U noći ispod kiše

Da li je važno kako se osjećam? Zašto se sve svodi na osjećaje? Da li je važno što vodim tihi rat, rat sa sobom, jer me drugi ratovi ne zanimaju. Sve i ništa je važno. Mi smo važni, ti i ja, u ovoj samoći dok čekamo taxi ispred leteće katedrale, pod neonskim svjetlom i kišom.

Da li je važno tko nam je majka ili izgubljeni otac u svijetu duhova? I oni su samo šašava djeca koja se plaše. Da li je važno što mislim naglas? Da li je to uopće bitno?

Odgovora nema, ni u novinama, ni u knjigama velike knjižnice, ni ispod šešira beskućnika u prolazu, ni u amazonskoj prašumi. Nema ga.

Da li je Dziga Vertov važan? Čaplin? Bud Spencer? Da li su važni vrtuljci izgorenog luna parka? Da li su važne misli ljudi u čekaonici kardiološkog odjela, bez pogleda koji se sreću?

Da li je važno kako se osjećaš dok te strah steže? Strah od uskih ili širokih prostora. Da li je važno? Da li je?

Pariz, 2023.

PTICE KOJE SE SMIJU

Život je lijep, kažeš, dok gledaš u zlatno sutonsko svjetlo. Zgrade se propinju ka nebu, kao ruke umornih divova u kojima spavaju ljudi koji podsjećaju na tvoje snove, blagi i puni nade.

Za šankom u baru sjedi starac. Vidiš ga. Puši cigaru. Uvlači dim sporo. Sporo ga ispuhuje kroz nos. On je jedini na izložbi. Jedina publika. Ali okrenut slikama. Više mi gledamo njega nego on nas.

Ti se opet igraš u dvorištu s vjetrom, kao dijete, a u tvojim očima more i nebo. U tvojim očima naše sunce, ono nas grije. More je opet plavo i beskrajno. Starac drži stari, izlizani šešir u lijevoj ruci, probušen na rubovima. Mrmlja nešto što zvuči kao molitva, ili možda tek šapat sjećanja na davnu ljubav, u vremenima sreće, u vremenima bez boli.

Nad gradom opet ptice lete, na plavom jutarnjem platnu neba. Gledaš u njih i opet se smiješ novom danu, novoj prilici, novim počecima i koracima kroz male ulice našeg malog mjesta.

Život je lijep, a tvoj glas razlijeva se kroz toplinu. Osjećaš li miris bajkovitog kruha? Miris djetinjstva. Sjećaš se onog jutra kad je svaki korak bio bitan. Svaka suza. Svaki zagrljaj.

Volim te jako, kažeš. U ovoj sobi. U sobi boje breskve.

Možda je život lijep upravo onda kad ga izgovoriš, ponekad kroz suze, a ponekad s vatrom u sebi koja ne može izgorjeti. Ljubio sam te uz ove nježne note, dok grad opet tone u novi sumrak. Ti se opet igraš i plešeš na rubu pločnika. Oči ti opet lutaju kao stari brodovi. Nebo se lomi, kažeš, u tisuće kristalnih dijelova iza kojih je sve ispunjeno svjetlom i glazbom s ugla ulice, ispred dućana s cvijećem, gdje ruže još više crvene.

Pitaš me gdje je sada naša planeta. Gdje je kuća, gdje su valovi u nama. Valovi ljubavi. Još su tu, ne brini. Život je lijep, kažeš, dok nas vjetar nosi prema suncu. Opet letiš u mojim njedrima. Volim te jako. Ludo.

Osluškujemo čistu ljubav koja je opet stigla u naše mjesto. Slušaš o osmijesima koji su kao ptice opet letjeli iznad narančastih krovova. Grad opet diše, kažeš. Diše kao veliki div koji se nasukao nakon dugih pustolovina.

Pjevaš o ljubavi, unatoč trenucima koji se gube i nestaju. Svi ti lagani pokreti. Svi ti prizori. Sve one igre u dvorištu. U dvorištu kojem pristaje sve što smo bili. Sada dvorište usamljeno stoji. Ali naša ljubav i dalje plovi kao pijani brod. Negdje. Svugdje. Prema svjetlu.

Angoulême, 2025

When Birds Fly Backwards

I would describe to you one picture. You stood at the window as if in an old film. The day was warm and gentle, the sun spilling over the buildings, while cars passed down Tolbiac, along a river of concrete, a river without meaning.

I would describe to you one picture. The smell of coffee filled our room. The sound of an accordion nearby dragged behind it all the crazy years. The shopfronts were full of colors, madness in every shade, people walked by like ants, yet the traces they left were heavy and vast. A child’s ball, like the sun, rolled across the sky. Someone sang Brel, someone strummed a guitar, and birds flew backwards. We laughed at that, but you more than me. Because your eyes knew what mine could not understand.

I would describe to you one picture. On the balconies flowers grew without asking, lilacs poured down like a purple waterfall, irises gazed at the sky, and hyacinths swayed gently. Restaurants were full again, people eating, drinking, talking about the same things, repeating themselves like clocks. They spoke again and again. And the birds flew backwards while tulips kept silent, guarding the thoughts we never spoke.

I would describe to you one picture. In the distance, the sound of sirens and the broken voices of old people in the streets seemed to want to chase time away. And children, children searching for their own voice, their small, lost and distant world. Just like us. Here, on Tolbiac. Here, where everything rushes and everything stands still at the same time, in one day that goes on and on.

I would describe to you one picture. The air was thick again with waiting, with everything that happened and did not. Everything teetered on the edge. Shopkeepers held their heads in their hands. A woman in the laundromat yawned. The postman dragged himself slowly. People at the bus stop rolled their eyes. The pharmacy was crowded. The restaurants had no room left. Someone waved, now everyone waved. But were they waving at us? Or just waving for the sake of waving?

