I saw the best minds of my generation
bored in the balmy nullness of submission
something is softly slashed open
then there's no return
a dog is barking in the church
I don’t know what to do with that image
nor does he, but still he acts, he breaks the sonic kitsch
foreign wi-fi enters my tiny dark room
like the breath of a dying god who mistook me for someone else
but still he says hello to the gathered crowd, as if at the wrong funeral.
tomaž, you told me I was faster
but I’m more of a rope which burns the fingers than a snake,
a tail or a reptile of sorts.
the rope fibers in the light draw out a growl from my lazy body
I jam it all in one poem,
the pure, discarded afterdeath
everything one can learn from breakfast TV.
what neither jules verne nor jacque cousteau knew
maybe only the tailor flying from the eiffel tower
with no return, no return. something is softly slashed open
then there’s no return,
every landscape is political.
the painted clouds a waiting horde
both the rapist and the hero
in the lame logic of gradualism
in stalinist sheets as white as as
a drunk painter’s optical illusion
and the rascal kalashnikov of his brother
come together in the word volshebnik
and while the bank is dissolving away
the flour of flourishing gets denser
under the wary and watchful forefinger.
somebody is always dying and dead in there
the corpse hides in the prose folds, squeezed
in the barometer of a sentence
the barman doesn’t speak of, but knows its tune
only just three simple chords,
no biggie, bro.
the afterdeath derision lurks in the oil on canvas, on the canvas
something is slowly slashed open, then there’s no return.
I jam it all in one poem, which I never write
and then for months
I chase the moment of glory
which has not arrived yet. what arrived was a postcard from tomaž
it’s all one big poem that I never write but keep returning to
I find myself awfully charming.
a marathon sprinkled with ads for something or other,
an event, a mouth, teeth that only just explain enamel.
where I grazed the ankle of someone else’s woman,
it was much too easy, much too easy
teeth that test mirrors,
they give an inkling of tesla’s gay grimace, if such a thing exists, surely it must
in an alternating current with which tibor’s tesla moves the furniture around ljubljana
I’m unbearably alive, like courtney love
but if I died today
they’d say, he didn’t live long, but he swore so skillfully, and I never swore
I only waited for a swearless fuck, a silken knife my mother once mentioned
but never used on my father.
I shift the change,
I say you’re no change, no change at all
as long as you carry me inside, I’m liked the aligned chinese
deep inside a buried village.
in the taste of a hot rod, united hot rods.
the epoch, dishes, trophies
alain prost and ayrton senna,
papa and toto cutugno exit history
the morning is a naked savićević who
explains the state
and then tries to shed light on mice. nope.
just ordinary mice.
my place too is uncertain.
once I was savićević, chilling out after dribbling drills
dragging the leg called the state
like an overlarge dick used for measuring foreheads
the battle between head and facade
and so the shit started to happen, in the moment you grew silent,
with the post symbolists fattening up like pigs,
let into the wilderness, their fur overgrown,
the selfish poet’s gene.
so, how to put it,
I’m unbearably alive
like guests from abroad
but I shine like the state,
the history of fucking, seldom turned on due to high electricity costs
the poetry’s audience is yawning
there’s no way back.
I’m not in mexico.
my body is not a bonfire.
hairs grow from my fingers.
whips of silent films command expressionism
I draw a whore first, then some bread and a cottage. a trinket,
the erasing of khlebnikov,
life is astro-porn, a crash of silly animals
on a wrong platform
the fireproof past
the three-hour declaration of love.
papa and toto cutugno adjust their bangs,
toto schillaci is balding, he lobs the keeper,
the ball travels long, unbearably long
maradona and ivković share a kiss, then beat it,
everything goes to pretty pot.
in the greasy underbelly of char.
the term society is disguised in
they all fuck the same women, all convene in courtyards,
so that basements are easily debased,
in war movies, they often dump
furniture on the street, our hero sees it from the bus,
keep on looking forward.
what the fuck are you looking at now?
it’s time to go out, before you hear it: out!
a dog is somewhere around. he’s been barking in the church for a time
but something cracked in the secret order of gradualism
and the dog can now calmly leave the place.
the suspicious permissions.
babies, grandmothers, balkans,
belgrade is trembling, unburnt
sending its fascists for a soft sunset stroll
richard gere and his dog
save the hairdressers’ code of honour. bajaga should be kissed.
it’s all consumed, balding, with no return,
all heathenly waisted, genetics is relentless,
the carpeting gives back the urine to the god in the loudspeakers,
the god chokes on it, vomits out the communists he had eaten
during his perpetual devouring.
a message that never arrived
from the partisans of dalmatia to the partisans of montenegro
it spurts chetnik burrs
in whitman’s clean braking grass, which cuts my knee
while I jump out of the train. one should shush about this
but it will grow like a footballer’s wife
I’m not in mexico.
my body is not a bonfire.
hair grows from my fingers.
maybe I want to struggle
the know-it-all hero
while still ignoring names, until rilke stays dead,
unearthed, in lava,
farmers’ pitchforks wake him up,
get up, midget, off to work. footballers are hot
but the pipes are hotter.
timisoara is a dump,
ceausescu not so much
there is no return.
these words create a forest
next to it an amoral, describable monastery,
shepherd’s rug on which a young fascist
rapes a cashier assistant.
cows kill more people per year than sharks.
a drawable cathedral, dear carver, is a dick,
a dick with square balls,
every blindman knows it, everything else is stretched tight,
we think they think we
but things must deserve me.
i’m as difficult as a handball or a wedding. no return
the calm millions of property crack the housewife in a track suite
while she’s emptying the dustbin.
there’s no return. we think they think we
the dog barks in the church, I don’t know what to do with that image
where should this mongrel go, will they chase him or will he grow tired first,
will an old hag poison him, and then say I’d never
every dog is a sleepy god returning home
bored by the internet.
what’s an event, then
a tit, asexually tilted
then released, over the hand that adjusts objects.
the light split from its objects
sits on the public budget.
belgrade is trembling, unburnt.
bombing was the only thing you called war, o-ho-ho who’s this we
oho – the glue of the urge that lasts for seconds
when it’s rubbed, it turns to dust, passing off as ashes
again you are unglued
in the suffering pose of a saint
who rubs his fingers and says dust to dust, lee cooper to earth
fuck your dainty fascist mother who wears metaphors
the carnex pâté flies heavenwards
the floating, the whispering of evil swans
bombing was the only thing you called war
that’s too fucked up, an unforgivable syntax
the overpriced crumbling taxi slides through the balkan new york
as an amateur tugboat through the open seas of byzantium
my enemies hang out, insufferably.
they grind their dicks against my bust, but the fucking part remains mine
the regime glow lays the silken knife on my mother
there i’m as silent as a lunatic at a silent film screening
to whom do I whisper I’m not,
while the accusations fly
and the neutral spouses lie on beaches
the all-overs are like a mother with an overlong wishlist
snatched away by savićević, who reads the first few words
and then folds it into a paper plane, rolling down the rollway
we think we we think they we think we they think
some call it swearing I call it calendar
papa says be careful again they are dangerous they are looking for new enemies
take out asshole and sperm from one of your poems at least
leave the pussies, that’s fine
the light split from its objects sitting on public budget.
to ask it to join, to say come, come here
while the dog keeps barking in the church
it’s not really fair.
there’s no return.
there’s no return.
the urn of darkness is serene in the crystal chandeliers
all objects are overachievers, while the history historicizes itself
blood is on the axe honey is the blood is the honey is the blood
soon the honeycomb will be spattered dry.
Translated by Ana Savjak