who were too little prepared
even reality becomes a slow motion suicide—
the failures collapse, obedient, one on top of the other like the narcotic burns
we are children of the swamps and our bodies are dressed in plastic scales
we are the tied joints of all the fifteen year old killers
when their spasm freezed the dance—
through the staring orifices
there is nothing to find nothing to hide
with the cold
the emptiness and fear
tomorrow—or-the-day-after-that I will begin: first a gentle weep
almost from another world
almost like during a birth like a small animal
then a boreal silence will rise
over all the condominiums in which in silence I tore apart
my snugged skin—
and I am going to laugh.
how no one knows what and how with this silence
that like the dust from under the truck’s wheels
will rise to shine
over the neighbourhood
not the clothes stained by perspiration
not the nights when from one side to the other
not the suns like blisters pasting to the window—
only the vein only the island from the female brain which
with tires and dopamine and sex.
tomorrow—or-the-the-after-tomorrow like a drowned person
alive I will scream.
because the walls just a bit
they like to remain on their feet
more glorious and louder is their fall after.
I do not speak because between us only absences and only us.
far away towards the horizon sad ships with spices and slaves and coloured glass.
say: no black apparition over the gas station and
no epidemy on the face of the neons. it’s so good. like a morning
when the cigar tastes like wind and like warmth. shy
a few hours sleep the waters retreat and the croft of land ties itself
to the world.
tighter and tighter until the end
tighter and without a way out.
say: what shall I do with all your words what shall I do
with the madness and the corpses which
you carry without stopping from one part side of the city
to whom you ceaselessly speak to and whom
you still beg to keep their hands in their laps
to whom you fill their dry mouths with tea and biscuits. what shall I do.
because I as far as the eye can see
have empty fields over which the trash flourish and
all are mine and all
the city’s dogs now have theirs stomachs bloated like helium balloons.
and what am I suppossed to do with myself and with you altogether on this narrow limestone.
it’s just a halt a longer—ish torpor
you tell me—
we will receive soon enough new shoes and new clothing.
and then we won’t be safe much time
under these bismuth curtains.
do not say: what a view your room in which the negro
had breeded until the final fainting.
no: what a lying view
from where the children ascend
with the flags all shreds.
twenty—seven to twenty—eight:
like a hunting bird I rip off your genital and like a hunting bird I guard your
because inside me the light is long crouched
the dead that I forgot and the dead that forgot me.
so there is no more time to waste:
I plunge my arms into you.
and in your bag made of leather* I seek a way out.
because from here nothing can be seen.
until the world’s end only nothingness and nothing.
because my fair man even the greatest defeats
need some sort of preparations.
you can’t fall with your tights torn with your nails uncut.
because during the night of thirteen to fourteenth of October
during that night
the long wagons with whores and begars
stopped under my windows and they jumped on
and we ate and we drank and till the morning we searched our wounds over and over again
and we made funny faces one to another
and we laughed o how we laughet good god.
we are two individuals so sad that not even
the bight that digs our wrists doesn’t
comfort us with any smile at all.
now I recon you from afar.
your sadness is green like gob in October
yellow like pus in March
blue like the cheek of the dead in August.
between us now open large canions
and they grow
like botulinum in women’s wrinkles.
* variantă de traducere: in your bag made of skin.
Rita Chirian — poker face, editura Vinea, București, 2010, traducerea îmi aparține în totalitate