I would describe to you one picture. A wedding passed along the main street. Music blared. Girls in white dresses danced barefoot in the courtyard below us. The bride and groom laughed as if nothing else existed. Confetti fell like soft rain. Everything returned again. The air thickened once more. But no one cared. People waved, poets waved, drifters, musicians, drivers, dogs, cats, everyone waved. But were they waving at us? Or just waving for the sake of waving?

Night slowly descended. People returned to their shelters. You were still on the balcony. You looked at the lights in the distance, then at the sky above Paris, one spring, one April.

I would describe to you one picture. But why… You have already seen them. I painted them only for you. We laughed again, but you more than me. Because you laugh more beautifully than I do.

Imao sam kuću u sebi

Imao sam kuću u sebi, pored mora, imao sam tužnog psa i dvije palme od papira, imao sam ruke omotane oko njenog tijela koje se sjajilo u maloj, zavodljivoj sobi s mirisom lavande.

Tražio sam u njenom carstvu malog boga na kraju izgubljenih cesta. To su bile ceste našeg djetinjstva.

Imala je četiri brata. Jedan s velikim srcem od zlata. Drugi poštar bez sreće, vrijeme ga je nosilo kroz bure i nedaće.

Imala je slavnog oca, u birtijama uvijek glasan. Imao je tvrde šake, koristio ih je često. Stajale su mu kao čekići na stolu. Majka joj plaha, radila je sve po kući, imala je rijetke snove, imala je, a imala je malo. Jedino iglu i konce bez boja.

Sanjao sam opet tebe. Imala si nježne oči, stajala si pored mora, plesala smiješno, ali bez greške. Ja sam bio opet onaj na lošem glasu. Stizale su me kurvinske ruke. Alkohol je bio izlaz, rješavao je sve moje zaostale muke.

Ljudi lete sve dok ne padnu. Mali je Ikar zaspao u meni. Svanulo je jutro iznad tvog čela. Opet sam te sanjao, sanjao sam kako ležim kraj tvog besprijekornog tijela.

Imao sam kuću bez prozora i vrata. Nosio sam tugu još od prošlog rata. Imao sam kuću od prašine i dima. U njoj su drugi spavali, a ja sam jedino htio kraj tebe.

Imao sam svašta, a imao ništa. Bio sam kao skitnica u srcu tvoga grada. Imao sam te u sebi, a bila si daleko.

Zar to nije čudno, djevojko moja mala?

Angoulême, 2024.

SAN

 

Stari autobus plovio je poput broda kroz sive dane, kroz maglu i ljepljivi dim iznad praznih gradova koji su vrištali i crvenih rijeka koje su plakale. Letio je iznad šuma koje su nekad bile guste, iznad ravnica koje su sada bile samo sjećanje na travu, iznad golemog mora u kojem su plivale oštrom olovkom nacrtane utvare.

Putnici su uvijek bili isti. Jedan se držao za bradu, izgubljen u mislima o starim bankarskim dugovima; drugi je imao špicasti nos i veliki kišobran. U krilu mu je spavala violina, koja je lagano hrkala i sanjala glazbu Vivaldija, a ispod nogu ležao mu je kofer s knjigama koje nikada nije pročitao, ali je imao najbolju namjeru.

Sićušna dama s bijelim šeširom držala je dijete uz prsa. Dijete je gledalo kroz prozor; oči su mu upijale spaljeno nebo. Vozač je bio umoran i star, stariji od autobusa. Ruke su mu jedva držale volan, a oči su mu se lagano topile poput voska.

„Gdje ide ovaj autobus?“ - netko je uvijek pitao, ponekad tijekom zime bez snijega ili ljeta bez sunca. Dijete je brzo raslo, brže od cvijeća. Vozačeve ruke postajale su slabije, oči još praznije. Autobus je počeo padati. Svi su tražili čovjeka s velikim kišobranom. Violina je svirala negdje u oblacima - svirala je za mrtvog vozača, svirala za ljude ispod kišobrana, svirala za autobus koji je padao.

Nitko nikada nije saznao gdje su završili. Možda na nekoj visokoj planini, ili na drvetu koje je raslo prema nebu, čije su grane dodirivale ništa. Možda su završili na rubu svijeta, ako je takvo mjesto postojalo.

Ili su možda još uvijek letjeli, držeći se za kišobran kroz nepoznate dane, iznad kristalnih gradova i srebrnih rijeka.

Angoulême, 2025.

Čempresionizam

Djetinjstvo... ah... Da. Djetinjstvo. Ne bih se baš rado vraćao tamo. Vječno s tom kosom koja bi mi stršila kao da me je udario grom. Ponekad toliko žedan i gladan da sam bio u stanju popiti cijelu fontanu u parku zajedno s golubovima. Glad me znala nagnati do izloga pekare gdje su peciva mirisala poput čarolije, a želudac bi mi krčao kao razbijeni radio. A oči, ogromne, kao frizbiji.

Tko se još želi vratiti u djetinjstvo? Osjetiti ponovno sve te ugrize pasa, ogrebotine od mačaka, padove s drveća koji nisu donosili mudrost, nego samo masnice i kraste. Sve te prve tučnjave, udarce, sva ta čekanja po noći bez spavanja na dogovorenu tučnjavu s nekim tko je obično jači i veći. Tko se još želi vratiti na mjesta prvih ljubavnih razočaranja, tamo gdje bi mi potonulo srce? Tamo gdje se pričanje priča kažnjavalo. Osim ako nisu bile dosadne. A dosada je laž, jer ne postoji.

Da... glupo djetinjstvo. Vječno s podrapanim hlačama i cipelama koje se nisu dale zavezati. A zatim i naočale. Koliko god da sam ih bacao i trgao, uvijek bi mi se vraćale. Mrzio sam ih. A zatim škola. Tko je normalan volio školu? To škripanje kredom po ploči, časopisi na koje nisi imao pretplatu, dok bi ostali jeli za marendu svoje sendviče, ja bih se penjao po čempresima. Tako je nastao i čempresionizam. Daleko prije impresionizma, ekspresionizma i ostalih izama. Ali naravno da nitko nije imao sluha za to. Samo sport. I sport. I još malo sporta.

