Samuel Wagan Watson

"You talk about terror . . . I been terrorized all my days!"
from ‘Terrorized' by Mr Willie King, Alabama Blues Legend (1943-2009)
All the signs read, SMILE . . .
...

it comes to that morning
when finally you realise: it's all going to collapse

there is a conclusion that's yet to be seen
while loose ends are stacking high to a volatile degree

eyes peering through sun-kissed slits
at a landscape bathing in a varnish of itinerant blue
as if the sky has reminded the earth of loneliness
and the old days of communion

a dawn when gamblers get slapped into remission
and the ball starts rolling again with rogue impetus

time to move and abandon what is built
and may later bleed
after days and nights of bargaining into the mirror's subversion

as the only muse that serenades you
is a computer generated image

wishing to advise
you have limited credit to make this call…
...

the late shift erupts;
Greek boys in turbo-fitted 4s
open the back streets
of bitumen lines built for mice

a gear-crunching
nightscape howl

simultaneously
embraced and ejected
into the dire congestion of the city's spectral pitch

like the fading trumpet oratorio
of an emphysema-riddled jazz musician
...

die spätschicht bricht aus;
griechische jungs in 4-zylinder turbos
öffnen die hintergassen
der asphaltlinien für mäuse gebaut
ein gang-knirschendes
aufheulen der nachtlandschaft
gleichzeitig
geborgen und herausgeschleudert
in die äußerste stockung des stadtlichtspektrums

wie das verebbende trompetenoratorium
eines emphysemgeblähten jazzmusikers

Übersetzt von Raphael Urweider
...

lying on the floor
with its concrete and ammonia tongue
reading Charles Bukowski, ‘Living On Luck'
my split-level mind and its contradictory ghosts
at once condemning his ribald desires of flesh
and praising the simplified schematics of his Richard Nixon landscapes,

I've placed a block of cheese on my doorstep
and the ants are drawn to it,
I have no couch to lie on and read
thus, the ants attack my flesh
and I reciprocate, squashing them between my fingers
to produce a gasoline inspired perfume,
the smell of victory

some guy is at it, upstairs, screaming at an accomplice
but between breaths he allows the other tenants movement
and loads a fresh tirade into the breach
under the smoggy glow of tube lighting
frozen images of dogs playing poker
accommodating the warm reception
of a surprise attack
from within the whites of their eyes
tambourines tied to their feet
...

liege auf dem boden
mit seinem beton und der ammoniakzunge
lese Charles Bukowskis ‚Living On Luck'
mein halbgeschossiger geist und dessen widersprüchliche geister,
die seine derbe fleischeslust verdammen
und zugleich die vereinfachte schematik der richard-nixon-landschaften verehren,

ich habe einen käseblock auf der türschwelle platziert
und die ameisen werden durch ihn angezogen
ich habe kein sofa um draufzuliegen und zu lesen
also greifen die ameisen mein fleisch an
und ich gebe zurück, zerdrücke sie zwischen den fingern
ein benzinartiger duft kommt auf
der geruch des sieges

irgendeiner ist dabei, oben, einen komplizen anzuschreien
doch zwischen atemzügen erlaubt er dan anderen mietern, sich zu bewegen
und lädt eine neue tirade ins patronenlager
unter dem rauchigen glimmen der neonbeleuchtung
eingefrorene bilder von hunden die pokern
und die den herzlichen empfang
eines überraschungsangriffs begrüßen
aus dem weiß ihrer augen heraus
tambourine an ihre füße gebunden

Übersetzt von Raphael Urweider
...

He had rough hands
street hands
black hands
hands

that reached out
and felt the dark places

but
feeling the dark places
He would always return
with something in his face
his face that held abuse
served in an irrational way by society
the material society
a society existent on the dark places

the dark places
places that could not harness him
but only create temporary peace with him
for so many moments
He destroyed the dark places' grasp

and finally
He danced up a wind
and mocked the dark places
until He laid silent,
waiting…

for when the brolga met his breath
inviting his dance to join hers
when,
once again
He felt the dance of the young
...

Er hatte raue hände
straßenhände
schwarze hände
hände

die sich reckten
und die dunklen orte spürten

aber
wie Er die dunklen orte spürte
kehrte Er immer zurück
mit etwas im gesicht
seinem gesicht das mißbrauch enthielt
unvernünftig bedient von der gesellschaft
der materiellen gesellschaft
einer gesellschaft, die sich an dunklen orten nährt

die dunklen orte
dunkle orte, die ihn nicht zu zügeln vermochten
sondern nur vorübergehend frieden mit ihm schließen konnten
für so viele augenblicke
zerstörte Er der dunkeln orte umklammerung

und zuletzt
tanzte Er einen wind herbei
und verspottete die dunklen orte
bis Er still dalag,
wartete…

denn als das brolgaweibchen auf seinen atem traf
seinen tanz einlud, sich dem seinen anzuschließen
als,
Er noch einmal
den tanz der jugend spürte

Übersetzt von Raphael Urweider
...

For Anthony Lawrence
A large gray jumped, what I can only imagine is a dingo fence last night and made it at least 5 feet off the ground, under a full moon a million miles away,
...

For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.
 — Leonardo da Vinci
...

got up off the couch
and immediately the room cleared of its winged creatures
flapping in-time
to an abdominal exercise machine on the glowing box,
...

my Dad straightened out the crooked men
in the old laundry shed
above the fishing gear and jars of nuts and bolts
where on a rack
...

dropping a knife
on one's foot
is nothing like
dropping tequilla
...

you'd never forget the pelicans
because it was their home too
and that occasional one who'd try and swallow your baited hook
while we cast out into an endless mould of brown and blue skin
...

the pyromaniacs of the gods were kicking it
into that desert sunset
upon a fire pink, burner-blue horizon line
blossoms cherry red
...

for David Gilbey

fire-engine flash of fox pelt
and a plume of tail
...

I remember construction cranes like herds of frozen praying-mantis, high on the steamy Bjelke-Petersen plateau above a brown snake-coiled river. It was from this view, at the age of 4, that I learnt to read the columns of Brisbane city.
...

Sprinkled in the happy dark of my mind
Is early childhood and black humour
White stucco dreaming
...

"the journey IS the destination"
a quote from a great traveller
Brisbane is a small city, but that's OK . . . 'cause I don't need much room to move . .
...

My brothers once showed me the bounty that could be had in bait nets / we were able to catch garfish / bills like half-baked marlin / the rounded quill with a fluorescent orange head; pencil fish, that's what the old diggers called them,
...