While you chew litmus and rune's uranium, are you scared silly?
while the embryo and brain on the Coptic joist is chucked by raccoons
while pellucid skin peels with fat and oil flits the greyhound
...

Vesni, iz zafrkancije



Kupio sam ovcu. Bijelu s pokojom pjegom, kao
U dalmatinerskog bastarda u šetnji pokrajnjim
Ulicama Prijestolnice. Kupio sam ovcu za 100
DEM. Ali, što ću s njom? Ni žrtvenika nemaju
Ti anđeoski tajkuni u duty free shopovima. Ali.

Što ću s njom? Nisam ja onaj otac iz Samarije.
Iz mene urlaju vjetrovi a ne lipti krv nakon što
Korovi otpjevaju uspavanke mrtvima.
Ne bih komentirao moguće posljedice. No, kako
Se svi boje srca, čak i u pustinji i na Highwayu
No 74 (u onim spravama što samo sapunice
Troše) - osjećam se kao mlijeko u murvinim
Bačvama. Kože tigrova iznad suha sijena,

Kada ono b'jasmo bili s onim akterima i ak-
Tresama podno draga nam Kilimandžara. Smi-
Šljajući nove recitative o ćudorednosti ljudske
Vrste i pohoti u krevetima od trske i slame.

Okruženi mrežama za komarce ujutro ćemo
Odlučiti, više ja a manje ti, da kupimo bodeže
za grlo te ovce.
Usput, lisice se slažu s mišlju
O tebi. Ipak, nisam ja lisica kojoj treba čudo
Da šeće tvojim petrarkističkim perivojem.
(Kako već jednom rekoh.)

Tamo su već instalirali ekran i predstava može
Početi kada ti daš nevidljivi mig sjeni koja
Hara još nepripremljenim švedskim stolom
Ispod platane.

Gdje ono kušasmo sieste poslije kaštradine,
Kisela kupusa i ono malo vina što nam preostade
Poslije paleži svih naših najljepših vinograda.
...

To Vesna, for fun



I have bought a sheep. White, some spots, like
A Dalmatian mongrel on walkabout in the by-ways
Around the Capital. I have bought a sheep for
One hundred bucks. What am I to do, though? Those
Tycoons angels in the Duty-Frees are out of altars. What

Am I to do though? I am not that Samaritan father.
From me winds howl yet blood streams not after
Choirs have sung their lullabies to the dead.
I shan't comment on what may transpire. But, as
All fear the heart, even in the desert and on Highway 74
(in those contraptions which run on
Soaps and no more) - I feel like milk in barrels of
Mulberry wood. Tigers' skins over dried hay,

Then when we were with those actors and
Actresses at the foot of our fond Kilimanjaro.
Contriving new recitatives on the moral of the
Human species and lust in beds of thorn and straw.

Enveloped by mosquito nets we will decide
In the morning, me more and you less, to buy blades
For that sheep's throat.
The vixens, incidentally, concur
About you. Still, I am no vixen needing a miracle
To walk about your Petrarchian garden.
(As I said once already.)

The screen is already set up there and the show can
Start when you sign imperceptibly to the shadow
That ravages the Swedish table still unprepared
Beneath the plane tree.

There where we tasted siestas after smoked mutton,
Pickled cabbage, and the little wine that was left to us
After all our loveliest vineyards had been burned.
...

Lako je čovjeku,
On ima e. e. cummingsa,
Koji imena i prezimena piše
Malim slovima. Malim,
Malcatim. Majušnim.

Ima čovjek i Slovenca
Srečka Kosovela, kome je
Mjesečina hladna kao sladoled,
Kao i slične nepodopštine.

Naš Ljudevit, međutim,
Samo se izležava, dok mu
Nacija klone
U dvorcima, pretvarajući se
U kosti i duhove, kao
Klonirani babuni
U BMW-ima 540.

Ili kojom drugom zgodom
Svakako valja promijeniti okolicu.
Makar u zimbabveanskim šumama.

To jest, slično istome.

Naš Lujo nije hladan
Sladoled malih slovaca.
On je e. e. cummings
Na mjesečini.
Držeći bravu dvorca
U šupljini onog pojasa.
Što obvi i Majušnoga i
Slovenca. Nevinosti se
Preporučivši kao dva
Baskervilska paščeta
U nižim razinama
Pjesničkog bitka, kad svi su
Kako reče: "Ah Zih Komen."
Kad im srčane kćeri pušu u uda.
Ne kazavši ni:
" - M!"
...

It's simple for the man,
He has e.e. cummings,
Who wrote his name in
Little letters. Little,
Teeny. Minuscule.

And he has the Slovene
Srečko Kosovel too, with his
Moonlight cold as ice-cream,
And suchlike ineptitudes.

Our Ljudevit, though, simply
Takes his ease
While his nation droops
In the castles, transmuting into
Bones and spirits, like a troupe
Of cloned baboons
In BMW 540s.

Or by some other chance
Better a change of scene, at least.
Even in the forests of Zimbabwe.

That is, alike the same.

Our Lujo is no cold
Ice-cream of little letters.
He's e. e. cummings
In the moonlight.
Bearing the lock of the castle
In the hollow of that belt
Which encircles both Minuscule
And the Slovene. Innocently putting
Themselves forward like two
Puppies of the Baskervilles
In the lower rankings of the
Being of the Poetry, when all
Are, as they say,
"Ach Sich Kommen."
When their daring daughters suck on a bone.
Not even mouthing,
"F-!"
...