At the moment our planet is being ruled by clans whose members I have come to recognise, ever since that Spring day in Split, when two hooligans stabbed me with a knife in front of the dark church. I was only nineteen at that time. I was peacefully passing the corner grocery store when two shady characters accosted me. I was certain that their intentions were not honorable and that they meant to attack me.

The one without a worker's cap suddenly approached me with a smirk on his face as if he wanted to say: Don't be afraid, it's not you we're after. Then the expression on his face suddenly began to change and, instead of a sublime smile, that very same face transformed into a savage mask and I was totally astounded. I felt that the cramp that took hold of him was not part of his body. It seemed as if he was asking himself: Who am I and what do I want? He appeared to be talking to himself. He was staring at me and whispering: I don't hate you, I won't hurt you, you're not my enemy. Then he suddenly disappeared.

I continued walking along the harbour-front and suddenly heard how the air was tearing behind me, like something extracted from the heart. That is the hooligan's soul, I thought, it is torn, but before I managed to turn round I felt the metal blade. The stab came from the back, just above the shoulder blade, right next to the spine. I knew that my body fell to the ground long before the actual stabbing. I fell to the ground and thought: this is not the end, the blood will disappear, it will stop running.

I got up and felt a terrible pain, which began to ease off immediately. The hooligan fell down and said: That was not me, believe me, I would not kill you for anything in this world. I well know who you are, even though you have forgotten me. I wanted to resist, I did not want to stab you, but they are constantly forcing me. My body cannot resist because I am possessed, you have to believe me, my soul was not in that stab because I fell in the attempt to extricate it from this body. I managed to understand him despite the pain which was becoming less and less. I said: I well know who wishes to kill me, it is the angel before whom all are bowing now and not you.

And then I recalled that old story which takes us back to far before the beginning, the story about the forgotten crime in which Jesus plays the role of the moral monkey and Lucifer the role of God's sycophant. That story, I said to him, that story would take us too far because its end cannot be foreseen. And so it turned out to be the right story because it brought me to the Guberevac lunatic asylum where I am living in the shadow of the most powerful building in the whole country, whence the uniformed are hurling at me their indestructible spells day and night.

I am not aware of how many years have transpired: perhaps twenty or thirty, but I continue to bear the scar from the knife stab whose mysterious force outlived the will of the man who inflicted the blow with his body but not his soul. However, that possessed hooligan is no exception, as the entire world today is in the same state. The heart of the matter is that no one dares to admit how the members of these uniformed clans succeed in entering the human body and thus refuting every just accusation, finally putting the person into prison or a lunatic asylum. That is why I have spent all this time in endeavouring to establish the exact geographical position of all clans which influence the human mind so that I can claim to know them all.

They exist in Afghanistan, in Tibet, among the Iranians... But they are hiding in California and Caucasian Georgia as well. They are everywhere, and the worst thing is the fact that these clans constantly deny they have members whilst operating secretly, constantly seeking refuge in the unknown parts of the human body. They constantly refer to someone's name and always operate in that name, while, in fact, they internally control all bodies without the men or women to whom these bodies belong knowing it. Uniformity is the cause of such a state of things as it selects the clothing and not the body, so that the body transforms more and more into nothingness which satisfies appearances, until in the end the solid part only becomes one aspect of that nothingness. The essence of each living being consists of an unattainable abyss whose surface is barely discernible, a fallen angel who attacks it from the basement of eternity, a corpse which the uniformed and their collaborators wish to resurrect, all the way to the total deluge.

And because I attempted to broadcast these things, I was labelled as insane many years ago. Soon afterwards, I was imprisoned, deported, attacked on the deck of a ship sailing from Split to Hvar, locked up, poisoned, tied up, thrown into a coma, so that right up to this day I am still struggling to regain my freedom. When that angel whose name I dare not mention ascends within certain uniformed bodies, the cruellest spells are released which keep destroying me and my friends.

However, there are many people in this world who do not like this state of affairs. They know that the cause of this terrible state precedes the Deluge and even earlier than that, dates back to the time of Creation. It's a question of one's relationship to drugs. It is not accidental that many years ago the English burned down opium fields in China: it's not accidental that the use of opium, hashish, peyote, mysterious mushrooms and other substances which apparently cause contraction of the soul has been forbidden throughout the world. The aim of that prohibition is to prevent man from returning to the pregenital state of being, a state which clans and ideologies have long ago buried. I know this because I have felt it and read about it where I should. I have learned that life does not consist of this distilled boredom in which our soul has been slowly marinading for nearly seven eternities. That being does not need this infernal cauldron to live blissfully like a plant, it's not the world of spirit that needs music, poetry, the theatre and love to be able to create temporary escape, this tiny and worthless world of which it is already painful to speak.

On this planet man dies of a boredom which has roots lying so deep that he no longer knows how to recognise it. Every night he goes to bed, sleeps, dreams, gets up, walks around, eats, writes, swallows, chews, breathes, shits and all like a machine without fuel, like someone who has long ago reconciled himself to a funeral in our country full of beautiful regions, as if someone had shackled him with an invisible yoke, tied his arms and legs to the stake of his horrible body so that he constantly behaves as someone subjected to compulsory literature such as: good morning, good evening, how are you?, what a lovely day, rain would be good for the crops, what's new?, drop in for coffee or a game of cards, or would you prefer chess, or a game of football and so on. In addition to this, something completely different is at stake, something that far more vilely determines this shameless life we lead.

