subforms

of ceremonial stone,

my cave sweaty in my palm.

I am working her crux back

and forth, beating her

with my phantom womb.


And the air is thus closer,

holy with gardens

that dream my life

& drink me,

tight compartments cut

from places around

her fullness,

feeling around

for the pussy of my cranium.




Love hasn't enough night to be reversed,

because I used to lay on my bed

and watch myself develop, 

armed with a situated rectum

and patient hints of thick trees,

yielding like chance to a dice,

like all the buttocks he dreamed

and confronted with metaphysical problems. 


All thorns dull in the gale

of light of a heavily

stylized porn video.

Her lips bring eyes

to my tears.


Imagine a language

which can go from

the cervix to the brain

to tear off meat from prey

or carrion that has been

frozen solid, bitten off,

then chewed solid,

like a funeral march played at a wedding,

like the last breath spent

in a roomful of lovers,

laughing, shouting,

breaking up, breaking wind.


I attempted to triangulate

the moral of her story,

the moon's mug that comes across

puffed up with stingray envenomation,

like a disoriented telling

to go fuck oneself, like a couple

reunited in the decay of a sentence,

the limp flowers splattered

against her throat and swallowed

so that his epic silence mimicked

the persistent dripping

from her vague robe, the ghosts

crossing the forbidden frontier

with clenched fists,

with balls of fire. 






We will wait an eternity

for aerial shots of a body on

all fours, the monstercup mooncalf 

snarling at little people like us,

breathing softly in the shadows

to keep his lips in sync with hers,

her tailbone a wagging peninsula

of the weight of words. With his mouth

twisted like a limp dick in a pair of Speedos,

something told him he will die alone,

without a shadow that labors his decay,

the dusts of her shredding, a parting of skin

for him to enter and inhabit. He wanted to be

of dream only, the seeking of seed as some

meaningful reassurance he could muster only

in the certitude of his loss, in the privacy

that digests the swallowed fork.  He could only think

of mourning, of giving given to everything

coming back unanimous, broken. Humans can be hearers,

ghosts crippled by the very star that wanted to

have her. We gods are abyss-guessing,

worn down by the incessant doctoring of silence,

by the disinterested symmetry of its suchness. 




The ear is sharpest in nostalgia for death.

Loneliness, boredom are but words' names

that words continue. He thought of

a farewell murmur that would say him,

the shape of small lips and large hips

that could score his scar like a blank message,

like a barren underworld emblazoned

inside his closed eyelids, with its durings already spent,

its emptiness pupilized with a trail of vowels.

You left me under the gift of an ungiving sky

but I prefer to surrender, to exhaust my mouth

telling you why something is unutterable,

how the song is striving while there is depths

leaning on you wide from the world. The livid need

to ache more freely for you, to burn with stormlight

of an obsessed page and plunder the night's vocabulary, 

the feel of the cosmic bulge. When something is starting

a pressed rose, the voice he heard slick with his temporal indigo,

the diction of his undoing like a requirement

that one must speak, when he coaxed

her yolks into spilling.   

I didn't call her because I would give in watching him

invent a woman with a snake inside her, the night

disassembling her like a stone trying to absorb a thigh,

a cheek of ass.  And I'm falling asleep, marching towards women

running around, not to where they are, but towards a blur

of syllables that facilitates his destruction. Every

ending localized him briefly as he spoke, tethered

to various theories that claim to know who I am.

He felt the need to explode of himself, all those grand

entrances of godesses somewhere between piss and shit,

between pockets of spaces and being and time.


The Jivin' Ladybug- A Skewered Journal of the Arts
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