like a rabbit...

In your oven
(like a rabbit in your headlights)


I overheard a conversation the other day Mr. K. People. Two individuals were pointing fingers at each other…. Why are we so obsessed with overhearing? Why are we so delighted if there is death? Overhearing becomes something that we do all the time… overhearig stories on the news, living stories from fairytales and soap operas… loving like they do in the movies. Sometimes even forgetting our own lives.

Other times we just play back our dirty fantasies as if we wished to get sick… To throw up our »being good every moment« inside us. All the stories that are ours. That we hate and fear. But again love when we read them on paper soaked with yellow piss. Tabloids. Being shocked by the stories we already knew…
I wished for ten moments that I was brave like you, Mr. K. And knew how to steal the wisdom from their stories and make it mine…
Just mine…




»I' m wearing a coat that smells like you my dear«
(occupying Palestine)




As I'm working in a morgue… day by day through the same routine. Dark places without windows, without light, but with a strong smell. Smell of dirt mixed with the sweet and sour smell of death (just like that dip you liked so much at the drive-in). But once you get used to the smell, you see beauty… beautiful faces… even if distorted by death and the wrecking force of walls... rocks… cars and bullets… you see beautiful women. With skin cold as ice, and that bluish colour. Reminding me of flowers blossoming. Beautiful lilies when being hit with bruises of rainbows. Gorgeous crysanthemums when the blood is gone… Beautiful hyacinths when being dead.
Every once in a while they even smile to you. Those peaceful bodies lying on their designated places. Peaceful. Even if shot through the head by their beloved ones, even if left alone by everyone, they smile. Even if just for a moment. Even if their smiles last for seconds and then disappear in your sick mind like moments. One, two and they're dead again. Being [sajkik] psychotic. A see-through day-by-day appearance [chain (see)saw] of painful [loud] sounds… A chain(see)saw tearing its way through flesh and bone, tearing its way through wood… chips (of flesh) flying around. They sounded like smiles. Disappearing but still leaving an echo in the empty hallways coated in cold tiles. Working in a morgue. Quiet part.

Beats of the »pneumatic cutters« against screaming sounds of our »skull drillers«… the everyday routine of sounds that break the silence in between their smiles. No wide, shiny teeth looking at you from a toothpaste commercial but beautiful cheerful smiles. So vivid yet so empty.

Sometimes I go to funerals. To see my artwork. All of you are my paintings. And every funeral is like an exhibition for me. I put my art on display in a wooden frame… just like a painting or sculpture (if the bones are broken) in a coffin. People dressed in chic black. Sipping white wine and having the jibberish conversation about the exhibit. Aproaching it every once in a while to have a closer look.

No reality is more beautiful than you were… Dead in a car full of red roses… the reflection of your coffin in a black tainted window… no jewelry is more beautiful than the golden polished handles of a casket… No red dress is more suited for you than the red velvet of a coffin… fits you perfectly. Wraps your body in colour… like a gently worn coat. A famous red one. (ups). The smell of formaldehyde coats from high white collars. And red necks.

»I'm always wearing a stethoscope so the girl at the 4 a.m. coffee break will notice me. I probably look like a doctor working late nights. Actually she's the only other person in the room (besides her[you]). Two ponytails, each at one side of her head. Fat brown plastic frames. Brown like the wood of the coffins that we sell. Maybe that's why I'm so fascinated by them. Never smiling, always looking at the ground. Just like in a movie. The typical good girl. Nothing like you were. Maybe that's why I fell in love with you… Slowly decomposing in my 2-bedroom apartment. There was no funeral ceremony. The red roses were bought by the government. No priest. No holy water… no holy nothing…
So maybe that's why i dug you out of my dreams. (filled with soil)

At first we only spent time together when I pulled you out of the freezer… Stone cold crazy foxy. The twinkling neon light always glittering in your eyes… the sweet sounds of water dripping from your skin. Unfreezing. Little drops of sweet rain dropping onto the tiles on the floor as the ice on your skin was melting. After the ice was broken and gone, we started to move because the water was gone. So we started to go out from the freezing room. After a while I even took you home. Dinners for 2 --my place of course-- scents of the candles to cover your smell… me staring into your beautiful face… with the gloss of skin turning blue at first, then to green. I even called you my little rainbow, remember? Your eyes staring into mine… without moving… your curly hair covered with dirt… Little brown reminders of the soil back home. My little sunflower growing in the middle of the field. That hair of yours always reminded me of those… little sunflower roots. So delicate… So gentle, so full of life. And dirt hanging from them. The very dirt I liberated you from.… Those curls covering your left eye… playful moment almost like seing a naughty child playing with the magnifying lens and ants… Burning them. A pocket-size crematory.

