Franko Busic: Nobody's scoundrel like me
autor: Franko Bušić Ispis bez komentara POGLED(A)
Poet who does not mince his words
I thought
I would make the painting in an old-fashioned stile,
but the painting has painted me,
in a modern stile,
with horns of the creative power
and the strength
that tears to pieces the aureoles of vanity
of the academic snobs.
I thought
I would make a poem in a modern stile
but the poem has made me in an old fashioned stile
with DA DA DA and plenty of commas
in front of and after DA;
glory to the old fashioned poem.
I though
I would sit and write a poem
but the poem has written me,
the poet,
who does not mince his words.
In nomine Domini Inferi,
I said,
without mincing my words,
yielding the poem
Poet who does not mince his words.
Franko Bušić
Split, April 4, 1999
I am/am I
I am Franko Bušić
some people say
Croatian writer and painter
that is not true
since I never speak Croatian
except when buying
explosive
that I use in fishing
some people say
I am the man without biceps and triceps
that is not true
since biceps in my pants is
above all solid
ask
Ana Jana Zvonka Tonka
Zrinka Vinka Dinka
and so on through fifty pages
some people say
I am Atheist Anarchist Nihilist Dadaist
Naturalist Satanist Darwinist Nudist
that is true
from their point of view
although
I am what am I
Franko Bušić
Split, July 4, 1998
Minotaur
The blame should be put on romantic poets,
these narcissoid sons of a bitch
heartless, dogs,
as well as there descendants, diableros,
grown up under the pressure of schizophrenia.
The bull from Crete went mad in orgasm,
and I, Minotaur,
I was born again,
unique, self-fertilized,
raised by the thoughts of a father, led;
I slipped off the womb of the infernal mother,
while the remains of intestines hanged on the horns,
she, who has never been a virgin – screamed in lust.
The blame should be put on the hysterical
insensible skins – women
and their neglected vulvas,
unsuitable for passionate foreplays,
the whores of Bacchus, eager to rule.
The bull from Crete went mad in orgasm,
and I, Minotaur,
I am again under the stars,
torn off the real world, kidnapped,
I am pricking with my head, jerk and then turn;
Athenians, Mihilenians, Spartans, Corinth,
you are not going to pass through my labyrinths!
You do not need to step on my tail
to make impale you on my horns -
says the poem.
Franko Bušić
Split, September, 1996
The last memory of the unfaithful girlfriend
It was January
and it was late
the snow covered
window panes
the lamps glittered
through the fog
I went to her place
as I used to every evening
supported by two –three aperitifs
instead of aphrodisiac
she was not there
neither the key was
under the doormat
only some huge footprints
in the snow
in front of the door
and unobtrusive
small
female high heeled ones
next to them
the moon told me
to laugh
as my emotions
are in winter the most intensive
and inspiration is supported
by lovely melancholy
I laughed to the moon
together with the Mercury
that protected me that night
and together with the black Saturn
of my father
who ever exists in myself
I sat in front of her door
while snow made my hair gray
and I whispered some blues
until she came back
in a fur-lined greatcoat
with make up spread all over
smelling of the too intensive perfume
mixed with the smell of sweat
we entered the room in silence
wordless
as we usually do
she prepared a martini for me
and told me to make myself comfortable
in an armchair
while she was taking a shower
I turned the leaves
of her last week magazine
Saturn was still with me
only a bit more intensive
darker than usually
darker than usually
darker than usually
darker than usually
after few hours
I was leaving her apartment
caring with me the last memories
of the unfaithful girlfriend
that was the photo
of her nude body
taken al targo
on the armchair
the photo was
sprinkled with blood
snow covered the photo
Franko Bušić
Split, March 19, 1998
To my ex friend
Are you still pushing the stone Sisyphus
schizophrenic
are you still pushing the stone
that I used to carry
on my back
for years
the stone that definitely belongs to me
as I have become part of it
Are you still pushing the stone Sisyphus
schizophrenic
with glass eyes
you robot
you horse
fuck off
Franko Bušić
Ivanić Grad, November 5/6, 2001
All is in penis or in bonus
If you want to write a poem
on a napkin
in a restaurant
and inject it to a romantic country-girl
who will, due to ignorance
or introvert nature
accept it
and who will readily sponsor you
few following months...
you must have a napkin
you must have a pencil
you must have IMAGINATION....
