The chicken are responsible for the existence of God
tonight my hair is the cap made of worsted wool
which unravels at the neck and that part under the forehead (which I call reason)
my room barfed me out of the window,
she felt nauseated by so much anxiety.
the sky wrapped, caked red from the clouds,
this is how the blazing inside of the oven must look like
the one dad purchased at the fair in Benkovac
a little cracked on the side so the dawn can pour in.
behind the house the darkness is densest with the rustling,
as if we still had the chicken coop.
we used to have one, together with other neighbors,
so nobody minded the smell. one neighbor
had discovered a butcher in my dad and sacrificed the chicken to him.
when the wings would flutter, she'd fold her hands
praying for his soul. rightly she had believed
that god should be in charge of dad
as dad is in charge of chicken.
as the created is usually above the creator.
I stayed away from the chicken, especially the gray one
having hair like Mr. Karadzic.
I could not tolerate that much power.
my tissue tonight wants to overcome itself.
become a point that will barf out a new evolutionary line.
the chicken know,
that's how every new god is made.
the consequences are permanent, but removable,
a cock that knows how to split the chink in the oven,
and to spoil the god's lunch,
to feed the birds with the crudity.
© translated by Boris Gregorić