A zatim sve te svadbe s kojih bih gledao da pobjegnem, ali s kolačima u džepovima. Svo to fotografiranje, gdje bih uvijek ispao kao neki kreten. Dosadni odlasci u crkvu, loše pjevanje, držanje svijeće, skupljanje novca... ponekad bi nešto završilo i u mom džepu, jedina korist od tih vremena kada sam slučajno završio kao ministrant.

Djetinjstvo... tko još želi tamo? Sva ta galama u ušima i zujanje u glavi. Svo to dizanje za uši, bockanje, štipanje, packe, klečanje u kutovima. A zatim ti kažu: „Ja sam klečao na kuruzi kao klinac, što hoćeš, ti si još dobro prošao.” Sve te situacije u kojima netko stariji napravi budalu od tebe, a previše si malen da se obraniš. Ako ga udariš u jaja, gotov si. Ali to je jedino što ti preostaje.

Sve te probušene lopte, potrgani skejtovi, podrapani nindža kostimi od crnih vreća za smeće, sve te masnice od loše napravljenih nunčaka. Ali da bole, bole itekako. Svi ti udarci cipelom u glavu ujutro kad bih radije još spavao, a kiše nema, nemaš se na što izvući. Naprotiv, veliko sunce ti se još cereka u lice.

Anna Magnani

 

 

ROOF SLEEPING MAN

If I were a soldier on guard beneath a sky full of stars I'd gather them like buttons and give them to you. If I were a scarecrow in your field I'd be the only one singing the only one singing even though I sing badly.

If I were a postman I’d bring the usual bills and dull ads but tucked between them love letters just for you. I'd be the gardener who lives in your yard. I'd sleep on your roof keeping you safe from the thunder unless I slip.

If I were a lazy stray dog I'd follow you through long streets too long honestly but I’d pretend I wasn’t tired. If I were as tall as a crane I'd lift you above the city and only set you down in beautiful places.

If I were a sleepwalker I'd probably wander straight to you. If I were a hanger I'd hold your coats filled with the scent of plants and your silk dresses with joyful flowers.

If I were a monk I'd still think of you and shield you from the storm.

And if I were far far away from you I’d wither like the leaves in November.

Angoulême 2023

WHO IS THAT GUY?

 

Sometimes I Google myself. I did it again this morning — for some reason. A picture popped up. The first one. I look at it and think: photoshop? I zoom in, lean closer, then think: maybe it’s not. Who is that guy? Who? He’s wearing a cap. I don’t wear that kind of cap. Or…? Ah, I remember I actually do have that cap. That makes me feel better, at least I recognize something. But I still don’t know anything. Why am I behind the curtain? Like in some Lynch movie where everyone talks backward, and the curtains smell like forgetfulness and old coffee with a taste of who knows what. Lynch’s coffee. Well, okay, that’s not a problem. Maybe I was in some cabaret show? Or maybe I just wanted to run away from some crazies. The mafia… insane dentists… people dressed in strange costumes… fans… there are only a few, but they exist. I look at the face up close. The eyes — strange, wet, like they belonged to someone else. The nose — like it’s not mine, maybe borrowed from some puppeteer at a fair. The mouth — tight, very serious, as if I’m really preparing for some important speech. But what kind? Oh no, those aren’t my cheeks, that’s definitely an Instagram filter. No, that’s not me. Impossible. But that guy, for some reason, reminds me of me. I ask my partner Ana. She says: — You silly… That was at the festival in Binic, 2023. You weren’t feeling well, so you went to lie down behind the curtain.

LIMINAL?

June 12, 2025

Spaces in between. Hallways without destinations, staircases without steps, shopping malls at three in the morning. Lobbies with curtains too long and a TV in the wrong place. Lawns inside rooms. Empty waiting rooms without a clock. Or small rooms with an oversized clock. Children’s rooms without children. Closets with shirts no one wears anymore. Familiar, yet strange. Like you’ve been here before, but not you — someone else, in a stranger’s memory.

Stairs that lead to a closed ceiling. Slides… toys… balls… frozen in time. Transitions from one world to another. From night to day. Gentle nightmares. Nostalgia for something that maybe happened, or maybe didn’t.

Liminal spaces don’t know time. They are always now and never. Like a frame that never ends. Like a sentence without a period. The creak of a door that won’t open. Tightly squeezed chairs waiting for a conversation that won’t happen. The whispery moment when you wake up but don’t yet know who you are. When you are you, but you’re not.

What else is liminal? Dreams are liminal. We all dream liminally. Liminal is within us. We are liminal.

So much for liminal.

 WHEN BIRDS FLY BACKWARDS

Angoulême 2025

MEMORY OF THE FOURTH LETTER

I put this poem to music. The guitar sounds like an old broken-down tram. But passion doesn't choose. Everything else is just noise.

MEMORY OF THE FOURTH LETTER

PARADE OF PARADISE: IN THE WORLD OF WONDERS

 

I HAD A HOUSE INSIDE ME

WAITING WITH BECKETT

Something with the scent of morning coffee... my thoughts rising with the steam...

WAITING WITH BECKETT

Silence in the midst of noise —       

From my sketchbook - Angoulême, 2025

Here we are again… The world feels like a big picture without words, or words without a picture. There are no real tears left, just that invisible heaviness pressing on the chest. Hugs are rare, and quiet mornings even quieter. Who still dreams dreams? Do we listen to music, or just let it rustle somewhere in the background? Do we still watch the sun, or has it, too, become distant, cold? Madness rules again, and the world repeats like an old, scratched record.

The small things have disappeared. Around us are only giant eyes devouring the details: a vase of flowers, a trinket on the shelf, a sheet in the wind, morning clouds... Memories of childhood, of those afternoons watching the rain and feeling like we were traveling, are now just a murmur in the distance. Instead, all around us — fear, restlessness, false needs.