So we started to go out together…. Not just at my place but proper out. Like lovers do… Drinks with ice... remember it kept u from smelling. The wooden wheel chair in which you were always seating like a stuffed animal (that's what you are, after all), a stuffed teddy bear, at first didn't bother me so much… The squeaking of the wheels even sounded pretty to me… like the »strange snorkling laughter of your ex«

But then we started to get into fights… Those little habits of yours, once so cute and simple, which you made so unwillingly, started to bother me. And you couldn't stop making them.
And people started to notice that my only one isn't so vivid after all… Waiters started to find offensive the way you never talked to people… I started to be tired to always have to order for you too… I mean you talked to me, why wouldn't you talk to them? Always the same question: » sir, is everything all right with your mrs.?… She's starting to be a little… ahm… blue in the face!?!« So we started to stay at home… You were suffering from a »postmortum depression« I read… And there was an ad about it after Doctor Phil's show. No more fancy candles. From now on, only the twinkling light of a Russian army torch.

We were never able to have candles because they would burn your hair every time you fell on your face in the soup plate… Every time I picked you up from your plate, the noodles were hanging from your face. They reminded me of little worms… Making me sad because your end was close. After all, you were decomposing.


God I miss those slurping sounds that you probably made when you were alive.

But now you smell like tar.. and open-air fire in the middle of the night… Fake dreams of invented realities… memories like snapshots.. glued together with pictures from newspapers and travel catalogues… We visited all of those places…gluing your post-mortem pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower with a piece of scotch tape. To accompany the scotch on the rocks in my hand… almost real… Clearly showing that on the back of your head it's not the steel of the Eiffel Tower but the cold shine of the steel operating table. That was your bathtub once, remember… as you let me wash you for the first time. You seemed so peaceful and quiet. To accompany the scotch on the rocks in my hand… almost real…

The same rocks you once fell on… that's how we met, my little bee… b(e)e suicidal… that's what they used to call you… little be(e) suicidal flying from flower to flower. From depresion to depression. From addictive habit to addictive habit… From that cliff straight to my arms. Your tender skin tearing against those rocks… bones breaking like shattered glass… as our little coffee table you (once) again fell on… as the sound of the electric and pneumatic cutters that I use. They're my tools. My chisels that create perfection… that carve beauty out of death. To be on the cover of dreams. Young boys getting wild when looking at those pictures. Women gossiping about the type of make-up I used to cover death. As they used to hide the scars and bruises as their husbands waved goodbye on their way to work. The little be(e) suicidal always flying.
Head first… just like you used to solve our problems… head on… on the rocks…Another double please.

I was always scared that they would find out… how much I loved you… back then… It was forbidden. We were different and they could never understand the beauty shining in our necro dreams. There was no one fighting for my rights on a tv show… the different ones just called me sick. All I wanted was to love you… if they were the different ones than why did they call me sick? I really loved you…more than they did when you were alive.
Those rocks were the reason we met… the thing that brought us together… as two lost moons attracted by their gravity (as you were back then), flying towards those rocks…
My lovely one… I never found the beautiful sea shells that kids sell on the street… even if I kept on and on… searching those rocks… then one day I saw your empty shell on the rocks… It was in the news. I even got an e-mail with your face before and after your change. But even if your face was different, I could see the inner beauty of it. What a coincidence that they brought you here to my morgue…