The force determining our life is a horrific fact: every single impression has already been prepackaged for us, so that we can only taste a tiny drop of life which has been offered to us at the time of the movement of our tongue, so that we are able to breathe in only one of a thousand possibilities, sensing the contours and surfaces of each beautiful region of our country, without the power to possess any one centre or experience. The reason for this is not that love has lost its soul, but the fact that the soul of love no longer exists. This is how it is with me, all or nothing, and that is why I can sling it back at the world which has neither soul nor essence.

In a state of divine madness and eternal intoxication there exists a beautiful and scented phlegm which the ideologists have long ago sucked out of this world with their ceremonial relays and mass gymnastic parades to which all owners and cowards of this shameless life and world have bowed down to for seven eternities. The phlegm renews itself even though nameless, and it is neither called a song, nor a word, nor a harmony of tones. It's not a name but merely the body of the soul, the soul of Jesus, together with his angels expelled from life so that it now exists underground, in darkness, or in paradise (in which His lies are an absolute truth), where the soul reflects itself in a mirror erected by the followers of the aforementioned clans to divide the soul and direct it towards the mysterious centres of power, so that we are left with only one daily drop at a time and are at the mercy of the laws which they have chosen and determined. Opium, cocaine and hashish are closest and most like that soul, but only as its perverted derivatives. Alcohol is the eternal inebriation of the soul and the means of its dessication. That is why delirium tremens has always been socially acceptable and desirable, as have epilepsy and hysteria, which have served this order for centuries, while an army of policemen, doctors, nurses and nuns still battle against so-called drugs.

Those who use drugs do so because they carry within themselves an innate or predetermined defficiency and emptiness which has to be filled, or because they are poets who feel more accutely what the life of slaves lacks. Opium intoxicates only because a curse has been put on it, and it can be lifted by using certain magical formulas which I will reveal for the first time in this surge of power:

POPI KA MILI KINI KI
RAKA SHAM TILI TIPI FA
PINGU TUNI FULI SIMI GA
TITO GA PARI VUDI LA
ILI LILI DZHUM KU TRAS
SHIP SHIP FONI DELI TUP
KRA MONI WAR WAR WAR

Each line represents a layer encompassing all seven eternities and in the end destroys any sign of life struggling with the forces of darkness which in their orgies insult opium. The rhythm of these syllables, which on the surface appear to have no meaning, brings about the rebirth of the divine phlegm from the very soul of life, and the body in eternal ascent, which cannot do anything but attempt to reach out of the grave, whilst losing the power of those who had created it. The body already lies in the grave even though it strives hard towards eternity so that it is continuously ahead of itself, creating a current of eternal and vampiric survival which who-knows-what damned soul prevents by its hatred. However, opium offers the reverse ascent; not sluggishness to live, but energy to live a bit longer in order to exceed one's own personality. Those who enjoy the use of opium always try to surpass themselves. But why?

Because opium itself was altered by the loss of soul in ancient times which the English attempted to complete by burning the black Chinese fields. It's the very same soul which they tortured in Chaucer, burnt at the stake with Joan of Arc, and attempted to exterminate it in China by burnig opium. It's because they all belong to the white race that struggles against the beautiful black opium cake and all other Blacks. This curse is felt even today after only one scented pipe: the rising of the stomach in breathing, the extra saliva secreted from the depths and then slowly sinking, a terrible power rising out of the darkness like the quivering of a gloomy clitoris, like the mud of a bloody erection. However, not all is lost, as there is still some divine flesh left in that smoke which hasn't been denatured through the foul acts of clan members who hate all living things.

Opium is not like peyote with which you hallucinate like a mule, wiping out reality, opium forces you to see things without magic, so that it portrays the difficulties of everyday life as acceptable forms of existence. The table in the asylum at which we eat has rusted. It is made of some metallic amalgam and when I observe it it takes on the sheen of gold and unreality. Opium returns things to what they are: to the world of a distant foundry, to the depth of the earth from which miners excavate rocks, to servants full of compassion, to the blood of all the suffering withstood by things so that they could reach me, reach this stale bread which we chew in the cold. That is only the first stage of opium, the stage of observation.

The second stage is a body made of tender flesh and rusty iron which is being hurled (by any father-mother), hurled straight at me and transformed into reality. Perhaps I will no longer have a need for the table, perhaps I will be able to descend into the mine and free all things which our eternity has buried. The ore of bodies which I dig out, their souls slowly transforming into beings in the heat and flames. Nothing has been lost because everything creates only itself.

But hatred still exists in the secret centres of power, hatred which destroys anything precious or scented, which transforms this planet on which I can outlive myself into something which does not come close to hallucination. Everything is transformed into a heap of dreams not rejected in reality, until the day arrives when it becomes obvious that this earth must explode.

[ 22. March 1987. ]

Webmaster: Slobodan Markovic (twiddle@eunet.yu)

All rights reserved. Belgrade Circle Journal encourages the reproduction of material appearing on its pages, provided that the source and the author are cited, except in cases where this would constitute violation of copyright held by other organisations or individuals.