Translated by Bojana Vujin
ON MY OFFICE / КАБИНЕТСКА
The gunk on the outside window pane
that watches, half-blind, the opposite wall
of this building – this institution,
inside it carefully collected dust
contradicts, only a little, the numb
books on the shelfs,
inside them a whirlpool of thoughts, questions,
existential ones and banal ones –
who can tell them apart –
reasons and conflicts,
inside them the irrefutable winner, the notion
that failure precedes life,
and that everything else is a price to pay,
inside it something brings pleasure and something brings terror,
which then dwindles into a slowed down scene
of morbid masturbation,
into the fragility of impression,
I take an air freshener out of my drawer –
orange scent –
I move it away from my face,
I release a long flat line.
Mercilessly, like an electrocardiograph.Translated by Bojana Vujin
WHO SAYS THAT WE SAY / КО КАЖЕ ДА МИ КАЖЕМО
Someone is still a child of imagination, I believe,
what remains to us is only recordings,
a desire for precision, for garishly horrific frames.
Still, many memories
are completely paralysed limbs,
even when you agree to write poems
about what happened.
The jumbled up facts resist
your fingers, they’re not like Play-Doh,
and while you’re rubbing together your dry, course fingertips,
second after second goes to the purgatory of memory.
Sliding by, that is all the poetics
offered by your mind,
now discordant with once obsessively followed
used this month to annul
that potential life.
Dreams and mirrors are a master’s tools.
Our tools are reading out names, following the map
and crackling the wrappings.Translated by Bojana Vujin