People are tired. Deflated. As if we’re slowly being erased. Where are we headed? How much strength will it take to pull ourselves out of a life without direction? How do we create something that truly helps? We don’t know. So we wait. And that’s where Beckett comes in — maybe waiting is really the only answer. Waiting without desire, without rush. Waiting without a goal.

Because we don’t need much... Just a good sleep. A blanket when it gets cold. And that blanket — it’s not just a blanket. It’s bread, and wine, and cake, and a little bit of light. Something to help us wait peacefully for better days. Or at least — to wait in peace. Until the next waiting.

DANI NA SELU

Odlazak v vinograd u srijedu. Okopavanje krumpira v petak. S kravama v pašu svaki dan. Dragec je opet završil s traktorom v provaliji. Lojzek se opet oženil, po treći put. Sa ženom ka se rastala od petog muža. Berba kukuruza v ponedjeljak. Berba krušaka, jabuka, trešanja, malina, višanja... Skupljanje slame. Skupljanje jajci. Skupljanje perja s leđa umornih anđela. Dragec se opet zapalil iza pošte. Pošta je ostala cela. Gospođi Marici je nešče zaklal kokoš. Deca su joj opet gledala pod suknju. Neki su otišli na zapad. Neki su otišli na jug. Treba zaklati kokoti, svinje, krave. Deca gledaju. Deca se igraju z probušenom loptom. Deca si gledaju v gaće. Jedan starček hoče kupiti vino s penezima z Drugog svjetskog rata. Jedan krupni tip, kaj je bil na dobrom glasu, se objesil. Nedugo zatim i njegov brat. Otac se objesil zadnji. Izgledal je kak jedan od onih likova iz američkih filmova. Al dobro, sad... svaki treći v selu je tak zgledal. Teta Ruža je pekla kolače i hvatala se za rakiju. Bila je nedjelja. Decu je uspavala z jeftinom cigaretom v ustima. Gasila ih je na krevetu, iza glave najmlađeg sina. Sutra bu bila srijeda. Deca buju išla v šumu po gljive.

THE MYSTERIOUS BUS

 

A song for my old friend
THE MYSTERIOUS BUS
Angoulême, 2025.

We have to run now we have to leave the show Where is the sun now where is the snow We passed through thorns and thistles Little Jesus took care of us He gave us golden whistles And he put us on a bus

We need to rest don’t be sad You’re the best forget the bad We don’t know where we’re going But it doesn’t matter Give me some more beer and one cracker

There is no night around us There is no day around Is this a real bus We need to discuss

We need to rest don’t be sad You’re the best forget the bad I am overcome by panic and slight fear Give me give me another beer

You know I’m not a fighter I used to be an unknown writer We need to rest don’t be sad You’re the best forget the bad

I don’t like this time time The only thing I see is crime crime But I know we have to go through this fight If we want to see the light

We need to rest don’t be sad Take this bread and forget the bad You’re still alive you’re not dead This is a test I’m not the best Maybe I’m alive or maybe I’m dead But how not to be in bad

I want to get out of here No I don’t want any more beer This is not a test It’s not a contest

You are certainly good maybe not the best But the most important thing You have to rest

Who are you really And where are you taking me And why did we see Jesus by the sea

Maybe this is the road through hell I can feel that awful smell Don’t be sad We burned the earth There is not a single bird

Now sleep because the road is long You have to stay well and strong

We need to rest don’t be sad I’m your friend old and faithful You’ll be later grateful

