The Literary Self: The Anxious Word

I am writing to remember the dismemberment of my self

Fragmented, torn into tiny shreds

Shattered glass from the collision that came out of the blue


I was not ready for the darkness

for the daydark that broke my heart.

Not love, but death.


Not death

But murder.

Murder and gasoline.

I have been burning for almost eight years

Smoke and ash on theDanube

The dried dirt sifted by my hands after the bulldozers

And forensic scientists had completed their tasks.

The maggots on the corpses

The failure of my strength

The walls of the old house

Smell like baked bread still born babies

Garlic and tears.

The rooster and the cat gather on the rocks

I am in the land of shadows surrounded by corpses

Bones in the earth

No God here.

I saw their ghosts when I returned to my one room apartment

Shivering breathing in cold blue death.

They looked at me and I stared back.

My knees scraped the cracked soil.

What is left after such a sight?

The smoke from my cigarette rising

I shared it with the spirits at the edge of the grave.

In Vukovar I found the answer to Pilate’s question

Life already Death

Every Birth a death to be.

I must write. It is an imperative

Logic fails.

Grammar freezes

The period jumps out of position

The trauma of the flesh is too large

To be contained by calligraphy.

I almost fainted from your beauty

Your sheltered me from meanness

And I repaid you with anxiety and fear.

You were sunlight and joy

Where I wished to live forever.


About Mark Zlomislic

Philosopher. Writer. Artist. My Studio/Gallery Inscape Fine Art is located in Cambridge, Ontario. Viewing by Appointment Only. Please email:
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