Iztok Osojnik: Poems (from poetry collection Sneezing is no hay fever, 2013)

iztok osojnik

sneezing is no hay fever (a fragment of a poetry collection)

Š Iztok Osojnik

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expertimental

Š Iztok Osojnik

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a wind poeem a phd pidgin in english, a red shirt swinging dusty cock, in a freezer i could be a leftist anytime. my imagination is momentarily worth sewage system. but imagine broken bones a new life form, darwin is alive does a dna spiral breaks when bones creak. looking at airplanes I cry. a big red army in a big belly, a permanent transformation dangerously close to sickness and sustained vomiting and I do it to at least explore possibilities to deconstruct free market economy in its very roots. hello, we know these guys, they lecture at universities for big bucks san cristobal de las casas was my brother in law (he did not know it) political theology is a mode of appropriating the monopoly rents rubbish people have to move nowhere to let the new apartment buildings enjoy their postpostmodern architecture. they lack windows, uhhhhh east end and theology of freedom. imagine I lived there for two years and I still suffer, emotions are diamonds of shit. now you have come along and my dreams are ready for the execution again. goya was a great painter I am a great painter little nervous device is a great painter. you must remember nigeria, lagos, metal sheets glitter, hellish sun rychard capuscinski and me, we walked. I visited him in his tin cabin, 451 paper Fahrenheits three thousand languages, each person there actively speaks four drove my bicycle around the city, hit invisible dyed hair wall a bodhisattva. is that revolutionary? yes, yes. there goes the difference an alpine climber on the top of a garbage mountain too him a linguistic turn yellow sails, oozoik sails

Š Iztok Osojnik

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I should hill it butter I should not try to impress an impress a noun, they talked about this 5 minutes the mobile army of metonymies and fear of fathers. my father was not afraid BUT I AM NOT THERE I could love you madly, I did. a mean priest a tender devil hills, burning in the deepest cell, hills, yearning for conception. I know the colors well, I know the little beethoven there (hills) sheer madness, blatant ecstasy. solidity offers a perfect definition, the world skinned alive, hills, trace, hills, trace waking dreams in rubber boots, made in china. syncretism, i had been Buddha even before I died september is the sweetest month of april, who cares, who cares we have a tomato situation here (hills) ion, whatta name for an idiot, idiots gotta get a name, a real challenge for dead wittgeinsteins, paragraph 7 on the beach yes, I do

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old man’s teeeth too tired now to write I had ideas though. I still have. a bulldozer parked in my dreams (not to bother later with renting one when needed) a dark yellow bulldozer in black violet dreams, dirty of course it has to do something with a woman with three or four heads I couldn't see it well then I went skiing down a dusty road and the affair did not end smoothly either this this this sentence is this this this sentence, very clever I drag around my tiredness, draco the alchemist spit it on my knees and I sing, accompanied by thelonious trickster on sarangi by sufis with fox gloves (inari in japanese means a fox). now that I remember, it was freezing cold and unbearable humid nowhere near the london millennium footbridge (I am singing again) in this sentence there are three noun phrases forgot all of my Japanese, san ju nen, I blubbered, I had my newly bought sandals on, wuuuush, gerhard richter on a bicycle, by, by flies were irksome (now I am lecturing) kyoto my home town but not anymore, I bought a stone bottle of kirin beer in that same store where I had been buying groceries thirty years ago and had had a fight fight with my daughter daughter over some sweets, bitter.

I stayed awake nearly all night, fool moon and apricoots in foot bloom I think enough description/castration, gerhard richter on sarangi, bye, bye I really failed in this line no apricot barbecues nor any acidic balsam for soles my pumpkin host is a red communist, and she likes to twist though she still believes that up there must be something in the mist. not gorillas. I said of course it is otherwise there would be no rain and no pain and no. coffee and cigarettes, isn’t that the title of one of the somerset maugham’s novels yes, I miss you come, come inside me