I could never be myself with any one like with you… You were the only one that could really listen to me. But the fights started to be older, there was more and more broken glass and the plates got bigger and bigger. Part of it was because you never even bothered to clean up the apartment. I had to wash my own shirt for work… my long white robe started to have brown spots… I got them because I had to lift you on the bed every night and off of it before I got to work. A quick cup of coffee before work and lifting you up from the bed. Sometimes in the hurry I forgot to change before going to work. Sometimes I even forgot to iron. So people started to notice the round stains… round like your breasts. I even started to think you started cheating on me. If I didn't wake you up, you would just lie there naked.
»What were you doing on the bed naked all the night and alone? Alone! Don't lie to me! Who were you with!?!!«
The fights started to get louder. But I didn't hate you. I loved you. I even cried when they came and took you away from me one day. The neighbours started to complain about my screams… and your smell. So they broke in one day… men dressed in uniforms, breaking down the doors and screaming something like » burn the witches!« I couldn't understand their mumbling. Their faces were covered with helmets and the guns were scary, so I couldn't concentrate on what they were saying. I think they started to call it concentration disorder. They even claimed that I pushed you on those rocks so that you would stay with me. But they are lying… remember? You jumped. You must remember. You decided that it was time to go. I wasn't even there. I didn't even know you back than.

That's what they said when I was on the news one day. Imagine…we were on the news. Romantic like two lovers… Romeo and Juliet on the news… Not in some dusty theater where nobody goes anymore… On the news… I always repeat things 3 times in the letter to make it more theatrical… I know you would love it… more epic… more me (us).
The publicity I got was overwhelming. I know you mentioned afterwards that I started to enjoy the feeling of my ffteen moments of fame. I was on the news every day… the star of the hour… the scoop of the moment ... the court case of the year… my very first title… I fell in love with the moste beautiful girl again. I feel in love with you. After all, I had to remember that you were the one that brought me here. You were the one who brought the attention at us. The one to reveal our love to them.
They even paid for our counseling. They call it psychotherapy, call it couple's counseling. I love you sweet one. I always loved you, now I adore you. Since you are a ghost and follow me around the empty halls of a psychiatric clinic.


»…the same white tiles that remind me of home!«
Sincerely (someone, spoken source)

to a good friend

»The meat man's gone«

In memory of a good friend



»The meat man's gone«

I guess that's what they call: »the silence of the lambs«

Put down your forks

Dry your tears with napkins stained with oily drops

»The meat man's gone«



He was the joy of our mornings

The last memory of our late nights

His smile lit up our sky's…

But now… »the meat man's gone…«



His hands would carve from meat our joy,

Lambs… not »of god« but of devine taste…

Corners of our mouths would spread in smiles

As we licked them in memory… of our meals

But now… »the meat man's gone…«



No more: »Messieurs or madames«

No more whistles to the clock…

No »pardons« or »ein biers«

Only silence

For he »the meat man's gone«



So let us rise our forks

One last time

And dry the tears that run by our oily lips

And remember him…



Couse he might be gone but he stays in our hearts

Forever… That same, smiley



»Meat man«

the flea circus

Welcome 2 the:
»The flea circus«
[for her that brought tears of hope and love]

It's Sunday morning, I'm not going to church today. I'm saving my money for my flea circus ticket.
And there was the begining.

»Ladies and gentlemen… a new show with amazement and addictive lies is in town. Clowns with sad faces resembling your fears and broken dreams, fire swallowers of childhood tears and abuses on the cover of new shiney posters. On a TV set near you…right next to god. A whole empire of entertainment built around a 2tone [black or white only] tent. Selling fake-flavoured candy to the little kid inside us… Never heard so many lies as in this »real world«

Enter the dream…of something so worthless that it has to be hidden with layers of powder or so gross that has to be shown to everybody… as his power or the power of nature… freaks and animals… preists and politicians… common liars hidden behind curtains of fuzzy sheeps suppressed and surprised by their hunger for oblivience…
And as we move on… lie after lie we never look at the commercials breaks between shows… we just learn them by heart…

»Buy whatever's killing you. There's no point in killing yourself for free… than you could't CONSUME death… slowly…Just as she does you… hold on to your ticket till the exit… you might have wont the trip of your life… the only thing that nobody survives…«

LAUGH you heard of sheeps… I found jesus… he was behind the sofa all the time…

Welcome to our first show… called birth… pick a name for it… the same order of letters that's going to follow you for the rest of your life… Convert from zero to whatever religion your parent's choose for you… and than back from clerical to digital… follow it… I'd guess to the slaughter house. Where all the drems find their home… not hope…

1.) Freak show

I keep hidding in the freak show…
Even if i can't pretend…
My skin is made of holes hosting flys
And my body smells like naftalin.

