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I.F. Kobjelska Poems
Red Red is the colour in which I release scream, Or at least just little sound between echo,
Not weasel anymore
Not weasel anymore. Changing my weasel habbits, Recharging eyes with world,
Visiting Lady Just Unneeded
Sound of phone is bound to my ears, Scratching eyelashs, Digging heartbeat Binding sleeves around my lungs,
We Are Like Eyes That Can See Spacesuits
Silence is like nails that are getting stuck between fingers, when you have hardly enough strength to listen to people, when nails drop down from them like buttons on a rusty clarinet,
Not All Of Them Are Black
Night pout to white morning. Paths are like bosom of the Albinek Royal path to the sense is softer.
The Toes On My Feet Were Blue and Still ...
I wrote a kind of ready - made poem as Kolenič says, but my body
I don´t have regrets about letting dreams, Making cotton candy in morning sleep, No hill can be stolen By mindless man,
Comments about I.F. Kobjelska
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Red is the colour in which I release scream,
Or at least just little sound between echo,
Dust hidden under dolly´s tiara,
Drinking forbidden jim beam.
Red is the colour of escape, freedom and flight over the mud
She can waltz and crawl in same rythm,
And still she´s lady wearing cap.
Just run through honey chimney,
Pull your hands and slice fame down,
Red is strong and still she´s feeling
How heads is dropping painful sound.
In mousy streets, in autumn coats,