AND PENIS BONUS
or BONUS without penis
Frano Bušić
Ivanić Grad, November, 2001
Art is
Art is
mixture of provocatively and spirituality
art has its own moral
or does not have it
fuck the art
without coffee and cigarettes
alcohol or sex
art is passion
FINGER IN THE ESS HOLE
so,
artist is ass hole getter
and audience is ass hole receiver
Franko Bušić
Ivanić Grad, 2001
Cheap whore vibrations
You radiate like a cheap whore,
the one who has been placed on the bottom of the scruple scale,
the one who washes the penises' heads in her mouth,
for a sniff in a city park, and
the one who throws herself to the mercy of
penises of the men that make her sick.
Miserable!
You think I am a Fool
who will pay for your steaks,
who will be your permanent customer, your stupid prince?
This draws into frigidity, you know,
this long lasting fuck
that you did not enjoy
and did not feel any passion...
do not try to excuse yourself,
do not try to justify it with gaining of mythical
experience,
or with nursery tale about tantra;
do not keep deluding yourself:
you are just a cheap whore
whose vibrations I cannot stand any more,
you common woman, devastator of my own passion.
Who needs an old, frigid whore
searching the last shelter,
prostitute of a cold vibrations and
megalomaniac - expecting eyes;
who needs to marry cheap whores?
Franko Bušić
Split, November 27/29, 1996
First masturbations
ah
mira furlan*
ah ah
mira furlan
mmmmmm
mira furlan
yes
mira furlan
uuuuuuuuu
mira furlan
ah ah
yes
uuuuuuuu
mmmmmmmmm
Franko Bušić
Ivanić Grad, 2001
- Mira Furlan is famous Yugoslav actress of Croatian origin, mainly known for her erotic roles.
Nirvana
I am and will always be
sexual mirror
abyss
whose entire energy
is concentrated on the illusory surface
not just sometimes but in every moment
I reflect sexuality of my partners
their joy or shame
excitement or lack of it
solidity of my penis depends on them
if they are not heated it hangs down
when they burn I burn too
when they resemble ice blocks
my penis will not please them
when they sweat and cry in ecstasy
my body is in full strength
but
the most interesting is
fusion with other mirrors
then we pass through defect of psycho patients
the big nothingness or nirvana
Franko Bušić
Split, October, 1996
One two three
1
Finally some time
to write a poetry;
on the other hand,
I feel sorry since you are not here
I am in a gap
schizophrenical cheek of the night
blaze up my
alcoholic neurosis even more.
2
I love you, beauty...
so much that I could piss over you
yes, I would sanctify you and gild with gold
with drops of my absurdity
and afterwards I would use you
for emptiness of poetry.
3
I purify you with urine
you admirer of Babalon,
you tempter
who impressed me,
you,
whose sexuality sharpens my virtue,
intoxicated by golden ink of polysemy...
Franko Bušić
Split, September, 1996
Poetry über alles
Fuck off
with all your introversions:
with your inner worlds,
parallel reality,
imaginative creatures,
mythical experiences,
inverted orgasms,
schizophrenia.
I am Dadaist
and Anarchist with spotty nose.
I am Satan! I am Dadaist!
Poetry über alles!!!
Long lives DADA! Death to DADA!
DADA is God! Fuck DADA!
ART IS NOT BEAUTY
BUT CREATIVITY!!!!!!!!
Franco Burin
Split, May 14, 1997
I must have not seen it well
She had courage to declare,
although she was aware
that it was clear to both of us
what I
have seen
and how
and what changed my
life completely
in a moment
of ambivalence
complete change of all features
into the utmost opposite
change of character
habit
change of emotions...
and now
I live with my contempt
till death.
Franko Bušić
Split, February 1998.
about the event from January, 1997
Moment
I subtly moistened the vaginal pill
and pushed it in your abyss
with the tops of my knotty fingers
hoping that this gynecological intervention
will remove your vaginal discharge
and your lack of balance.
You did not say anything
although your vagina was dry,
my fingers hard and vaginal pill sharp
and fiercely implanted into gorge of a flesh-eating animal.
