Here I am. In the heart of the Serbian psychotropolis. The backyard rakija distillery. The well from which the holy waters flood the Earth, soak our skin, give us life and warmth. The very source of my own madness. Here I am. This is the collective unconscious of all of Man, the primordial ooze from which our insanity takes it form and manifests itself in the world of objects and matter. This is poetry in liquid motion.
Around me, massive vats and tubes and buckets filled with juice. All of it, bubbling and burbling and burning with lust, with love, with fire. The plumbing of our souls. And here amongst me, two blessed souls, Jasmyna and her stout, gentle father, the mad scientist, the maestro of this intoxicating symphony of berries and blood. In the presence of these beautiful beings, I now know why we call it spirits.
And with us is Dejan and Biljana and Lady, all of us bubbling and burbling and burning in perfect harmony. Imbibing amongst this machinery of madness and mayhem, a heavenly constellation of bits and bobs, all grinding away in order to ooze forth the nectar of the Gods, that neurosis fermented and liquefied, that fuel that keeps our tongues of fire burning, burning like the fire beneath the fermentation vat whereupon Dejan roasts flesh for our consumption.
All of this magic working out around us, the sausages roasting, the grapes fermenting, the conversation flowing like cognac, slipping from God to Dogs to England and Ireland and Germany and Nato to Albania and Serbia and the EU and World War Two and Three and Four and ancient tribes and alternate histories and the Celts and the Vikings and the Slavs and Singidunum and anarchy, anarchy of the soul, and love, love god damn it, love above all.
Here I am, at the heart of all that is true and real. Here I am, at the source of our eternal madness. Here I am watching the birth of a poem, a poem that transcends language, the constant grasping of the heavy heart and hands outstretched, the writhing of the soul and the stars shaking and flung from their orbits and the Earth quaking and imploding upon itself, and the explosions and fires that shall consume us all and when all has ceased to exist, this monument to human mercy shall still stand. Here I am.
Here, in this ad hoc less than legal distillery, life is distilled to its pure essence: Magic and mayhem and high octane love.
(And sausages.)
Tekst preuzet sa bloga Perceiving Pančevo
Kevin Patrick Cullen trenutno živi u Pančevu. Sajt Pančevo Si Ti će objavljivati njegove zapise o našem gradu.