Wednesday, 13 January 2010


Srecko Kosovel

21 years I was in prison. As for me, I can’t cry. I am as hard as the steal. There is a gun at my bedside. My young brother with no eyes. It is quiet. It is dead, grey. I love my sorrow. I work from sorrow. The horse is melancholy. At 8 o’clock there is a lecture on humanitarian ideals. Europe is dying. The hour of grief. Are you there? As if your eyes were from Italian paintings. My girl is still of tender age. She is indeed at this stage. Sir, am I to blame? What would you have if it were not for guns? Our tears are choking in smoke. I am not allowed to love a woman. It is a cruel voice. A soul does not give way. I am not with you. I do not cry with tears. I am always leaving. Bark, hearts! Bark! He is buried. A blind horse. Ljubljana is asleep. And our faces are dead with dreams. His face is bleeding. I have tremendous work on my hands, isn’t that joyful? Civilization lacks a heart. Evacuation of souls. Evening burns like fire. There is a man behind the door. What does he want? Sky blue sea, grey jail, we are all ill. I am a broken arc of a circle. The hour of sorrow is approaching. New mysticism. And the night has fallen again. Oh, dead is my sister. Dead, dead. Oh, my Balkan sister. Grey airplanes. You are not the King. White barricades. Dynamite explodes. To destroy, to destroy, to destroy. Millions are dying, but Europe is lying. Dynamism. Activism. The Balkans. B A B A B AA depression BB action Three lines. Real work. Fernando, the terror of Austria. Revolutions, kings, artists. Shoot, shoot. Operations, revolutions. A little more of the sun. A little more of the wind. Weary we fall.

Srečko Kosovel is known as the Slovenian Rimbaud, born in 1904, he died in 1926 at the age of 22, but his work is strong, deep and finished as if he had written and lived for a long, long time.

Matija is a young coreographer, dancer, performer and video artist who lives in Pula, Croatia

take a look at Matija's new blog
and his page in you tube

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