Lives Journal 12

Ivo Antich



(Two triptychs)







»Abatdon« is the name of the ship on which

you sail along the Yellow Sea. The captain's

former surname was Seulich;

when he came out of the Korean War,

he shortened to Seul. He said: »Always

I dream of this only: the roof high

above the bay, the rifle leant

to the face which is mine; by bridge

I step down of the ship, the cross follows the point

between two eyes; I collapse quietly, in a deaf dream ...«






»Seul, toujours! Don Abat, là-bas, l'abat!

Chorée, Corée!« cries the parrot

between the straddled legs of the

night. How it jerks, how it twists,

how it shoots the whip of disease, the health

palindrom. How it jerks, how it

twists, how it shoots the whip of health, the

disease palindrom, the master of Korean

boxing, Moloch of dream: in the sun's circle

a skull which using a rifle earns its daily bread.






The ardent bullet of muse loves you. Under

the larva of the sun there is not a face

nor any tricks. Carpet of scorpions. If

the bullet does not knock you down, the white

black widow sucks you out. If she

does not kill you, then you kill her. A dark

slime absorbs all. A flashlight whips all.

A sharp hiss breaks your face, pulls out

your breath. Along the yellow sea of ​​dung

you run: a rabid troubadour in the rush.









Run, you blur. Jump. Lie down. Cleave your

own mind. Stamp down the brain into the dust. Cross

off yourself. You exist not. With the rag of your face

smack at the wall. Lick a knife. Drink a sweat, a piss

from beneath of yourself. No breath

to the last breath, that blue slaughterhouse,

beaches and palm trees, film, dreamlike slow

circulation of limbs, guts and heads; tufts

of grass which is trampled and cut by

the thought steely shining in the sun.






Everyone of the wound in the flesh is born, a

wound in the soil takes back the seed: passion

and grave. Round your waist you tie a rope

and hang yourself on the ceiling. You rotate

so that your eyes creep out of your

skull. »Cuckoo!« brays the tigress and

hatred is what links you, pure

aversion, the only love which

is not hypocrisy. You are a tiger, a clear

account, paper: hard as epileptic, cruel kid.






Ghost, flyhunter. Morning of rats, evening

of gnats. They are sated to the marrow with the jail

among the windowpanes, they tear the thin wings

from themselves grabbing their own flesh.

They lie glued togehter by sweat in

pairs or in whole clusters, in the road

puddles, in forests, on fields, in halls,

in stores, in offices, in villas, in cars,

in shafts, they strangle each other, they gasp,

they wheeze under the grimaced mask of the sun.




Seul / Engl. Seoul, pron. soul, cf. soul, sole / Korean: Soul Tukpyolsi (pron. partly nearby to Fr. toujours);

etym. Seobeol »capital city, separate« / Fr. Séoul; seul – sole, lone; Corée – Korea; chorée – St. Vitus's dance /

Gr. lyssa – rabies / Korea – orig. Koryo, Goryeo, etym. go-Guru (high, walled); cf. Slovenian: koren, Lat. cor,

Fr. cor, Engl. core. (Note by a.)



Translated from Slovenian by author




Slovenian (gajica)

Slovenian (bohorichica)