NullIdiot na dom!
zadnje objave

Kerkopski fevdalizem






LITERODROM: Mednarodni festival literarnih praks v razvoju // CD, 15. – 19. 1. 2015

IDIOT v gozdu – IDXV.!

Ob smrti oz. dokončni preobrazbi Tomaža Šalamuna v vse, kar je (piše: Jasmin B. Frelih)

Prihajata IDIOT 13 in RIIBA!

Z violino proti bazuki



This is a wonderful patch, like the sun, our sun, which is kept away from the others
That it is all there will be
On the table of spring.
In our universe the center is younger.
You cannot turn to the lack of spin,

This is shade.
I think is shade. In shade I think.

Your monads will blast you with macular pumps.
In our vineyards our being, gloss on a young pause.
My eyes miss you, my body misses you as it misses its flesh.

MICHAEL T. TAREN: { } — june 2010

{ }

I jack it in the car.
I preorder books for foreign markets and for the woman in my house
I paid for it.
Born to do so a volcano is born to be a volcano
A canary a canary
yet it has these pendants, if I choose to kiss them
Will the evil life differ across my stem, just as
Passion does plying for its lonesomeness
Such lonesomeness that execrates the seam in the parachute grass.
Flames that have to eat and find one another in the created flame
The source of baleen.

The contrails climb (go up) into the sky
The plane is there
The obvious goes up into the sky that blinks.
The ground sheds in that the park itself is a jungle
Feeling feeling feeling
Its vast bubble house
She becomes a girl
I become this page

MICHAEL T. TAREN: ME — june 2010


Delicate fibers burn and shift and bring up from.
Your tongue seeming.
Only to be concealed anew.
What was it that was everything and then faded away,
And passed through the world as its gaze upon us.

MICHAEL T. TAREN: LOVE — june 2010


I am very rich, and I am as preposterous
As I am rich, very
Very soon my sky for you will leap and face
The veil
And the veil is
And the forest front
The bailfire of
Detail is silent
Not becoming has become
That is their moan
Agnus Dei
There is an apocryphal story that it will not
Come from its way
A depth filled with water
Filled to the brim with water like a lover
Filled with her lover
You must remember to cover your lover
You must remember to cover your lover
With a blanket or sheet,
Cover him with your furniture womb, thronging
In a circle
Your ranks of pottage, your fruit’s exile.
Kill me.
Stupefy the ex-premier
Of my recent country of inflections,
Or inanition in the ear to hear those that flee
Run with all that is fled, parade of God,
Wordless barley corn swept from the tapedeck,
A mundane dilation of the half open eye.
Hold your squashy pennants while I abrade when I
Hold your expirers
Me for her own,
Who as me
Who I am, progenitor and program
On the curvette of the TV.
Aisling through
With a cross,
It contains.
I take roofies
Flames go up I pass in the gondolet.
You cannot reach, console
Its roasting cannot impede its rising
I piss on you my flame
The three circles of Maya
Robes glowing behind garden doors,
On this earthly door
That opens before you, closes
After you
You dance, you dance like
A spinning token.
Opening through it,
You will
Open your shattered hole of
Of being
For all its love (and need of love)
Like a baby, an infant,
Lolling your circle against my mouth, I am carried
By a fresh light
And they eat the stars south
By you, the unsoundable sun
Torrents dry on my body
Humming my brocade
For profit. You return from my soul, we make love
And are gone.
To gold interleaves that trim the anterior with rigid down.
My face, self-effacing.
I am separated wine
From thirst
That is mine
That wine is mine
Motherhood is mine

ANA R.: A SENTENCE — june 2010

A Sentence on Guilty Pleasures

intense rushes push us together pulling us apart the mind slips divided the beauty of
a perfect moment collides with fearfulness then and again to desires of eternity as
a piece of art made of slow love flowing and suspended on a boat in venice
we roam the water labyrinth
on a stage of ecstatic excesses towards a new familiar destination embraced by knowledge of experience we mind underlying foetal feelings of bent faiths though hours fuse in
arrested development of
moist entanglements and lost guilty pleasures.

ANA R.: SHADOWS — june 2010

Shadows Shedding Light

i has this hand on face
the hand of realm
the face of days
this sliding hand over skin
i has this hand that synchs
in tune with the song
i has to have something

i has to remind of things i has
in times i feels the loss coming
i has this hand skin can feel
in times i’s too far to touch

ANA R.: KOIBITO — june 2010


potent as the strong savage solid bare rocks where the tritons and waves carry the nights through the misty winds and burning wires on the sand, the fisherman inhales the fire as a tribe’s most impotent ritual.