ZIDOVI SU OTISLI NA PROVOD

ZIDOVI SU OTISLI NA PROVOD 

Angoulême, 2025

To je svijet od starih olupina i nejasnih obećanja. Sve je pokidano i pleše. Limeni bubanj svira glazbu iz smeća, violina škripi kao pokvareni gramofon s nogama — sanja bolji život, ali je zaboravila kako se sanja. Nebo je opet prljavo, boje hrđe, kao stari okvir za neku tužnu sliku. Dimovi se penju prema gore kao molitve ludih svećenika s nemirnim mislima. Visoki kranovi, umorni starci, podižu blatnjavu djecu s prašnjavih ulica i bacaju ih u velike, skupe bazene — kao da će voda očistiti njihovu patnju. Ljudi hodaju u crnim kaputima i s crvenim šeširima. Broje korake koje nemaju s nikim podijeliti… a zašto i bi? Jedna niska žena koja liči na zaboravljenu glumicu iz neke zemlje s dalekog zapada. Nekoliko mršavih cigareta viri joj iz podrapane kutije kao izgubljene rečenice koje nitko nije izgovorio već dugo vremena. Nosi suknju od oluje i zeleni šešir od trave pod kojim spavaju njezine oči kao polumjesec. Tu je pored nje i njezin mlađi brat koji se nikad nije vratio. Guska ide za njim. Ona zna sve o njemu, a ne zna ništa. Gleda i šuti. I pita se… tko je tko u selu? Kiseli anđeo s plastičnim krilima i očima od kiselih krastavaca promatra s krova. Njega također promatraju oni koji su isto promatrani od onih koji promatraju. Pas leži ispod vrata zaboravljene radionice u kojoj više nema ničega osim kliješta. Pas od marcipana više ne laje niti radi kao čuvar. On je više tu za ukras. On je zaboravio svoje ime. Možda Daniel…? A… ne, ne… Oskar. Samo se treba sjetiti Hollywooda. Pokraj njega — kotač bez vozača. Piće bez bačve. Sjena bez stolice. Vrijeme bez upotrebe i svjetlo bez lampe… utrkuju se… igraju se pikulama kao djeca. Šašava djeca. Prilazi gospodin s kravatom kao isplaženim jezikom. Pokazuje u kojem smjeru je tama gušća. Ovdje svaki prozor namiguje. Uglavnom. Svaka baraka ima prozor koji namiguje mlađem bratu žene koja još uvijek spava. Iza njega je ništa. Samo zrak koji drhti i kupa se u mirisu strojnog ulja. Postoje prozori i bez baraka. I kuće koje se sjećaju svog djetinjstva… ali… možda je to samo bio film… manje poznatog redatelja koji je pušio pet kutija dnevno. Cigareta. Niti selo niti grad — mumlja sebi u bradu stari skitnica od krpenih lutaka. "Zidovi su opet veseli", progovori on. "Oni su sretni jer su se ofarbali za noćni izlazak", odgovori mlađi brat žene koja i dalje spava. "Da li sanja? Što misliš?" pita krpeni lutak. "Sanja… sanja. Ona uvijek sanja." "Što sanja?" "Sanja snove… snove u snu… a ponekad sanja mene… kako stojim na jednom prstu lijeve ruke na njenoj glavi." "Zanimljivo", odgovori Krpeni i uvuče se u malu vreću od krumpira. Crveno, plavo, zeleno… farbe se prodaju… zidovi odlaze… a odlaze i stolice, stolovi i poneki bojler. Idu u provod. Čuje se još jedino smijeh nekog kotača koji gleda neku blesavu predstavu na krovu srušene zgrade. Ali bez glumaca. Sada netko negdje svira usnu harmoniku. Žena se napokon probudila. Poslala je svog mlađeg brata da joj iz dućana donese nešto ljuto. Ali i sladoled od ananasa. Otvorila je gornju ladicu na leđima svog brata… mlađeg… i gurnula u nju nešto novaca. "Ajde sada… idi… idi… budalo jedna." Žena stane fućkati, ali ne zna pjesmu. Samo puše, pa što izađe. A nebo? Nebo je sada zatvorilo oči. Dosadilo mu je sve… a posvađalo se i s anđelom plastičnih krila. "Ne gleda nas više?" "Ili se samo pravi?" pita čovjek koji hrče ispod ženine suknje u vreći od krumpira. Anđeo je kasnije pao s krova. Žena se skotrljala niz glavnu ulicu. Njezin brat… mlađi… nije se vratio. Zidovi su plesali u obližnjem klubu. Čovjek od krpenih lutaka opet je zahrkao u vreći. Noć je pala kao jabuka. Svi su zaboravili jedni na druge. Ali… to je tako. I nikom ništa.

ČEKANJE NA AUTOBUS

ČEKANJE NA AUTOBUS

Bilo ih je puno – rasutih po stanici kao slučajne misli, svatko sa svojom šutnjom i razlogom.

"Valjda će se pojaviti," rekao je tip bez brkova, u izlizanom crnom kaputu, gledajući niz cestu kojom se vukla magla, kao da nešto odgađa. Brkati sa šeširom samo se nasmijao, tiho, kao da zna više nego što kaže – osmijeh mu je bio blijed kao sjena nekadašnjeg smijeha. Dječak je kopao nos, mirno, bez srama, kao da ne postoji ništa osim tog trenutka. Žena s plavom maramom – onom što je imala uzorak žutih ptica – spavala je na klupi. Njena kosa bila je zalijepljena za obraz, a vjetar joj je povremeno povlačio suknju preko koljena, otkrivajući modrice i pokoju ranu od hodanja kroz trnje.

Jedan krezubi čovječuljak, naslonjen na izlizani kišobran s drškom koja se ljuštila, znao je da je dječak njezin sin iz trećeg braka. Znao je… jer joj je on bio prvi muž. I tad je stao govoriti:

O... da, da... Često se pitam. O... da, da... A ne znam zašto. A ne znam zašto. U srijedu — sve teče. U petak me rana peče. Ma, da... A ne znam zašto. Zašto sunce opet grije? Opet grije... kao prije. Ona mala, žena plava... sada opet negdje spava. Čekamo, čekamo, čekamo, čekamo... negdje spava. Čekamo kišu. Ponoć tu je. I nove oluje dolaze i prolaze, kao ljudi — puni čudi. O... da, da...

Mala nestašna djevojčica trčala je za bijelim psom sa crnim repom, vičući, smijući se. Pas je imao jedno uho spušteno, drugo uspravno, i njušku kao da ju je netko nacrtao kredom. Negdje u daljini pukao je prozor – zvuk stakla po asfaltu bio je tanak i oštar. Svi su znali šofera. Volio je duže stati po selima. U svakom mu netko nešto tutne: komad pite, jabuku, šaku kestena, šaku u glavu. Uvijek kasni. "Kasnit će i svojoj mami na sprovod…" rekao je čovjek u crnom. Brkati se opet nasmijao, ali oči su mu gledale u staru izlizanu cipelu – ona se ljuljala lagano, kao da više ne zna gdje pripada.

Žena na klupi sanjala je dvoranu – ogromnu, sa sivim zidovima i blijedim svjetlom kao da dolazi ispod vode. Na velikom platnu prikazivao se film: Čekanje na autobus. Probudila se naglo, s okusom metala u ustima. "Prošlo je već dva sata…" reče čovjek u crnom, kao da to znači nešto više od same rečenice. Brkati se još jednom nasmijao, ali sada više sebi u bradu, tiho, starački, pomalo bočno, kao da se s nekim iza leđa dogovara.

Dječak pokraj žene prestao je kopati nos i počeo fućkati neku dječju pjesmicu, loše, ali uporno, kao da doziva nešto. Žute ptice na ženinoj marami, pod nekom nevidljivom sjenom, pozelenile su – kao listovi koje jesen još nije dohvatila.

Krezubi starac je odalamio djevojčicu po guzici kišobranom. Pas je zalajao i pobjegao, ostavljajući za sobom male, mokre tragove, nalik skicama.

"Evo, stigao je napokon…" izusti čovjek u crnom. Autobus je bio star, zahrđao, i mirisao je na vlagu, benzin i smrt. 

Brkati je ostao bez osmijeha.

