A ded fish gains the power
of observation
silent with such dill will
once he’s on his break
scratching his head
tilting slightly
left.
It must be that I am ded?
A deaf and ironed wunderlust
floats but cannot
see
because those fish became
acephlaous supranatural
vultures
soldiers of last
August.
Nothing was left undone
that winter.
The golden had returned
its wings
on time with even minutes
to spare
and then it was Spring.
But he was still caught
in the in between
unseen
stretched as far as
kings could go,
for lunch with a side
of remorse,
of course.
They were described as
bodies without organs,
nameless, homo sacer
a lacky
fat bastard.
He wasn’t going to capitulate
to faith,
to nothing more than
bitten down fingernails
and nervous sorry
mothers.
(Kristyna Novakovic, 2012)
Tonight’s dinner left cold plates
for iron luck and unlucky
tastebuds,
philandering fingers and floral
cotton collars
forgotten, abandoned by
self-loving peers
with no dollars,
nothing to ascribe to their names;
like the non-practicing virgin
playing card games with
the dealer
losing hand by hand to
an authentic believer
of the ex-practicing state,
of judicial favours and hate.
She was neither Mars
nor Neptune
but floated a bit like
a Northern Light, frosty
like cornflakes amidst
ruptures of dark.
Sufficient light for camping
but not quite enough
for a night of rampant
digging for a dormant fire…
Why do I care?
She turned herself in
with scabbed and bleeding
knuckles,
bruised and broken ribs,
traces of skin
flaring at the edges
like little premature wings
where my fingernails once
drove through
off ten story high ledges.
Dust blew a brief kiss
to say goodnight,
a farewell from
yonder
singing, longing folk tales
of an unsuccessful fight.
A gift of ignorance,
a hug like gentle pat to the
head of a child
while the veil seems certain
that there’s a whore
in sight tonight.
(Kristyna Novakovic, 2012)
Houses near the College of Fine Arts. One Day I’ll live here