Ha!
Franko Bušić
Medvode, February 1997
The blondes are usually…
I do not trust blondes
they are deceptive
and they
cheat
it is illusion of the region
they live
place of all blondes
dressed in pink
skirts
with flounce
I do not trust blondes
with spicy smiles
and bright eyes framed
with black crayon
it is coquettish
they flatter to themselves
while red nail-polish
come off in scales
I do not trust blondes
these false dolls
with silicone breasts
blown up like
rugby balls
and shining lips
conspicuously convex
I do not trust blondes
but fortunately
blondes are usually
only half blonde
Franko Bušić
Split, April, 1998
You are nothing special, my dear
Alija Sirotanović* could also
read Crowley
and live in a world
of illusions,
like stupid romantic
girls attending high school of fine arts,
if his parents
gave him
pocket money for cannabis,
and plenty of steaks, shoes and
everything else, existential mostly.
Alija Sirotanović
could also become
child of flowers, admirer of anal sex,
of fashion and chocolate,
infantile and incapable
to face the reality,
if his parents...
spoiled him?!!
P.S. I am just expressing my disgust
as consequence of the impression of this evening.
Franko Bušić
Split, August, 1998
*Alija Sirotanović was miner and shock worker. In socialism, he was symbol of hard worker.
You
like a haze
you are strangling me
I am gray and polluted
by your discharge
higher self has
pointed out through symbolism
my ancestors warned me
THINK they would say
I was mute
untamable ego
wanted to ride over ruin again
like once like always
and while I am walking now
the paths of insanity
enthusiasm of your smile
is coming with the south wind
yes
I licked the symptoms
of syphilis from your skin
and strained bloody eczema
your body
exchanged colors
like magic lantern
from white to purple
you know
you are enchanting while you laugh
and wag your hair
the bundle of cobweb
but
I needed the neon light
not a strumpet not blackness
mixture of tar and feathers
Franko Bušić
Split, 1996
It is so nice to have a cock
Imagine this penetration,
my friend,
through the stuff of different muscular compression;
imagine
crawling over slippery rose petals;
imagine worshiping of the believers,
mumbling the prayer
in trance, on their knees.
It is so nice to have a cock,
dear friend.
P.S. I know,
You are biting your lips neurotically
to make them look bright red.
Franko Bušić
Split, 1997/1998
Romantic country - girls
I am sick
of romantic country - girls
who think
they have deserved
that you pick the stars
from heavens for them
and that you should
satisfy their dammed megalomania
in different ways
because you slept with them few times.
They read Byron
and talk about women's rights
they want you to bring them roses
and they are against patriarch ate,
they wish equality and sexual freedom
but simultaneously, they wish politeness,
they are spoiled schizophrenics,
mother's neglected country - girls.
Yes, I fuck them...
but afterwards
my entire body stinks
like screaming slobbery vagina
like coagulated clots of their
vaginities
- I despise them, I stop, I groan,
I recollect everything and think of:
how nice it is
to jerk off a penis.
Franko Bušić
Split, 1997
Since you are whore…
Try to understand baby:
I am a fighter
against every hypocrisy,
I am antichrist,
I am Satan,
Satan I am.
... I have seen incorrigible hippy girls
walking in the street
with shoes looking like duck bill
made of ochre leather
in brown corduroy trousers
uncombed
without make-up
and pimpled
and they fuck ad nauseam....
Since you are whore,
I beg you,
to dress like one;
do me a favor
and give me opportunity to fuck
good-looking girl well dressed.
Just provide me this,
as you do not provide anything else;
since you are whore,
I beg you,
to dress seductively.
Franko Bušić
Split, October, 1997
In the morning
I watch you,
in the morning, without make - up, and
I said to myself quietly
I would never fuck you
if I could see through
your artistic skills
in time,
in last incarnation,
but
it is too late now,
I can only call for rain,
you deluded me,
and sucked in sparks of my light
you bat.
Franko Bušić
Medvode, February 1997
Diaphragm’s grandmother
(something about ancestors)
Lemon cut in two,
primeval contraceptive,
provided the Middle Ages whores,
these miserable tramps,
everlasting slimness,
protected them from intruders,
little bigheaded snakes
called alien in a popular way.
