At first glance, the verses of Miroslav Fišmeister might seem like playful nonsense poetry, filled with absurd wordplay, onomatopoeic streams of sounds and letters, and an unhidden spark of joy within them. However, in his winding, intricately woven images, there is far more than just the author's sense of the bizarre, play, meanings, and sounds of language: their meaning is unexpectedly layered, sparkling in electrifying discharges from the contact of words and phenomena that are distant and foreign to each other. It dazzles with what we are not used to, what derails us, what we must still learn to read. The key to Miroslav Fišmeister's poems cannot be inserted into a fitting lock that could be easily turned to open the doors to the orderly hall of their meaning. It requires repeated attempts to fit it into impenetrable openings.