ANA R.: REMOTE CONTROL — june 2010

Remote Control

let’s pretend we’re tesla then, develop the field of electromagnetism, alternate the current, change the electric power systems, the motor, electrical distribution, demonstrate wireless communication and create discoveries of groundbreaking importance to our selves.

be regarded as a mad poet, due to an eccentric personality, seemingly unbelievable and sometimes bizarre claims.

let’s pretend we’re tesla then, measure magnetic fields, flux density, induction, encourage the effect through wireless energy transfer, power in electronic devices, robotics, remote control, radar and computer science.

be the inventor of radio, the world system, transmit electrical energy without wires where the content is a parallel site with teleautomaton radiating cosmic rays.

let’s pretend we’re tesla then, conduct radio wave experiments, prove that earth is a conductor, devise the spark plug, conduct the earth through a set of resonating spectrum peaks at the schumann residence.

be excited by lightning discharges in the cave, the space between the surface, the limited dimensions which emit waves of resonant cavity.

a void naturally excited by electric currents in lightning where the fundamental mode is a standing wave. one who monitors the global temperature affects the variation. around low frequency and high intensity, the peaks exhibit a spectral width on account of the damping of the respective modes in the dissipative cavity which track global lightning activity.

on the way to explore celestial bodies, the discrete schumann resonance excitations were linked to transient luminous effects, emissions of light and very low frequency perturbations from electromagnetic pulse sources, discharges of an underlying thunderstorm …

TIBOR HRS PANDUR: XXX — november 2009


Give me a body to cry against
Give me tenderness and you’ll give me form

The trembling of the hand
Against the frail window of the metro

This gaping hole which makes me write
This gaping hole between us

TIBOR HRS PANDUR: KRAJ — october 2009

Kraj nesrečnega imena

Kjer je tebe zla nesreča pela
Kjer te ni objela in zakaj

as I force myself
Into the lily
I make her bloom
And am
Not I


The Establishment

Had a party. Leonardo DiCaprios’ dick blew off
And a hole was left behind through which you could see the sky
Sucking you up. Like a mystic flower
With no beginning
No end



Smokes a joint in the park
Compiles poetry from newspapers
So that someone beautiful could smile

Writes through the sky
Above the sea. Above the sand of time
How sound a touch
And a touch a sound

Through the sky
Like Gandhi in Sanskrit
Went on the mountain although followed
Wailed and waved with boards and smoke

How he doesn’t give a fuck about those wankers
Preaching violence
How others are our own religion

through the sky
In all languages, all colours
Red Gold Blue
Again and again
For all to see

Gli alberi sono alberi degli Dei

And was Leonardo
Although followed by assassins
And Moses high on the mountain
Although he was just a tiny little spot
Writing through the sky
With letters big
For all to see

Although he forgot most of it

Alberi sono alberi

But he saw sound
A frequency which jams
An ape into a Man transcends
How sound hits
How the speaker into the listener
How each in his own direction
A world in his own world
What he was before
As if life
As if a generation

No soldiers. No stand.



Killed all the servants
All his executioners
All his children
He just wanted to hear some priests chant
I felt how the sound sucked me out my skin
How every note bewildered me
To sing, but I couldn’t
Languid and limp I went for my knives
And when I killed them all I wandered
Lonely through my ancient halls

Stuck my bloody sword onto a table full of fruit
I was out. Of my mind.
I opened closets
Searched for guns
Until suddenly
The face of my mild, obedient and gothic wife
Calmed me down


Return to Nikola Tesla

»Peace can only come as a natural consequence of universal enlightenment.«
(My Inventions, Nikola Tesla)

Daddy cursed metaphysics all day long
But at night he wrote it

Alone in their games and arcades
And rooms from which people
Dangerous and dirty streets

Jump! Swim!
And you’ll see
If you go
If you come
If you’re there
If you
If you make it
If not
If you hug someone
Or keep to yourself

There he stood and watched their houses
And their flats and wells
He didn’t see. There was a hill
And it was beautiful
“I started to build
All sorts of nice things
From petals to shiny things
And tables and knives
With minarets and just all things

But then people came
With dirty hands
And ate and drank and scrounged for cash

I just wanna be pure goddammit!
“Build light”
At least something beautiful
Music first

Without distance
I organized and worked
But they owned the project
The Barman wanted dough
A French girl outphilosophied me
As I quoted Ezra Pound
This wind out of Ferrara
Without being there
Knew it just by name

“We’re so different
But in the dark we’re one”

She undresses in the bathroom
Her pubic hair is gold
Teenagers shatter empty bottles
In a drunken stupor
Against fences. Against the sea.
When no one’s looking

Something’s missing
I see her pissssssss
Every pore of her vagina
Beating, smiling, judging, breathing flight
The truth of scent
All Casper Hauser

She undresses and comes … to me
And touch is language

But when we kiss
She can only smell herself


J.P. Morgan Rothchild

Madmen gather
At the end in an abandoned factory
They conspire to go to Heaven
Their ancestors opened it up with cramps
Through production belts
Now they don’t assume
Their positions
Nor responsibility: “Dialogue is dead”. “Dialogue is dead”
He repeated as he lost himself

“Am I a tight fist, when I should be a Marxist?”
“The best thing about a capitalist, when he wants to be an optimist
Is, that he isn’t … one.”
“Maybe you’re right”
He observes
We wander
Who are we? What are we?
Corpses on a pile of corpses rule



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