SKELETON OF SMOKE

This is a poem I recently wrote for my painting. The painting itself was created over 15 years 

SKELETON OF SMOKE

A boy stretches his neck toward the sky.

His eyes glisten like oil on a puddle.

The skeleton of a whale sways above him.

It flies and drifts.

It flies and drifts.

"Do you see it?" the boy asks,

His voice thin, easily carried by the wind,

Which carries the scent of algae and rust.

A woman clutches a bag in her right hand.

Her hands tremble, but not from the cold.

Inside the bag are letters that never reached their destination:

One letter for a son,

One for a daughter,

And one for no one special,

For no one important.

A man with a cane limps forward.

Old shoes creak,

And the ground beneath them murmurs,

Murmurs without end.

"Are there any more trains?" he asks.

But there is no answer,

No one to hear him.

The train behind the house is silent.

It only watches.

The rusty cabin looks at the sea—

Eyes empty, pupils made of glass and steel.

The tracks lead nowhere.

Far away, a ship’s horn wails,

A lament that spreads out.

Behind the house, behind them, behind the half-open window,

Someone who once waited for the train,

Someone who still waits,

Waits for it to come.

Now they only look at the deep sea.

Look and smoke a large pipe.

Maybe they own a wooden car.

Maybe buildings.

Maybe even the skeleton of the whale in the sky that still sways in place.

Everything is frozen.

Even the smoke from the pipe.

The old man, woman, and boy—all frozen.

Why? Why?

The chimney behind the building releases thick smoke,

And it too is frozen.

Like the smoke from the pipe we don’t see,

But feel,

For some strange reason.

Where are the workers?

Are they at work?

Are they okay?

Are they hungry?

Where are their children?

Where? Where?

Why does the whale skeleton hang frozen in flight?

Where is it flying?

What is its fate?

Why is it frozen?

Why? Why?

ANGOULÊME 2025

COMPRESSED MORNING

COMPRESSED MORNING

Here stand things left on in the dark. In the room where tables creak, in the room where a lamp burns over a notebook without words. Where dust has settled on the camera, on dreams no one has developed yet.

In the background, the radio rustles — muffled voices mix with buzzing, music slowly fades, like an echo from another world.

The kitchen squeezed between walls like the last breath before suffocating, a pot without a lid like an old man without a hat, the smell of buttoned-up memories, a lonely beer bottle stands by the window, and towels in the bathroom hang like sad snowdrops waiting for a morning that never came.

A look through the window — a chimney behind the glass rises toward the sky, clouds lined up again like little soldiers. Silence has fallen asleep in the living room. The apartment breathes through narrow walls, and in the distance, the radio whispers a song lost in static buzzing.

Under the torn table — a sock, written papers, shoes that cry, forgotten words, and all the things that can’t be spoken.

A look at the building across — you can see windows of other people’s lives, tiny twinkles, lips moving like birds on rooftops. The chimneys are gray like drawings in the hallway.

In the bathroom, foam covers all worries. A book on the edge of the bathtub soaks up moisture like a soul sometimes soaks up the city.

In bed, body next to body. It’s cold… but warm, the night thickens everything into a silent noise mixed with the buzzing of the old radio.

On the floor — cables and wires and leftovers of lost revolutions.

Walls don’t forget. They listen without asking.

Angoulême, 2025.

FEAR OF FLYING

It’s been a few years since I wrote this… I wanted to change something… but I’ll just leave it as it is.

FEAR OF FLYING

Paris-Montreuil 2022

Grey house at the end of the strange street
For those who are not so nice and sweet
Tall smoke from the chimney
Rises toward the red sky

I wish I could fly tonight

The taxi is late again
The night is long
Someone is weak
Someone is strong
Trains pass above the shiny restaurants
Infants bawl loudly again
Behind the orange window

I wish I could cry
I wish I could cry

Maybe... I don’t want to fly tonight

Glassy-eyed people gather
Around the grey building
Someone threw himself under the train
I see in the sky a burning plane
Above a yellow crane

I wish I could cry
I wish I could cry
I don’t want to fly tonight

The taxi did not come
Something strange is happening
Umbrellas start falling from the sky
I’m going home soon
Alone with the moon

I wish I could cry
I wish I could cry
I don’t want to fly tonight

SUMMER WITH GÉRARD

I DEDICATED THIS TEXT TO MY DEAR FRIEND GÉRARD

SUMMER WITH GÉRARD

In the summer, Gérard grew. There’s no morning he would ever forget. Summer came slowly with him, like a forest spreading around the town, like his silver beard. And in that beard, lights and people, people of peace and unrest... people of paper and glass... people, people... inside his beard. What is it... everything is tangled again around us, who catch our heads and turn them left and right... What is it... some man or a spider on the glass of a narrow window, typical for a small French sleepy town, in Gérard’s memory. A siren sounds for a moment, then Satie breaks a new wall inside us. What tree grows... beneath Gérard’s building? What... what... tree... is it a real tree? Children run... run... where are they going... noise again... someone barks... those are only dogs... or is it the riddle of this summer or winter... we look at the map... Gérard takes sandals and travels through Algeria... towards Libya... then climbs to Turkey... and flies over the Black Sea towards Ukraine... returns the sandals... opens the window... he asks me, in French: “Ferme la fenêtre.” “Oui, bien sûr!” “Donne-moi une tasse.” “Voilà.” But his hand still wanders... 

He remembers Louis de Funès. 

He remembers Marko Ferreri... and laughs... because that’s the kind of person Gérard is. I look at the window glass and wonder... is it a bug or something else... “No, that’s a tourist,” says Gérard. “Tourists come in spring... like flowers around city parks... tourists are like flowers... maybe... I’m not sure.” A woman with long brown hair passes by the street and looks into the windows or at the sun, or maybe she’s looking for someone... but who? Maybe Gérard... maybe. But Gérard is already old now, and the girl is just his distant dream, which he once dreamed when he was still a boy. But Gérard still laughs like a child, teaches me French, patiently and slowly... word by word... letter by letter...