My clothes are skeletons from closets
Hosting all the hate for what was known as fears…

I will never love again…
It hurts as I pretend to be the one
who has no fear.
Rotting flesh on bones of glass

A see through performance with no other side…

So my stage call's on.
Hosting it all, all the ones I hate…
And the audience is just a list of faces…
That made me what I am…

A freak…

Stage call nr.1:

»I love u I said…« a word that keeps on hunting me
As something I hate for the pain

Sounds of trumpets… boys with little drums
Skeletons of hate wrapped in cloath of dreams…

My scared body… covered with over grown meat [as scars]
Hidding my past behind masks…
I have no friends to shape my paste…
So I go on trips by heart…

Bumping into problems called routine…
A routine of same old problems that I know by heart.
My costume is what keeps me here
Makes me different… prevents my every escape.

And death is not the answer anymore…
It's so easy I can't do it… that same costume
Like a chain and ball…
If I could only juggle it through life,,,

Curtain…

Last trumpets with shreads of metal…
Making noises like past dreams about something
That once sounded like my life…
The only talent I ever had was destruction…

The same one that keeps on killing me…

Show after show…
Stage after stage…
No more posters no more pictures pls…

I'm tired… deaf to all the calls
The trumpet makes me sick…
Eating me from inside like a venom…
Eating out my show… like a puppet without strings…

Nothing left to move my arms…
No one's there to pull the string…
The seats are empty… the kids are dead…
Only tire tracks and pools of tears…


2.) Stage fright…

Same topic in different shows… different actors
I allways called it love couse it makes it easier…
Until I saw her eyes…

Sound like a well known chorus of the same old love song…
You're beautifull… but now it's real…
A pair of eyes matched only by the shrieking feeling of stage fright…

Dark as a black rose…
Dark as the things I love…

I'm not sure she heard me…
I move my lips to her steps…
Simple gestures that just make my day…

Every laugh is just like a song without lyrics
Every move is like a frame in a movie…

A silent move…

I freeze those and play them in my head…
Other people call them dreams…
I call them you…
Elegance is what makes you what you are…

When u pick your hair up, the world stops…
The pin holding them together is my still point
And I gravetate around u… like a lost satelite…
But they help [the pins]… they take away my fright…

I hold that little piece of your life in my hand
And the freight is gone…

I feel ready now…
To have another look their way…[those eyes]

Another dream… »beautiful as only u can be…«

Another act with shinny eyes…
And me drowning in them…
Drunk with the sent of your hair..



3.) Audience


Once when I was six my mother told me
»Not to stare at the television…«
But I did… at first it was dark…
Than light started to slowly crawl in…

Since then I see stars…
Little pieces of shiny objects
Glittering in my eyes…
My personal little dimonds…

At firs I thought it won't go away
Paranoid I was walking through the streets…
Filled with snowflakes falling
As on a dead tv set.

Since then I see stars everywhere…
Faces that I know…
Faces that tell me stories of lies
Written in scripts of dreams…

»I love u..« they scream…
In the agony of somebody elses skin…
Violently throwing themselves on the floar…
»It's television« they say…

The other reality…
The constant lie hidden behind a piece of glass…
No holes no rabbits just snow…
Alice left…

»Until one day the darkest pair of eyes
Stopped the script of every day routines…
The sparkle in them reminded me of stars…
Little moments of joyful childish memories…

Estetic of something so perfect…
A reality show of feelings
Stagefright instead of tears…
Addictive gestures of being the one…«

No more scripts…
No more posters…
Reality stops
Silent falling snowflakes on the screen…

4.) I heard they are going to ban smoking in the flea circus.

