Seven Poems

Seven Poems

The night before taking to the woods
Spilled out
Berlin Solitude
The New Testament
Mrs Robinson On an Open Road

Chet Baker Is Finding His Way Towards Me

The New Testament


The military coup of the soul lies unused on your palm. How do you intend to finish that what you set out to do? Envy will lead you to self-destruction instead to the stars. Instead of sleeping, you allow yourself to be seduced by the love of the others towards the rest of them. Regenerate the milimetres of your body while you still can. If it starts becoming unbearable, love him from my angle. This lust is honest, designed to finish you off when one is least expecting it. When the future evaporates, the only thing up for grabs will be my love for you, lying and tricky, for that’s how all loves become if we allow them to last till the final act. My conspiring does not imply pity. It is a well-rehearsed deception, the final act of terror, whereas the mirrors cease being your trusted prompter. My revenge will patiently wait for your chin. Fame and power fall off of it. They peel off of your skin to become the property of a lizzard who on the wall of the last resort lurks on the sleepy and fat mosquito. Lonely is the truth that brought us together to give up  ̶  you on yourself, myself on yourself. It’s time the night fell on the tropic oases of our lunacy.

AuthorMehmed Begić
Translated byDamir Šodan
2021-04-03T19:29:27+00:00 March 31st, 2021|Categories: Poetry, Literature, Blesok no. 136|0 Comments