Angoulême, 2025.

THE TRAVELLER’S PRAYER

     THE TRAVELLER’S PRAYER : 

      A Poem from Zagreb, 2005

Look through the Traveller’s eyes.

Under a black sky – a forest of iron and glass rises.

The last white bird shelters a city in its wings – a city of love, untouched by war.

Stand still. Be brave. You carried leaves as ancient as that city, and this rain tracing your cheeks – centuries wounded.

Trucks roll by, cranes lift the world. The Child’s hands press against concrete. The night bleeds red in the burning forest. To the first river – the path steep and narrow.

Step through the world, through the hollow morning. Narrow alleys are mere illusions. Stand still. Be brave. These days, everything’s upside down.

Sink back into yourself – into the music, the colors, into his song.

Do you remember the sea? You were the only masterpiece washed ashore.

You swam, and he swam to you, but here, he forgot how to breathe. In this silent city, foreign to everyone, a city steeped in sorrow.

Look through the Traveller’s eyes. Starry music still plays, the old violin still cries. His hands still dance, the heart remembers and still burns.

Your hair tangled through time – a time of pain, of death, of fear. The mad ones broke all the bridges, but you walk through the shattered fields, unafraid.

A new world opens – a palm unfurling. And that city of love without war whispers your true name.

Look through the Traveller’s eyes. Turn every horror to dust. Let your love rise with the newborn sun.

BETTING

BETTING 

Written on a Train - Angoulême - Binic, 2023.

We’re betting from a safe distance. We all bet — sometimes out loud, sometimes to ourselves.

We bet on kids crammed onto the balcony of a shabby flat, working some seasonal job by the sea.

We bet on rival gangs, on the mafia, on politicians... on the one ready to jump from the seventh floor, on the sociopath downstairs with the scrawny dog.

We bet on crooked cops, on the lovers, the loveless, the philosophers in class, the waiters, the cooks...

Once a week, we bet on whether the left or the right will win.

We bet on the ball, the dice, and some on the cross or the triangle.

We bet from every corner of the world — east and west, north and south.

Will the kids get hurt again? Maybe they will, maybe they won’t.

We bet... we bet on defeat, on victory, on power, on democracy, on shoes, on walnut trees, on salami, on cheese, on yogurt, on a Jaguar, on a broken-down Toyota...

We bet in the morning, in the evening, on the street, in the room, on the roof — loudly, under our breath.

We bet on our enemies, our friends, our relatives, our neighbors...

We keep betting until death, holding on to that sliver of hope — no matter how small — that things might still turn out right.

THE BOTTOM OF THE TOWN

THE BOTTOM OF THE TOWN — Zagreb 2002–2003? 

Here’s just this one last maritime-chess horror ballad in Croatian. I wrote it over twenty years ago. Part of this text appears in my second comic.

DNO GRADA

Ako kreneš na dno grada, gdje crvenobradi gusar spava, njegov pogled, gladnog lovca, hvata svakog i najmanjeg čovca.

Iza topa skriva zlato, mene lovi živo blato. Usred igre on lulu pali, moji su konji od straha stali.

Figura nema i kralj je pao, vojsku silnu njemu sam dao. Zato se čuvaj na dnu grada, gdje crvenobradi gusar spava.

On dobro poznaje sve igre riječi, tvoje će riječi mačem presjeći. Pobjeći nećeš od njegove straže, crni te lovci strpljivo traže.

Ako kreneš na dno grada, gdje crvenobradi gusar spava, tamo dolje rum se pije, tko ne želi, nek se krije.

Dugo sam čekao priliku drugu,

vrteći se u začaranom krugu.

A zatim mi jednom priđe i reče:

"Možda bude za tebe i sreće."

Ulijeva mi rum i opet mi toči, dok slažem figure po šahovskoj ploči. Oluja je stigla i prijetiti stade, gusari topovske kugle vade.

Udahnem duboko i zraka si uzmem, dok smišljam kako da mu topa oduzmem. Crne su se sjenke nad stolom vinule i blijede oči u mene zinule.

Brod se zaljulja, olujni vjetar udari, nešto u meni počne da stari. Drugu si priliku ne smijem propustit, kralja opet iz ruke ispustit.

Oči mi bježe, noge se tresu, oluja i dalje u svome bijesu.

Ako kreneš na dno grada, gdje crvenobradi gusar spava, tamo dolje rum se pije, tko ne želi, nek se krije.

CARDBOARD SHIPS

 CARDBOARD  SHIPS

We breathe hard in the days of unspoken reality. Words crack like dry branches in restless wind. We chase the remains of ourselves in the yards of lost hopes.

Children blow the remnants of cheap dreams; children don’t play. Their feet are bare, their hands are soot-stained, and their eyes—made of glass—melt far, far away from the gaze of other children staring into their pools behind pink houses.

We quietly squeeze through narrow doors; nothing is comfortable anymore. We don’t feel our bodies or our voices; we don’t feel the music, but we listen to it. We don’t feel the images, but we watch them.

We press ourselves against dirty walls. Our feet slip into deep mud. Hungry children cry again; hungry people tremble in pain, and their tears disappear under the sand.

No one talks about illnesses anymore; no one talks about wars anymore. People dissolve like fog over the Seine; people fall like leaves in autumn.

Man disappears again.

We don’t walk; we don’t hear; we don’t see.

We stand, bound in chains of illusion, on cardboard ships that slowly sink.