This diaphragm's grandmother
must have been invented by
the grandmother
of Leopold Sacher-Masoch,
although the half of a lemon
has triple effect
(juice - spermicid,
the half - physical obstacle,
smell of lemon - atmosphere to the customer),
the acid stung the young women
worse than gonorrhea.
Franko Bušić
Split, 1997/1998
I would love you if you were not a whore
You, incarnation of tenderness, smell of a peach,
yesterday - in a sunset,
your fruit, dewy lips,
poppy petals, squashed cherries,
I bit you greedily,
and glided along and crawled over your body.
You watched me - stupefied,
or, at least, it was my impression - you nymph,
blue-eyed miracle, gentle, sleepy,
taciturn flesh on the rose burst into buds,
I chewed,
the curls of your hair covered with gold
are carried through my body
by red blood corpuscles.
I was on the wing of passion,
the passionate winds shake me
on the volcano rocks - passionate mountains,
I could love you - I thought
and I would love you .... if you were not a whore.
Franko Bušić
Split, September/October, 1996
Scene first
Dark-haired beautiful nymph, dressed in silk
Slim
Pliant
Seductive
With sensual lips
Lies somnolently on the marble alter
Scene second
Golden prince
On the golden horse
Slides to the altar softly like a shadow
Purses his lips and
Kisses the bud of her red lips
Their breath joined together
Birds warbled in deep faint
While the dark-haired remained lying - somnolently
Scene above all
Then the golden prince starts growling to the dark-haired
Would you like young Hungarian
Or gunboat from Sinj
To overwhelm you with its fire
You Sleeping Beauty
Franko Bušić
Ivanić Grad, October 2001
Ode Babalon
You,
who sucks the testes first,
then the veins, and brain,
you twisted delight,
the greatest of all temptations,
you goddess of darkness:
you rode the head of the cruel snake!
O, infinity,
nothingness,
black hole, dark corner,
you are warm and smooth:
you rode the head of the cruel snake!
I even did not offer you some wine,
but what is wine
in comparison with white elixir
your lips are longing for:
you rode the head of the cruel snake!
Essence of nothing,
you useless present,
you waster of the essence of delight:
you rode the head of the cruel snake!
Wildness, falling to pieces, melting,
flavor of lust,
humidity of the air,
sweat, blood, sperm,
complete giving up to licentiousness...
The smell of sulfur and madness of achievement,
rupture of overblown ego,
bat and some butterflies
in your hair - and your indulgence.
O you, perfect fragrance,
white blooming poppy,
sativa cannabis,
liquefaction of laudanum:
you rode the head of the cruel snake!
The eyes of unchastely were shining,
their sparks - the stars from heaven,
light like pollen,
powerful like the sun:
you rode the head of the cruel snake!
You queen of beasts,
strumpet of Babalon,
the flower with dirty petals
you drunk whore, you lust:
you rode the head of the cruel snake!
You castrating sword,
cause of masturbations,
your orgasm causes the earthquakes,
you illusion, ghost and shadow:
you rode the head of the cruel snake!
You were screaming,
you pleased your passion,
you were wagging your hair bloody like a flame,
you witch - holy woman, princess:
you rode the head of the cruel snake!
Your lips foamed crimson - blood of a snake,
the promise was kept - universe is falling to pieces,
you have reached the philosophers' stone
by demonstrating your femininity.
You rode the head of the cruel snake
while... the snake was loosing all creativity.
Franko Bušić
Split, September, 1996
Diaphragm
(poem in verses, dedicated to the woman with lack of Mercury)
this little
unusually interesting little thing
suitable for cheating the ignorant
like:
"why did you come inside,
I could become pregnant,
where will I get the money for abortion..."
then, after the false orgasm
you go to your large-nosed favorite
whose little copy
you want over the years,
although he is married,
and you become pregnant,
and you are happy, or at least, you think so.
Once I though
I have reached
the end of your abyss,
but...
I just scratched
clumsily fitted diaphragm,
this little
unusually interesting little thing
that I will tear to pieces
with bill of my sword,
the butcher - gynecologist
and you little whore
have not predicted the unpredictable.
