Out of long nailsI weld limbs for my new body.Out of old rags, my entrails.A coat of carrionwill be my coat of solitude.I pluck my eye from the depths of the marsh.Out of the devoured plates of disgustI will build my hut. My world will be a world of sharp edges.Cruel and eternal. — Tomaž… Continue reading Tomaž Šalamun
I Know Last night, in the water where Barnett Newman’s line disappeared, I drowned. I swam to the surface, like a black, dark-blue luminous blossom. It’s terrible to be a flower. The world stopped. Mute, like velvet, I opened, perhaps for good. Before, with Tomaž Brejc, we talked about the mystique of finance, about the… Continue reading Tomaž Šalamun
The Vale of Soul-Making 