Hollow, Hollower: Poems by Damir Bojanić

by Bojanić / Dudek

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about

A collection of poems by Damir Bojanic, as read by George Dudek.

To read along, simply click on each track name to open the individual poems in separate windows.

credits

released November 11, 2011

artwork by @HannahBitowski (hannahbitowski.blogspot.com)

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Track Name: New Love
Skin like sock so weathered like stitch
Torn apart from leather
Hide like stone
Hardened feathers.

Door half open, half closed
Fully ajar to me.
Bones now crushed
The shoe won’t fit if you don’t ask politely.

Testosterone tantamount to temperament,
The light bulb minus filament.
Her travels are so diligent
The anticipation,
Killing us.

Come now, lay beside me
This fallen tree
Does not provide adequate company.
A willow lost to the woods,
A solo, accompanied.

Severance, for ‘dog-walker extraordinaire’,
There is no meat on your chandelier.
Behave and see what gifts will greet you
When your silent mistress mistreats you.
Track Name: Hollow, Hollower
Nocturnal fingers carve the shapes of mouths into the trees,
Spoiled by it’s proemium.
Reared by their hand.
Branded marks make the way for subtle luxuries;
I resign the night.

Unjust words coring out my intentions,
Hollow, hollower is my sobriquet.
My entrance, my interrobang,
In this House of Deities we shall eat well whilst it lasts.
Serve me water, serve me my justice.
The mountebanks starve each other of themselves.

Lesser Gods faking patronage,
A sorry sight for all seated.
Break this bread,
Count your blessings,
Share them among the crows, the pigeons,
The ones who deserve them.
Track Name: Sarcophagus Growing
Still it lingers, a dusk that never ceases.
Articulating fingers that lunge from the sky,
Hushing our mouths,
Reading our lips. 
Colouring books, once faces.
Pales in comparison to children’s patience.
Our weapons; your branches.
Private showing of shadows and dancers.

She screams “Hubris don’t fail me now!”
As she holds back her mother’s hair.
Gas-light warrants the makeshift candle,
Unfashionable choice of chair.
Sat alone amongst the characters.

Groveling actors make the methamphetamine vomit party complete.
Rudimentary stylings for voids, depleting.
Putrid, putrid, putrid, putrid, putrid.
A short haiku for Gertrude?

Outstanding crimes for outstanding victims,
When the marquee falls, your ears will burn with it.
Informed decisions made from string,
Nubile little playthings.
Go gentle, for the roadside is their bedside.
Track Name: A Plea
A fine line is drawn between selfishness and reward.
I stagger with plantigrade decorum.
Deserving is not an excuse, but deserves to be excused.
Trials of the mind withdrawn.
Set these words in motion.
Become the source,
The controller,
The controlling.

I empty pleas with hope and efforts,
Comfort can be kind.
Desire to nurture a yearning heart,
This is now my time.

Predators, now predecessors,
Harm has been taken in the pages.
We walk forward in our meeting of mutual musts,
Committee of our commitments,
Truces traded from trysts and trusts,

This time we shall enjoy the dust.

Hourglass fixation becomes numbing,
Bringing these hours to justice.
A polite request screaming demands,
For familiarity,
For growth,
For virtue,
Oblige me in honour and altruistic wealth.
Track Name: House of Bones
A delicacy, separated by it’s terrifying legacy.
Buttered on both her sides,
She lands face first,
Every time.

In her house of bones,
She paints her roses black.
A symbol, an anticipated heart attack of colours and sounds,
Cased in dirty flesh and solvent meats.

Echoes of Winter between the silence of beats.
Pins for a crown,
Painted skin litters the Temple grounds.
A pale force on bullish eyes,
Darker than a child’s conscience.
Hanged from your hurdles,
The sour cream curdles.
Her moral compass cannot be used to draw circles.
Track Name: Copper
Skull that separates from the sewage,
Depleting, yet trying.
Baker’s dozen lost 3 of his brothers tonight.
Blood as a metaphor,
Veins just drag you down.
Sat inside my television box,
Watching the outside world,
I hear the howls of laughter,
I see your shallow skeletons,
Yet I do nothing.

Time and a place,
Now and a where?
Make believe for adults,
Wandering thoughts.
I hope you are safe,
Do not lie to me.
Track Name: Hair Is Her Name
She’s twisting into favour,
Like a charm, like a solid gold ring.
Routes that don’t need directions,
Unchartered and drawn to me.

It is written on her skin,
Her hair is her name.
Kindred in minds, 
Kindred in comforts,
Echoes of my woes for the price of solace.
For the small price of destruction and war of the soul.

It’s broke.
You’re broken.
Fix it.
Track Name: Orange
‘Orange’ definitely rhymes with something.
Black is my new inertia.

This torturous reign of malignancy requires an ending;
The trough-barons unclench for food and money,
With a disliking towards capitals.

Hours become somewhat disparaging,
This guilt claim went wrong.
Yearn your reward.

The man in the window watches as I drink my weight in water.
See how they run.

Fried eyes for tired lice.
Reeds in your hair, reads in your heir.
I’m fed for a week,
Saw off these limbs before they speak the truth and lunge forward into infinity.
Track Name: 10 Haikus For Julia
i)
Spoil for the senses,
This is somebody’s daughter.
Disgracing herself.

iv)
Colours and screaming.
Faculties fixating here.
Second hand murder.

vii)
The female target,
She claws out the life in him,
Orchestra subsides.

iii)
Entrance peaks quickly.
Shoots for love of game and fun.
Dead on arrival.

viii)
Waterfall cascades
Down her pale beard of skin,
Missing bodies hide.

vi)
Great feastings for the
Mouths of mothers and lovers.
Jealousy not found.

v)
Your sister betrays.
Nourishment for herself but
None left for you now.

ix)
An interruption,
A relay among vision
Not of this good earth.

x)
Third chance to miss home.
Neck muscles now wearing cold
Earrings bought for film.

ii)
Fill up the shot glass,
Drink up the sour ape milk,
Pretend you love him.
Track Name: Dorothy's Dog
Flesh hooks?
Absurdly so, though splintered by marrow fractions and useless in the court of the hours.
Withering, they march on through tainted shapes of labour.
Flattened out to squeeze the life out of these tunnels.
The same tunnels you cut open as a child, watching in horror.
It was the stupidity that made you sweat, that made you fear for your namesake.
Your reputation was a joke, a failsafe should it require levity.

Where is your knife now?
Left on a table over 12 years ago in a troubled memory that drips of sepia glow.
How far did I go, not far enough, but too far at all.
Adrenaline makes the lesser man tall.

Tongue shapes never spoil.
An acquaintance headed with irrelevance recoils in the moment, in this scene of senses, soundtracked by the many voices of Dorothy’s dog.
Either keep your voice down, or keep your food down.
I can’t even seem to keep my shoes on.
Boots riddled with the maggots of a million corpses, these conventions are starting to feel like divorces.
I caught the squint, I’m giving up.
At least for tonight,
Good night.