Drobne, priletne, predirne oči,
angleščine ni – postrežem mu čaj, štiri sladkorčke.
Na začetku odkriliva moje želje;
ko se dan razblini v potraten dan
ga skrbi že manj –
podnice zasuje pesek
skoraj do tramov; svilnato bele stene,
sprva sive, zdaj črne. Barva z vonjem po njem.
Ko se moje orjavele rože debelo naprašijo,
v kuhinji vzkali koruza.
Nekatere okenske šipe dobijo premaz;
z rahlim odsevom. Sobo zdaj prepredajo
kabli, ki prasketajo. V spalnici
se pojavijo pršne šobe. S stropa
visi hladilnik, vrata zalepljena neprepustno.
Jem lesni kit in fugirno maso.
Zdaj spi tukaj, da prihrani čas.
Vse manj zvoni telefon; vedno je zanj.
Pogosto je on. Občasno se na hodniku,
vsi enaki, prerivajo njegovi prijatelji, ko pa
odidejo, je vse preveč miru, da bi dihal.
Ponoči mavec nabreka in se znoji.
Do jutra se kot slonja koža
za palec zadebeli –
nekatere stene se skoraj staknejo.
Od vročine popoka cvetlični friz
in gnilo obrodi.
Kožo mi je preklalo;
les lakira krvava glazura.
Ko pade mrak, sem v treh sobah naenkrat.
Moji odstriženi nohti, lasje in sperma
se držijo zidov kot grobovlaknate tapete.
Ena od sob je zapečatena.
Včasih sem on jaz; drobnih,
priletnih, predirnih oči, angleščine ni –
nato se vrne on. Nocoj se bom
spakiral in se nepremično stlačil
v kozarec pod pomivalnim koritom.
Prevedel Andrej Pleterski.
Small, ageing, gimlet eyes,
no English - I serve him tea, four sugars.
At first, we ‘sign’ my needs;
as day blurs into costly day
he is less concerned -
floor boards sanded
almost to the joists; silk white walls,
first grey, now black. Paint smells of him.
As thickening dust covers my browning plants,
corn grows in the kitchen.
Some windows are painted gloss;
with feint reflection. Wires now cross
the room, crackling. Shower heads
appear in the bedroom. The fridge
hangs from the ceiling, door glued shut.
I eat wood filler and grout.
He sleeps here now to save time.
The phone rings less; it is always for him.
Often, it is him. Sometimes his friends,
all alike, jostle in the hall, but when
they’re gone, it’s too still to breath.
At night the plaster heaves and sweats.
By morning, like elephant skin,
it has grown an inch –
some walls almost meet.
Floral mouldings have burst in the heat,
and now bear rotting fruit.
My skin is gashed;
blood varnish seals the wood.
At dusk, I’m in three rooms at once.
My clippings, hair and sperm
stuck to the walls as woodchip.
One room is sealed.
Sometimes I am him; small,
ageing, gimlet eyes, no English –
then he returns. Tonight,
I will pack my bag and squeeze
‘till motionless into the jar
under the sink.