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8, when numbers count to nothing…

When was the last time I had a breath of fresh air? They don't show it in the movies.
Dean never told me that it'll hurt as hell when i'll try to run… run away from my own habbits.

Never told me how sharp the pain is as you watch the only person that u ever adored as he sticks a white piece of cloth in his throath… to clean the breathing hole… the black hole created by the same habbit that I follow. Ligned up as a soldier… No questions asked…

»Yes sir captain Nikotin. I'll serve u till the very bitter end.«

There was no dignity left in that for the exception of the scarf that he used to cover it. A scarf of lies and facts connected with numbers… Published in the books he knew by heart.

Smoking kills. Thanks for the news… I alwas thought it was going to help.

A performer… that's what I was…
The first approach: »hm hm.. do u have a light?« Her eyes shinning with life… or was it death? And than play after play the same rutine?

»Light(s)! inhale the ambient, exhail the words, applaus, curtain.«

That dark red curtain that the his casket was covered with. That feeling in my throuth again. As the need to start crying… Or is it the lucky strike that i'm waiting for? The very last one… last one in the pack… they say every end brings a new beginning…

New pack

Spit…

The feeling of his lungs collapsing pack after pack… as he tried to point at my future… somewhere in the disstance… covered with smoke… as once his face was… that thiny gentle line of smoke drawing the shape of his face. Lines that I considered as my home…

»Now leaning forewards to pick up something…«
he reminded me of the cigarette ashes… as they lean foreward… forgotten in the ashtry of this circus… The bottom covered with dead performers… One with the morning coffy, one because he hated his job, one because there was nothing else to do and one that I smoked… different from his…

»I was still learning my little routine…« »Working on my speech for his funeral«

I used to like the stage fright before every show… Now the performance of well studied movements became a soap opera of routines…

It's been two years now and I'm still waiting for his performance. Every spring, after the cold of winter, as the snow is mellting I hope to hear the happy sound of bells and laughter… But there's only silence. The same white silence that he left behind his final act… not an applaus… just black umbrelas standing in the rain of memmories of him that the sky was dropping on us… I still remember the sound of each and every one of them… Never sadnes… Couse he didn't want me to. Just an another excuse… for the next one.



Why don't i spit out the logos of the things that i was supposed to love more than anything else? My every day rutines… Performances… Why is there no loughter…Why is there only [honey on] tar .

Sweetest depressions and addictive lies in cartbord boxes. I finished the last one. Aplouse…

Courtain

5.) I heared there's no religion in the flea circus…

I
'll spread my love all over your face… and pain(T) it blue… green… yellow… as a rainbow of love… Changing day after day… it's not love if it does not hurt… He'll never breake your heart couse he made a commitment… and it has no bones to add that suttifying crunchy sound to yor prayers. Thank god that u live next to the church so u can visit it every time u fall from the stairs on your way there…
Than u'll have to pray… becouse it's not love if u are not affraid. Hidding under your bed, night after night, praying to him, that's listening from above, but is on hold at the moment… Ordering a happy meal to go… Where? Back at »the fruit of his own creation«? Becouse it's not love if u can't feel it. He died on a cross for you… We speak and believe money… we understand digits… and converting from clerical to digital…
I heared that all the fear was invain. Becouse it's not fear if there is no death. You have to know what hell looks like to know how beautifull heaven is. Or was before they painted all the Coca cola logos on their wall. Merry christmas. Santa is born… Have a Coke…

6.) I heard there are no polititians in the flea circus

» we claim this land as ours! Make it ________again«

Sweat dripping down a pair of fat red cheeks
Cheeks that you have fed with votes and money
Claiming something yours… to be found
Before you even knew you lost it.
»may god be my witness«.