© Iztok Osojnik

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*** nothing like serving a profit making institution for free (i.e. lecturing pro bono at the dpt. of anthropology, I like it, the students like it, the dean likes it, the government does not like it they don' care). do you love me? I don’t mean just fuck, I mean the wormhole between two black holes, two faces and all me, a man of service in every possible aspect of the word I go, I teach, I think, I do things for free, YOU CAN’T SELL MY PRODUCTS it seems meaningless, me in India i.e. I go there and i walk through slums of new delhi being attacked by scared dogs again and again, I use stones to measure the distance between their jaws and my shadow don’t believe the midget, who laughs at her own puns. mingle among the elite financial aristocracy. they have money and scooters, I have money and a scooter too, but mine is a heavy duty one I have dreams and peter esterhazy as a neighbor. we enjoy breakfast together I break my bifocal glasses and spend the last 1000 rupees for a bottle of king fisher beer in that fancy imperial hotel without anything british in me, even that very square l’avant-garde pissoir is an artifact of some alien art, its negative reflection. don’t mention my sex life, there is none. yes, I can fuck you (shoot you) among the stars but I do not have the type of mustaches that would appeal to you in the first eight seconds at the coffee shop too much economy involved and nearly no bodylity, wrong, wrong actually it seems ego not an author only a consumer, creative, yes, innovation, yes, intellectually providing, yes, wait a century, valid until 23 march. soft machine, the less you hear the better poet because I force your imagination to fill the empty white spaces (in derrida's meaning of spacing) with your own aspirations, acceptably blocked even before you start daydreaming. what does it mean? lovely day, isn’t it. what is the mystery engine of this repulsive machine? nausea? wrong place at right time? right century? to be aware is deadly silence, the body of Buddha. the tail of the bull has finally gone through the rashomon’s doors, the doors

© Iztok Osojnik

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the successfully murdered grand canyon diary about mollusks for cathy wagner so I am back back where back here.

I have been away 2 minutes and 73 nanoseconds a text producer without any surplus value, or even more excitingly no value at all. I have two feet, yes, both topoi of rheumatism* -------------------------------------------------------------------*(topoi - a research network with a focus on the study of the ancient world. in topoi, more than 200 researchers from diverse disciplines investigate how space and knowledge were formed and transformed in ancient love affairs). in limerick, irish sparrows chirp bellow the cow made of paper mache near the ancient churchyard vividly painted by religious symbols from a book store across the street. I took to watching and jani to urinating not far from the toothpaste shop. Once before I intentionally misleadingly represented that same place as the house of culture in lucerne on the shore of vierwaldstättersee lake tautology both wagner and nietzsche were there at some time I was lecturing on Nietzsche while we were descending the maloja pass down into the valley (see below) telling the clients that Nietzsche never was a nazi minister of propaganda from 1789 to 1889 he though called in only i.e. when in 1903 two named after ferdinand de in 1897 there was a investment in a crocodile by city of lausanne. Nietzsche

was CEO of societé general in Basel when important decisions were to be made: latrines were installed in the park of reformation saussire and j.j. rousseau and john knox respectively discussion about one trillion swiss francs balthus (balthasar kłossowski de rola, 1908–2001) in the olympic successfully introduced (wilhelm reich on sex: 13)

zaniness as it is an aesthetic of polyvalent doing (acting with or among the presence of others) whose deepest content, I have been arguing, is labor. © Iztok Osojnik

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and right he was (Sianne Ngay, Please do not cite or circulate from “the cute the zany and merely interesting: three problems for aesthetic theory in next three weeks, 34) which I did not respect: right there, o, eagles of the highest dithyrambs! they never believed me, the clients, but they were wrong as there was nothing to be believed in, and there was no eagles either it took us 213 road turns to get to the bottom of the val bregaglia (see above) at the border we loaded 67.433 slate slabs, which should convince you by now that I belong to the idiot poets of trnovo bay area or at least that I am a psychotic and later I may join you on that opinion, but not at this hour of the night. it has been existentially important to me, upon my return from matterhorn, rilke was there, in the upper rhone valley dying of a rose of a rose of a rose thorn poisoning, an information was nailed on the glass doors of the chillon castle that my bicycle was thrown in the container for plastic refuse made 100% of water and glass and CO2 and byron, saint john perse (munich 1938) immediately fined me with 200 euro and a hotdog, because I was a vegan, he claimed. miško wrote a paper on that arguing it was an act of relational aesthetics I protested as I understood it as a sort of shallow discursivity but at the end we both profited by earning nothing not even a minute recognition we missed the media by three and half nanoseconds turing machines were gone to their radar antennas rediscovering background radiation we were simply overrun by the UN day of the small soup discussions while in afghanistan and two other places on that same day usa air force drones rocketed 2375 people at a wedding celebration to death. but who am I to condemn these crimes from my grand barclay bank office in the east end “cucumber” skyscraper when me tooooooooooooooooooooo i have just packed 21 million euro award in my pocket for having brought the bank on the verge of bankruptcy and next day even two steps further wooooosh death is the other face of profit stated by the following sentence: the actual activity of virtuosos is that which “finds its own fulfillment or purpose in itself without objectifying itself into an end product”.

