Undergrowth

by Gašper Bivšek


Undergrowth

your eyes are full of germs,

they germinate

 

 

1

 

You wade into the undergrowth as into snow,

Certain never to be tracked.

You know the laws of this door that

Closes automatically as you enter,

Leaving no trace

Of anybody having gone through before.

Soft spikemoss catches

The weight of loamy, muddy feet:

As you look down you see

Them overgrown again.

You overgrow yourself in the maze

of undergrowth.

 

 

2

 

skin

 

What do you wrap it in?

In ivy, in periwinkle

You tie it with clematis.

What do you nail it to?

To moss to moss,

With the remains of wilted knuckles

That you call roots.

What do you drench it in?

In the furrow among crayfish

That are mere skeletons of crayfish.

Just so you could shed it,

Undress it of the wear

That bears your cursed name upon it.

 

 

3

 

Under her skirt there is the very faint

Beat of the heart of her loins.

As she’s advancing towards him

Through beechlings,

Branches lift up kreutzers

Of her flowery coat.

A caterpillar gnaws the maple’s leaf.

Slowly falling spiders

With their backside elastane

Gaze six-eyed into the honeyed

Bright blue eyes.

And she has no eyes.

And he has no lips

And brambles stain

Black their backs.

 

 

4

 

They find you raging, foliage

Weaved of hawthorn and brier.

They find you because you’d dragged

A frayed jacket’s thread behind you all the way.

They give you wine so you feel again

The fickleness of gullets.

Human words begin to tumble

From your throat: cunt, cock, slut,

Salt, flour, water, vinegar, sugar, horseradish …

Coarsely you mash them between your jaws,

Spitting them onto the floor that used to be a cherry tree.

You talk like a man swallowing

His own kingdom.

 

 

5

 

For the last time you cast off all your clothes.

You wade into the undergrowth as into snow

Knowing that they’ll never find you.

Fingers of cellulose embrace you

From all directions, the bark scrapes off

All the layers of swollen humanity.

That’s when you pitch for the first time, and it

Doesn’t hurt one bit, even the tears are gone.

Mushrooms strap roots

To pitched new limbs,

And you lie down into the undergrowth.

And she closes the door behind you.

© translated by Jernej Županič

Podrast

gledaš kalno,

kal poganja iz oči

 

 

1

Zagaziš v podrast, kot v sneg

v prepričanju, da te ne izsledijo.

Poznaš zakonitosti teh vrat, ki se

avtomatično zaprejo, ko vstopiš,

in ne pustijo nobenega znamenja,

da bi tod že kdo šel.

Mehki mahovniki ujamejo

težo ilovnato blatnih stopal;

ko pogledaš podse, vidiš,

kako se znova obrasejo.

Sam se obraseš v blodnjaku

iz podrasti.

 

2 Koža

V kaj vse jo zaviješ?

V bršljan, v zimzelen

jo s srobotom zavežeš.

Na kaj vse jo pribiješ?

Na mah na mah

z ostanki uvelih členkov,

ki jih korenine imenuješ.

Kam vse jo potopiš?

V graben med rake,

ki so le skeleti rakov.

Samo zato, da bi jo zlevil,

da bi z nje slekel obrabo,

ki nosi tvoje prekleto ime.

 

3

Prav šibko ji pod krilom

utripa srčika med-nožja.

Ko prodira k njemu

skozi mlado bukovje,

veje povzdigujejo krajcarje

njenega cvetnega odevala.

Gosenica grizlja maklenov list.

Pajki v počasnem padu,

z elastanom iz zadnjic,

šesterooko zijajo v strdene

svetlo modre oči.

In ona je brez oči.

In on je brez ustnic

in črničevje črno obarva

njuna gola hrbtišča.

 

4

Najdejo te razdivjanega, krošnjo

spleteno iz grmov gloga in šipka.

Najdejo te, ker si celo pot za sabo

vlekel nit obrabljenega suknjiča.

Dajo ti vina, da spet začutiš,

kako nepredvidljivi so požiralniki.

Iz tvojega grla se začnejo valiti

človeške besede: pizda, kurac, kuzla,

sol, moka, voda, kis, sladkor, hren …

Hrapavo jih mečkaš med čeljustmi

in pljuvaš po parketu nekdanje češnje.

Govoriš kot človek, ki golta

lastno kraljestvo.

 

5

Zadnjič odvržeš vsa oblačila.

Zagaziš v podrast, kot v sneg

vedoč, da te ne bodo več našli.

Celulozni prstki te objamejo

z vseh strani, lubje odrgne

vse sloje otekle človečnosti.

Takrat prvič zasmoliš, in nič

te ne boli, še solz ni več.

Gobe pripnejo koreninice

na smoleče nove ude

in zlekneš se nizko v podrast.

Ona za tabo vrata zapre.

© Gašper Bivšek, Provinca. Mrak (Študentska založba, 2012)