Franko Bušić
Split, 1996/1997
Bathed in your smell
I let out a fart strongly
and then I waited for you.
It stunk intensively.
Like rotten vegetables - mainly.
The twelve- hours- long- walk perfume
came out from soft-dark Doc Martens,
the smell of fungous infection
that I picked up from my landlord
came from the slippers under the bed.
I took a shower and waited for you,
but in the same clothes
in which I smoked few boxes of cigarettes
and drank too much wine.
The same smell came out
of my nose and my clothes.
You came to my bed silently,
smelling of the anti-fungous infection spray.
Franko Bušić
Split, September, 1996
You were a good poem to me
Regardless
of impossibility to unite
due to mutual sexual lack of attractiveness,
and disgusting vaginal discharge,
you were a good poem to me.
Regardless
of impossibility to unite
due to lack of erection, falus slackness,
I caught a moment of joy,
since: you were a good poem to me.
Regardless
of impossibility to penetrate
through hard walls of your dehydration,
through thorns, through wire, glass without liquid,
you were a good poem to me.
The sun,
that faded away in us,
and Luna, hiding seducer,
will be again what they used to be before:
impression, a good poem.
Franko Bušić
Split, September, 1996
Poem of the sexually unpleased poet
Fill the quota poet!
- shouted the serfs.
Squashed strawberries on my palm,
the nipples bitten off the strumpet Babalon.
Sunset in my eyes,
ashes and smoke of the faded flame.
I glanced at the migratory birds,
my soul vibrates yellow.
Lick my fingers, the dead daughter of the East...
One cannot write poetry by force
- I said to serfs and mounted a wolf.
Franko Bušić
Split, 1996
Analogy of anal analytics
I would lick your ass hole
that looks like rotten pear
you vampire of Kočevje.
I would ram my nose in it,
and disrupt your sphincter.
Yes!!!
and with two fingers
of my hands,
like four butcher’s hooks,
I would blow to bits
your sphincter
to four sides
of the emerald board.
Suck my big toe,
you four-legged bitch,
while I am tearing to pieces
your lustful ass hole
in Minotaurs clash.
DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM
DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM
DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM
DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM
I am becoming wild - Enough!
I am becoming wild - Enough!
I am becoming wild - Enough!
I would force you
to lick remains of your
intestines
from Apep, the wild snake,
who has give you a shower
after anal exhaustion.
Lick the last drops of dew
from him!
And...
MARRY ME,
I would say then...
if I was not married.
Franko Bušić
Split, April 8, 1997
Poetry über alles IV
I am writer
that's why I never buy books;
I am also painter,
Therefore
do not give me paintings
as present:
I am artist
über alles,
do not bother me
with art.
Poetry über alles!
Poetry über alles!
Through my paintings
runs the poem
of an old Tzara
and papa Freud.
Franko Bušić
Split, October, 1997
Deathbed poem
Finally, Morana*
I am ready for your kiss…
I want to see the castle of Svitogor*
divided by deserted abyss
from this people’s place.
I wish to visit the Svitogor mountain
and wish to see the eyes of Svarog*
and twinkle in them.
I wish to enter both east and west door,
since blood of Ogar* and Zagar*
and blood of their mother Zaramina,
circulates through my veins,
as well as the
blood of Volos* and blood of Črt*,
and blood of Svarog* and Črnobog*, after all.
Hasn’t the House of the Hero,
been assigned to me at the bottom of the Nav*,
since I accomplished the Great Deed, Morana,
not as the mere mortal or Žrec*,
but as your first priest,
shall I ever see the SVITOGOR!!!
Finally, Morana
I am ready for your kiss…
Franko Bušić
Ivanić Grad, April 2001.
- Morana – in the early Croatian mythology, the goddess of death and snow
- Svitogor – the mountain where the Svitogor castle (the residence of gods) is located
- Svarog – the supreme, positive god of all early Croatian mythologies
- Ogar and Zagar – two dog-headed brothers standing at the east and west entrance to the promised land
- Volos – the Svarog’s double, and also god of cattle
- Črt - the double of Črnobog, very often shown as dragon
- Črnobog – the supreme, negative god shown in abstract shape
- Nav – holy river assigned to war heros
- Žrec – wizard and doctor
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