DIE SCHLÖSSER BEI KRAPINA Poem by Milorad Stojević

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-!"