| METULJI | BUTTERFLIES | |||
| Brane Mozetic | trans. Ana Jelnikar (from Slovene) | |||
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dolga èrta kokaina po Ljubljani tihi zvonèki, in sani drvijo skozi ruševine, èrni jelen vleèe se pogreza v meglo - in kaj potem? Ljubljana, zatoèišèe psihopatov ne moreš je zgrešit na zemljevidu na eni strani avstrijska èakalnica na drugi italijanska hiralnica spodaj so samo še zaprti oddelki trakt b in tisti, ki se imajo za junake prazno zaletavanje avtomobilov nekaj odskoènih desk za skoke v globino otroci, ki brezumno tavajo po gozdu pijanci kar naprej in kje se ustavi vlak, ki jih vozi za zidove vse odprto, kakor travnik za moške, bele, slovenske, z ženami vse to mesto nama pleše pred oèmi ko se zadeta potikava po njem vleèeva popers in se reživa ker kako bo vse odšlo kako so bele halje zatajile in pustile, da to hodi naokoli skloniš se k meni in mi reèeš: Jaz sem psihopat dvigni se, dvigni, da greva naprej poglej te lutke pred kavarno in na tržnici, kako pestra ponudba grdi ljudje se majejo za svojimi pulti in po reki vsako leto spustijo svoje sanje, upanja na ozdravitev bruhanje, bruhanje za hišo ves zelen si, kakor zmaj na mostu me objameš, spet odrineš, kot da v tvoji glavi tepejo se sile neulovljive, in poslušaš uèenjaka ki ti v svoji pameti ukazuje baloni, stroji, množica, ki gomazi vse zabija te v zemljo in ne veš, kako bi se obrnil. |
a long line of cocaine through Ljubljana, silent bells, and sleighs rushing between ruins, black deer pulls sinking into the fog - and then what? Ljubljana, a refuge for psychos, you can't miss it on the map: on one side an Austrian waiting room, on the other an Italian nursing home, underneath only isolation wards: b wing for those who think they're heroes, empty collisions of cars, trampolines for leaping into the void, children wandering aimlessly through the forest, drunks everywhere and a train that stops to take them into confinement, everything is open like a meadow, for white, Slovene males and their wives. the entire town dances before our eyes as we stumble stoned through its streets, sniff poppers, laugh our heads off at how everything will go to hell, how the white robes have copped out and let all this walk around, you bend down to me and say: I am a psycho, get up, get up, let's go, look at those puppets in front of the café and at the market, such variety, ugly folks stagger behind their stalls, every year they wash their dreams down the river, their hopes of recovery, puke, and behind the houses you've gone all green like the dragon on the bridge, first you hug me, then you shove me away, as though in your head a great struggle of wills, and you listen to an intellectual in his wisdom giving orders, balloons, machines, swarming crowds, everything rams you into the ground and you don't know where to turn. |
Copyright © Brane Mozetic 2004; Trans. Copyright © Ana Jelnikar 2004 - publ. Meeting Eyes Bindery