Paris 2023

Kratki text inspirisan mojim snom

 

           LJUDI NA KROVOVIMA 

Obično gledam u sunce. Tog petka bilo je golemo, bijelo i zasljepljujuće. Danas je nedjelja. Kiša je trebala pasti, ali iz nekog razloga kao da se predomislila. Nebo je zadržalo dah. Navečer sam vidio čovjeka s nacrtanim mjesecom iznad glave i staricu kako pjeva Marseljezu na krovu renesansne općine. Netko bi pomislio da sam lud, da sve to izmišljam, ali ja često viđam ljude na krovovima. Rođen sam s tom čudnom sposobnošću.Vidim ih i na prozorima, sa spavaćim kapama koje vise poput teških oblaka. Na najvišim prozorima zgrada čiji su fasadni reljefi izrezbareni floralnim uzorcima, ljudskim licima, pticama u letu. Kao da fasada diše, kao da kamen pamti. Volio bih se jednom popeti gore, ali previsoko je. A ja sam već pomalo star. Pitao bih ih što drže u svojim sobama, ti ljudi sa spavaćim kapama. Jesu li njihovi predmeti stvarni ili su to tek izblijedjele sjene nečijeg sjećanja? Jesu li knjige na policama ispisane mudrim izrekama ili su to prazne stranice, zatvorene korice koje zjape poput grobnica? Možda bih uzeo bombon ili keks, ako bi ih bilo u staklenoj tegli pored žene na prozoru. Ako bi mi dopustila. Ako bi mi kimnula glavom. Možda bih tada zagrizao taj keks koji izgleda kao da je jestiv. Možda bi imao okus poput nekog davno zaboravljenog sna, onog sna koji se otapa na jeziku poput pahulje snijega. A možda bih samo stajao na ulici, zagledan u te ljude, u taj meni daleki svijet, u te sobe, prozore — kao da su svi samo odraz onoga što sam jednom bio i što više nikada neću biti. Zatim bih nastavio dalje. Noć bi se lagano spustila, a ja bih skrenuo u neku ulicu gdje bi me dočekali mirisi hrane iz raznih, šareno osvijetljenih restorana, gdje se mogu čuti smijeh i galama, zvukovi otvaranja čepova na bocama vina, poneki lavež psa, zvuk bicikla i zvuk mojih nesigurnih koraka.

Edgar, koji je šaptao mraku

Edgar, koji je šaptao mraku

Nekad sam bio majstor samoće, zalutala sjenka među tužnim golubovima, s licem od stakla u kaputu od magle, u parkovima od kartona i slame. Ispod zvijezda, ispod sebe, sanjao sam plastične snove, a umjesto mača, nosio sam tupe rogove s mirisom plavičaste tuge. Svoj krevet dijelio sam sa živima i ponekim mrtvacem. Moje cipele bile su od kiše i blata, kao otvorena groblja usred oluja. Ljudi su nosili maske, a ja sebe, preko pruge, oko starih vagona, s drvenom žlicom, umivao sam ranjenog miša od srebra u noći, ispod slatkog snijega, na kamenu od požutjelog nemira. Ja sam bio Edgar — za neke gospodin iz nasmijanog smeća, koji se ruga oštroj sreći u sjajnim kutijama, a za druge pločnik koji plače ispod dubokih koraka koji žure. Samo jedno plavo oko i jedna torba — u njoj krikovi rasutih snova, vruće zime i ledena proljeća, kao popucalo vrijeme na zidu od staklenih suza. Bio sam tih i s tajnama. Čuvao sam ih ispod kape koja je pričala više od mene — ponekad istine, ponekad laži. Ali brodovi su teški, brodovi su stari. Ulice grada — znao sam njihova krhka imena od jeftinog kostura, njihove neuhvatljive kraste. Vidio sam mjesta gdje djeca rastu u špricama s okusima gorkih bombona. Gutao sam miris svojih umornih koraka. Znao sam, a znao sam ništa. Bio sam Edgar, šaptao sam mraku u parkovima, daleko od žmirkavih svjetiljki. Noge su me vodile prema vratima koja govore: "Uđi ili ostani." Negdje, nigdje...

Angoulême, 2025.

MEMORY OF THE FOURTH LETTER

It’s the weekend... The dogs are frozen, everything is silent, and the pigeons are frozen above the trees in the park, in Montsouris Park. People sit on the grass like wooden statues, sitting around a tablecloth. On it are apples. People make the sounds of old trains. Instead of eyes, they have clocks.The park is like a bed, the city is a story, the people are sentences. It’s beautiful... Everything is quiet. Is the first letter G? No. Is the first letter D? No. It’s beautiful... It’s quiet in the park... In Montsouris Park. The sand is cold, the lake is green. And the travelers on bicycles are green... The sky is green. Only the grass is yellow. The grass... It’s beautiful... It’s warm, everything is quiet again. She comes without words. An old lady. Who is she? She remembers her first three letters. It’s a gift. It’s effort. A struggle. Her fingers are a cure. These are moments without fear. It’s beautiful... Beautiful... It’s warm... The walls are no longer painted with shame. Trash has become art. Thirty-seven pigeons play on the rooftops, jumping, singing, in Montsouris Park. Everything is calm. The scent of croissants spreads from the newspapers, the smell of Turkish coffee and lemon, the smell of Chinese food, the smell of muffins. It’s beautiful... It’s quiet... Time is no longer time, space is no longer space. Squares are no longer squares. Factories aren’t factories. But it’s beautiful... Quiet... Calm... Shadows walk without bodies, curtains dance without wind. In Montsouris Park, everything is slowed down through the cracks. A white rose dreams the music that doesn’t exist. A little girl sits on a bench. In her hands, she holds a plastic bottle, spins it, and laughs. She just laughs. Her laughter is a whisper of the past. The sky is cloudless. Cats turn, spinning in circles, looking for something, looking for a new sky. All the windows are closed, but flowers hang from their edges. A song can be heard, maybe a prayer. It’s beautiful... Quiet... Time has stopped again, spilled across the road like wine on a tablecloth. The old lady remembered. She remembered the fourth letter. She remembered the smell of mandarins and the ink. She remembered a glass full of sunlight on the childhood table. Everything is quiet... again... It’s beautiful... It’s beautiful... It’s silent in Montsouris Park.

Paris, 2023.