By Martin Anastasovski
They write. The third world. They write in stares for the unknowable. They aren’t poor. We are rich. We are not rich, we are lucky. We are rich and we are cocky — artfully cocky — craftily pissed. Because opinion and distinction. Their desks are like castles. They speak, some listen, others train meditative eyes on devices that want to capture causes in the terrestrial esoterica called Garland of War and Conflict.
You want to be heard. You can’t be heard. You can be seen in ghetto avatars but never be heard. Your voice is grime. Fuck out of here with your voice. The jury holds you in contempt of all things. The poetry of the unheard ambles in a stupor, teeters in mispaired plastic slippers through raw shit and piss and dog skins. Nylon islands. Plastic friends. Fiends and new highs, cheap stuff pornographic bluffs. Open markets, open minds and open souls. All brews.
Yes I know, what is the point of making others uncomfortable as if all things already aren’t? The point is to make everyone uncomfortable because we want to touch Jesus, lick YHVH and paint Mohammed.
At the symposium of death I want to hug you all. You won’t know my name but you will know my face — a ghost patched together of all rupture inside the soul the world over. You will want to avoid me because you know better, but I will approach you and spread my wings and give your bronze bust a big hug filled with love and I will lean to your ear and ask you if you know jack shit and if you and your friends used to talk about the world or you talked about your world which is concerned about aspects of the world but didn’t directly refer to the core of the matter of the world as-is. Raw and plush.
I will be removed by security, asked politely to step out into the hallway and find the exit door. I will do that, but with my hands inside the pockets of my makeshift tux and right before I go through the door and descend the myriad marble stairs carpeted in hemoglobin red, I will turn to face the marvelous edifice and I will cross: In the name of the director, and the offspring and the orphaned and the holy mother, Yemen.
Martin Anastasovski is a shaman, a sorcerer and a fool. His poetry is about the politics of living and dying. And love. Skopje is his home city and New York his spiritual home. You can follow his instagram @psychic.staredown