Vanja Strle
A PUPA OF FLAMEA pupa of flame and a frost sickle above it.No, I don’t hear anything at all.The deafened substanceof silence, fallen out of itself,a soot and fog factoryfor a drunken sun.And yet there is no mirror bearingthe ray, which comes from the dance of two hands,an unknown mute letter in the ear of grain of nearness.Gloominesslike a parachute of dreams.As if the soul had knocked against the bronze,against the juncture of a fluidic binding,which pulsates through the veinsand wants a sticking resin of the trap.No, I don’t hear anything...