keeping quiet until veins start popping out on your neck and fists

sleeping, stepping out

of the tram full of people ready to shoot themselves in the head

getting rained on, writing about those

who mean nothing

lying to everyone (a white samurai

raises his arms and at the intersection directs the traffic

into a dirty navel

with some vodka on the bottom.

if god is dead then who is this guy

opening the window

to throw his clipped toenails onto the street)

will you cure me with your miraculous

daily routine (a slice of salami

two pieces of bread, vanilla

flavored coffee)

will you take me as if you’re slaughtering a chicken (and that something in you

which seems like nothing to everyone takes on a clear

form of feeding) will you

shove your dirty fingers into a hole

on my body drawn in permanent ink

marking a place for wafers, pretending

that everything is just right

letting the beasts into the corners of your mouth, crushing my face

in your palm like a wet tissue, noticing that it’s already

getting cold and that somewhere a dog is barking

Translated by Tomislav Kuzmanović

šutjeti dok ti ne iskoče konjske žile po vratu i šakama

spavati, izaći

iz tramvaja punog ljudi koji bi si najradije pucali u glavu

pokisnuti, pisati o onima

koji ništa ne znače

svima lagati (bijeli samuraj

diže ruke i na križanju pušta promet

u nečisti pupak

s malo votke pri dnu.

ako je bog mrtav tko je ovaj

koji otvara prozor

da izbaci grickalicom podsječene nokte na kolnik)

hoćeš li me liječiti svojom čudotvornom

svakodnevicom (šnita parizera

dvije kriške kruha, nes

od vanilije)

hoćeš li me uzeti kao da kolješ kokoš (a ono nešto u tebi

koje svima izgleda kao ništa poprima jasan

oblik hranjenja) hoćeš li

ugurati prljave prste u rupu

na mome tijelu markerom

označenu za uzimanje hostije, pretvarati se

da baš tako treba

pustiti zvijeri u kutove usana, lice mi zgužvati

u dlanu kao vlažnu novčanicu, primijetiti kako je već

jako hladno i negdje laje pas