At least these few steps
are still standing
in the bare piazzas of our hearts.
She jumped
onto the last pedestal:
in the black abyss beneath her rows of cars
kneeling, like white pilgrims.
On this January day she finds it hard
to believe the begonia-flavoured stories,
the afternoon Radian Bs:
this city wants to gobble itself up.
Can you believe it, my child, she said,
Can you believe it?
She can’t stop thinking about him,
always about him:
sprawled beneath the arch, a broken statue –
He has driven me mad, drained me,
whining like tuneless rain,
his body twisted like a storm,
his veins carrying foul fluid,
he’s drained me.
Imagine, my darling,
this is where the city spoke up,
this is where she opened
the bottomless well of her mouth:
imagine the steps,
her widening jaw
lapping up the black hole, biting into the abyss,
poking at the drama with her tongue,
merciless archives, gnawing at memory,
chewing the scales,
spitting out gilded angels and pillars,
gnashing her teeth at the elderly crowd
watching nostalgia dribble down her chin.
Chi del gitano i giorni abbella?
And our city writhes and wriggles,
tasting, mulling over and over
what she must choose to remember.
In the zingarella’s ears
a drum beat like Damien Rice
strumming her wheezing body,
a cheap guitar tinkered up with tape.
you wanna get boned
you wanna get stoned
you wanna get fucked inside out*
It’s not right, my child,
for her lips to be sealed
when they can sing lies so beautifully ...
I remember Calì** on that last step
holding his bowels
painting the dark as if it were his soul
I remember the whistling,
the vomit spilling out
settling like stardust on the old soprano.
I recall those fangs
digging into her thoughts,
tearing up cities dreamt, but never heeded.
All the rest I have forgotten,
old as I am,
an old, toothless hag.
Go see for yourself –
the steps are still there.
She finds it hard to stomach,
this girl busy shooing birds,
curling her spine
around the last two spirals,
she cannot believe
the fluttering crimson wave of her breasts
taunting the ruins – Miss Sixty,
busy weaving a message
or etching a word
for the gods to guess
and maybe these steps,
carved into each other like microchips,
memories of roads waiting to be thought,
unfinished cities,
stateless citizens, an opera missing a theatre
memories laid out
to break the city’s heart.
This city
choking on her relics.
This city
a finger down her throat
all set to puke.
* Lyrics from Damien Rice’s song Woman like a Man
** Giuseppe Calì (1846-1930) is a Maltese painter of note, born in Valletta.
Għallinqas baqgħu,
fil-pjazez imneżżgħa ta’ qlubna,
erba’ turġien.
U telgħet b’qabża
fuq l-aħħar pedestall:
fil-fond iswed ta’ taħtha
karozzi ringieli,
bħal pellegrini bojod għarkobbtejhom.
Minn hawn fuq mhux lakemm
temmen,
it-tifla f’jum imdennes ta’ Jannar,
l-istejjer togħma ta’ begonja
u r-Radian B ta’ wara nofsinhar: dil-belt
ippruvat tiekol lilha nfisha.
Stħajjel daqsxejn, binti, qaltilha,
stħajjel daqsxejn,
u hi thewden
u thewden fuqu biss:
mitluq bħal statwa mkissra taħt l-arkati -
Kif ħarbatni, għajjieni
ħalibni dat-tifel inewwaħ bħal xita stunata,
dal-ġisem forma ta’ maltempata
xorbuni l-vini ta’ driegħu tilgħin u niżlin
katusi jdawru ilma ħażin
battluni.
Imma stħajjel daqsxejn, pupa,
hawnhekk fejn tkellmet il-belt,
hawnhekk fejn fetħet
il-bir bla qiegħ ta’ fommha: stħajjel it-taraġ,
dax-xedaq kbir
li nfetaħ tul il-ħofra sewda, jigdem l-abbiss,
idawwar l-opra f’ħalqu
arkivju spjetat, jomgħod il-memorja,
jtiegħem l-iskajjel,
jobżoq
l-arkanġli ta’ l-injam u l-balavostri,
jheżżeż snienu
lejn ix-xjuħ isegwu mwerwin
in-nostalġiji jbeżilqu ma’ geddumu:
Chi del gitano i giorni s’abbella?
U beltna titkagħweġ u dduq,
ittella’ u tniżżel hi
x’għandha tiftakar.
Diż-żingarella,
widnejha jtambru l-istess żewġ battuti
li kien idawwarhom qisu Damien Rice,
ġisimha bħal korda żżarżar
f’kitarra rħisa msewwija bit-tejp –
you wanna get boned
you wanna get stoned
you wanna get fucked inside out
Mhux sewwa, binti
meta jiskot il-fomm
li gidba jaf jgħanniha bi sbuħija…
niftakar lil Calì fuq l-aħħar tarġa’
jżomm imsarnu
u jħożż id-dalma qisha kienet ruħu
niftakar it-tisfir
u r-rimettar itir
bħat-trab tad-deheb mixħut fuq is-soprano
niftakar in-nejbiet
iħaffru l-ħsibijiet
u jqattgħu bliet li nħasbu bla ma nstemgħu
il-bqija nsejtu kollu
xiħa li jien
xiħa bla snien,
mur waħdek u ttawwal –
baqa’ t-turġien.
Mhux lakemm temmen dit-tifla,
milwija tgerrex it-tjur
bix-xewka ta’ daharha ddur
ma’ l-aħħar żewġ spirali fil-lavur
mhux lakemm temmen,
il-porpra ħamra tlebleb,
tinki l-fdaljiet – Miss Sixty,
mehdija tinseġ
messaġġ, jew tonqox kelma
li l-allat biss ibassru fejn se taqa’
u forsi dat-turġien,
maħduma ġo xulxin bħal mikroċippa,
memorji ta’ toroq li għadhom ma nbnewx,
ta’ bliet li baqgħu ma tlestewx,
ċittadini bla stat jew opra bla teatru,
memorji lesti
biex jaqsmu l-qalb ta’ dil-belt.
Dil-belt
li xerqet f’tifkirietha.
Dil-belt
b’subgħajha f’ħalqha għal-lest
biex taqla’ kollox.