Victims of lies from their own creation
On pages… but not just pages… Front
Doors of your houses… Screaming…

» with golden smiles to match the eight a clock news«

Smiling faces of the tortured
As they turn to torturers…
Reasons hidden behind another _______–ism...
Point a finger and they'll cut it…

They will cut it with pens as sharp as swords
Wrap it in their realty with pictures straight from »wars«
Hipocratic kisses of peace
And wishes of »get wells«

Comercial brake:

» help rebuild the things that we destroyed… Cover our bomb holes with hopes of a bright future. You are free now. In a land u once called home. Go now to your ruins and tents… in the land u once called home.«

Lying on a beach of sand I watch the news…
I watch a boy as he pick up shells
Empty ones…

Mouthfull of revolutions
Heart broken by the beauty…
Of the moment… by the gentle
Words of the wind…

I follow the line of clouds…
Jet exhaust… caphony…

Then silence…………………………………………………………….

Over 7 mountain and 7 lakes
Bodies tripping over empty bomb shells
Not man… parts and pieces of dignity
Once straight… saluting to his faith.

The next performance piece [of arms and legs]
For another television network's freak show.

»Our NEW jingle aannnnnnnnnnnndddddddd cut to commercials«




“And the day »the flea circus« left there were just tractor tire marks… resembling footprints… just like the paint on posters that's fading away… creating puddles of tears… gathering…

just like the smilling poster-clown with a tear of rain running down his torn face… broken… with goofy mustaches that the children have drown… resembling fear… or just resembling a new beggining…

the long winter of the await for the next show… with new lies.«

mornings in here...

Feeling like an eye lash in a tornado on the face of beauty

Not a thought…

Not a melody of a well known song

Just a silent movie of moving lips

Sung by you…

An insane mechanism of the 40's esthetic…



Beautiful and blinded by the 10 moments of my day that are lit by the beauty

Sliping in the worm lap of your face…

Something so deep and blue like your eyes…

Bringing me back…

Making me feel like a child…

Chasing clouds with a finger tip…

And naming them… after you…



Thank u to even let me see where the world stored all of its beauty…

It's an amazement every time…

How the ocean starts to be something ordinary…

Compared to the blue and deep look that comes out from your eyes…



At the same time screams of the wind…

Playing with your hair just like seagull wings…



Gentle but loud…



And the calmest of the sounds ever known to man…

Made by your steps as u walk by…



Like little drums announcing that

There is beauty…

Hope or something amazing out there…



That it is worth living to see…

What color is your laughter going to be tomorrow…



I know that it's going to make my day…

Even if it stays just a stupid line from someone…



I want u to know…

That u are beautiful….


no more big words...
no strange thoughts...

just a feeling of blindnes...

coused by the sun of your being...
as i drown in those eyes...

those beautifull eyes

when everything else fails

in memory of a lost parade (her)

My wired way of saying goodbye...

For 10 moments there,

I really felt like an eyelash in a tornado

On the face of beauty...


http://www.youtube.com/user/danajagonija13


To scare to write it on a wall but still:

»and i thought that angels don't exist...«

Silly me!!!



God must have been a clever guy if he made

The world DIY [do it yourself]



With my favorite picture in my head...

Taking a walk... outside

Novi Slovenski Idiotizem

idiotizmi tega, kako rad sem te imel [koliko te imam]

okus po jabolkah
sladek kot spomin nate
(na njo)
vse velike ljubezni
se zachnejo na
nekem kraju

dobiva se TAM

vchasih je bilo dovolj,
da sem vedel, da si bila blizu

stala na tleh,
tam, kjer sem jaz.
dihala isti zrak...
pila isto lepoto...

----------------------------------------------------

prozorne...
prazne misli...

megleni napisi...

nikoli nisem
znal ljubiti

tako kot zdaj...
MOJA NAJLJUBSHA SLIKA
S KATERE PODOBO
SE SPREHAJAM

ZDAJ

sok 100%

parada: za sanje o lepi njej...

drzhavi...

Sanje o njej...

Nekoch ko smo znali she vsi sanjariti o tem: »kako bo ko bom odrastel« in smo si jo upali gledati takko odmaknjeno... s sposhtovanjem...

Nekje med zadnjim sedezhom avtobusa ali spet pri novem omizju, med tem ,ko so vsi ostali reshevali svet... ponovno...

Takrat pa... zavesa... luchi se ugasnejo... follow... ona...

