METULJI BUTTERFLIES
Brane Mozetic trans. Ana Jelnikar (from Slovene)
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


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