Falling into an abyss is no objectifying oneself into an end product not until one hits the bottom and crisis means exactly the endless fall of the zeno’s arrow divided by singularity seconds into the “passage to the limit” (leibniz) chomsky’s unlimited language by limited means trotsky’s permanent revolution einstein’s eternal falling of the earth into the gravitational abyss around the sun so after all why the fuck I don’t know paolo virno supposedly it is her who stated that I have always been thinking about my own work in such terms, and quite justifiably so. Let’s check the records I said: © Iztok Osojnik

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for more than ten years in any of the local newspapers there has not been a single line printed about my extremely disoriented work. I do not give a shit for identity problem, jovan nikolaides, you know it and I have as much greek blood and slavic and celtic and alemanic and anemic and romance and lorcaine and rhetoromanic and alberto campos’ blood in me as you. which is none. my purple blood is an unfinished product by the murex medium to large sized predatory tropical sea snail of tyre (Tyre (Arabic: ‫صور‬, Ṣūr; Phoenician: , Ṣur; Hebrew: ‫צוֹר‬, Tzor; Tiberian Hebrew ‫צר‬, Ṣōr; Akkadian: Ṣurru; Greek: Τύρος, Týros; Turkish: Sur; Latin: Tyrus) in my amygdale (http://www.sciencedaily.com/articles/a/amygdala.htm) corruption yes, sending stolen money to cayman islands yes, loving to read virginia woolf yes, smuggling a broken heart into an academic debate yes, and ……. yes (this part should be sung) at 4:50 a.m.

I just finished reading orbium planetarum terram complectentium scenographia in brilliant excellentissima lingua latina (the world-renowned author had been dead by the time) seven anthropoid dogs followed me across alaska with their unconscious muzzles on along the trail all the way to an elevator in warsaw stuck between two mirrors with the citizen kane between, great citizen kane permanently installed in the Sheraton hotel, the weatherman cain the porters called him the weatherman cain (after patrick hearst, her daughter) without having been objectified themselves into an end product and ivan urbančič stood up and he whispered in ecstasy: a production of a production of a production (and she hates marx!) the form follows the bangladesh dance by siva nataraja of textile workers performed in the zara lobby of the palace of culture (warsaw 2013, I was there) associability and discursivity are in the foreground of my art today

“there is no getting away from the fact that man’s (woman’s) deepest social instinct is her (his) antisocial instinct” (Musil, Robert) the name is ezra

© Iztok Osojnik

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andes you want me? I am fucking postindustrial or postcolonial or something postenglish and not yet in-chinese my English stinks, it is a stinking postacademic English of the level of some secondary high school in slovenia with slant Hungarian accent. it is difficult to get this body and this mind into a woman, I confess, my femininity will charm nobody women are queens of the world, with sweeping brooms, they don’t know it as men are occupied too much by playing chess or pushing lcd executive touch screens in their fancy business pajamas. let’s sniff one or two. there is 68 billionaires in India alone and in a way I am alone too. so I pretend I eat cherries or discuss the new trend of boring poetry, a hollow tin can with seven feet of an agip tiger by boccioni or lazzaroto, and even an idiot can see that I am a virtuoso regardless my excommunication because I don’t give a shit for any leading entertainment networks, you can see it yourself by checking my facebook site. so, I had been in Greece in samaria gorge when dionysios kaosphoros descended out from the bush behind me, drunk as lead and from that time on, it has been all computers, computers, computers. my feet are cold, said the woman businessman, dressed as a doctor medicinalis in a brilliant orange mini straw skirt and a dark green sleeveless golf jacket, but finally in void there still lingers the question of dasein, of me-here-be, namely me me. I was there in Krakow forum hotel breakfast room or was I crossing the bridge over wisla, when seamus Heaney got his nobel prize for literature, and he was a woman too, I am bloody strong biopolitical poet and at the end of empty tunnel of love I shall die too. a big collateral woman in his welding apron and gurgles to dive deep into the existential ocean down to the prajna coral reef in southern poland. ten tons of algae, nailing my tongue to an invisible non existingly existing wall of so called immaterial/ virtuosic labor. and when I die all this immaterial virtuosic banquet will be blown away by bonazza, because it has been already blown away by bonazza, the stillness of my vuoto cuore and, hello, listen, I am one of the top executives around I am indestructible tenderness of a horse shoe as well as incredible harshness of the pamplona horse shit yes, yes, and my harward ph.d. my postcultural cultural zoom my posthumanistic latin my eternal zero point gravity, buy more nevtralinos, guys, they are so heavy undetectable and completely asocial cinqo de la tardes, llueve su el papel secante, if this is not andistic then I don’t know andes at all © Iztok Osojnik

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