Lepa in arogantna, kar ji omogocha vse kar jo dela tako lepo tako tisto, ki jo hochem [o]

In tej naj slike hodijo. Njej naj se dvigujejo napevi v oblake... tokrat ne mnozhic razigranih otrok, ki mahajo z zastavicami... tokrat ne vrste tisocherih mladcev, ki slepo hrepenijo po njenem pogledu...

Ne...

Tokrat samo mi2... ki she vrjameva v ljubezen... ljubezen do nje... drzhave...

In nikdar vech naj tuja roka ali noga... mazhe nje sladkobo... so bile sanje njih, ki padli so nekje... pozabljeni za njene chare...

Tokrat sva dva... majhna... a malih je veliko...

Malih ljudi...

V senci ki jo mechesh ti na nas...

Lepa...

In ponosna da si...

Taka kot jo ljubim[o]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LVzGgU5AF2A&feature=channel_page

vabilo na kavo

Vabilo na kavo…

Verjetno ste že kdaj bili pri nas / Si že kdaj bila pri meni.
A se nisi nikoli počutila domače, tako kot jaz ne…

Še enkrat (a ne zadnjič) smo vas (sem jo) povabil k sebi na kavo, da bi vedeli kdo ste vi, ki ploskate (ti ki jo ljubim).

Vabilo na kavo: »Čeprav je delala najslabšo kavo, je bila tako sladka, ko mi jo je prinesla v posteljo.«

Toliko krat ste se spraševali (si me vprašala) kdo sploh sem. »Menda si vedno sovražila moj prazen pogled, ki ni pomenil nič drugega kot to, kako lepa si in kako nemočnega se počutim, ko gledam v tvoje lepe in igrive oči (nisem še popil svoje prve kave)«.
Pa si še vedno niste vzeli časa da bi se spoznali.

» A ti mene sploh poslušaš? A je res tako težko iti z mano na kavo?«

Ob kavi sem jo bral kot knjigo, h kateri se rad vrneš. Knjigo, kjer ti že platnice pričarajo zgodbo, ki je tako lepa… Včasih dosti lepša od realnosti… Dim, ki se je poigraval z njenimi očmi, moteč kot moji komentarji.

» Do prve kave se sploh ne zbudim (laž o tem, kako sem jo celo noč gledal v spanju) «

Kljub temu, da je nadležen (dim) je lep… v vsej svoji preprostosti… v vsem zvenu in krikih o tem, da sem jo ljubil (da te hočem spoznati… ti… obraz)

Njo (tebe)
Njene navade, njeno kavo.

Koliko problemov in nepotrebnih vprašanj.

» Nisem hotel biti vsiljiv, pa sem jo povabil na kavo… Dala mi je številko… zdaj nobena kava do tiste ne bo tista prava… Pravo kavo brez mleka bi…
Črno.«

Črna kuhinja
Črn dim
Črna kava
Črne misli


» Mogoče ni razumela obsesije s črnim. A ravno to črno naju je družilo. V tem črnem sem bil res srečen z njo…«

Mat črn ostanek na dnu šalice. Brez svetlobe… Da sem lahko res užival v svetlobi, ki jo je oddajala…

» A res nimaš pet minut, da bi se usedel… popil kavo?«
( nisem hotel, ker je vsak stol prehitro postal miza… postelja)

Zakaj je torej (vas) ni bilo?

Je res povabilo na kavo še zgolj in samo fraza zaradi katere si lahko razočaran, zamerljiv zaljubljen?

Ali je bila mogoče kdaj klic…
» Ne odhajaj… Strah me je biti sam (brez vas, ki ploskate) «

Strah me je bele tišine…
Beli sneg
Bela krsta
Bel vrtinec v črni kavi.

vabilo na kavo

črna kuhinja... črn dim... črna kava... črne misli... bela ti...

v času ko vrednote pomenijo manj ko oblak dima na kavi ste vabljeni na popoldansko kavo k danaji...v nedeljo 12.4.09 [26.4. po štetju danaje] ob 15.00 v stanovanje na levstikovem trgu 5ko kava postane več le razlog za črtico ptetike

http://danaja-org.blogspot.com/

http://www.youtube.com/user/danajagonija13