Day's Spume Poem by Branko Čegec

after two hours of nervous ride on a dirt
road, we drove, still hot from the trip, into an automatic
car wash. thick foam darted out of
numerous jets and the view from the vehicle got completely dark.
i took his right hand and placed it on my knee.
the world changed in a second: as if some
adrenaline broom had swung at him, he drove his hand
up: moisture broke through the panties faster than the streams
that fiercely flowed down the vehicle's shiny slopes.
in a sudden jerk he stuck the same hand under my butt,
not moving from his seat, and with his thin, nervous middle finger
began conducting the war rendition of beethoven's ninth,
which i knew only from a clockwork orange: philharmonic orchestra,
a well-known jewish soloist with a name difficult to remember,
a shimmering lamp far from the stage,
and a hand conducting energetically.
i went down as fast as a jaguar and thus
showed him the way. in a single move i let the fly
on his dark blue shorts with pockets on the side
burst into flower and a happy, nicely shaped dick was already
wriggling in my mouth. i drilled my tongue with gusto,
until the oily overflow reminded me
of the circumstances. the dashboard clock showed
four minutes had passed, if i remembered
the entry time right. a huge multipiped fan blew warm
air on the car that glistened in the unbearable
light of yet another hot summer afternoon.
the traffic light turned green and he
routinely put the car in drive.
at the exit the cashier lazily
waved goodbye.

2001-08-26

Translated by Tomislav Kuzmanović