three poems
by Nikola Milosavljevic
Outside Of Oasis
A man
moved through
the desert, breaking
sand ripples
with his tall wooden
walking cane.
He came across
a wadi that was
full of holly light
of rotting whores.
And all felons who
took them there were
nothing more but
armed drunkards
fighting the demons
of carnal desires.
They also died,
unable to find
their way out
of the vast
depression.
All of the bodies
were
overrun with
white worms.
they seeped
through purple
meat in great
numbers.
rolling out of
unclasped jaws,
oval vaginas and
relaxed sphincters.
This can't be
a Fata Morgana.
The man leaned
on his long cane
observing flies
coming out of larvas
taking all the flesh
in morsels to hell,
until the orange
sandstorm cloud
simply erased the scene.
Many
Many was hanging stiff.
Swaying east to west,
his leather shoes almost
scraped the planks.
There was no wind, just his
slumped body against gravity.
The crowd of women
and men watched
the justice orchestra.
Whatever had Many stolen
it still rattled in his pocket.
A chime of divine inspiration?
Rahela's heart pulled out of
the hot desert sand?
God only knows.
It began to rain
and still no wind. Aside from
the mud squelch and
taps on Many’s wool coat
the rope tension screeched
against his colorful neck.
They all expected more
so they waited for
something else to happen
looking up at the sleeping head
hanging from the gray clouds.
Something was missing.
Who would say that truth
feels hollow?
Soviet Terrace
In the distance,
A pack of mongrels howled
at a dandelion pappus. It
bloomed between the clutter
of spurs in the eastern sky.
I howled with them from a balcony
jutting off a concrete pillar,
twelve stories tall.
As I leaned on a metal rail
I took a sip out of a beer bottle.
My lips lustered like wet purple plums.
I took a long cigarette drag,
And then I howled some more.
My veins glistened, my neck
scalenes tightened, and my hands
clenched into fists, showing deformities
on bruised knuckles. My stomach
moved the air without control.
The darkness at the soviet terrace
stirred in rage.
The liberty width is measured
in the units of madness.
Somewhere in the western lands
Those would be birds singing
in a palm tree shafts. But
when the hunger keeps
Knifing the belly from within,
Howling with mongrels is more
fun than whistling at the moon.
Photo of Nikola Milosavljevic
BIO: Nikola is an American Gopnik from Serbia, who likes to blow bluegrass in a jug. He studied literature at the University of Belgrade, where he learned to interpret Haley's logograms. Follow his word fragmentation on X @litspoilers