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

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.

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

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.

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.