as old Zagreb lies there
on the wait for a young friend driving,
i question myself, 'Do you love nausea?'
seeing can't be this punishing
i suppose i should offer the world only one ear:
a man's singing on the fm
if they dare to call it a song,
humanity is in great danger;
then, a female singer
does she look as she sounds?
she screams this lonely word 'angels'
those predacious creatures,
the big devouring the small;
they dub it a game of survival?
look, if poems should lie for melodious rhythms
or abandon faith in coquettish rhymes
pull aside and stop, Joko Ur
let me change my mind and get off
going is the last thing i want!