Let lips and flesh remember the arrival
of a bright and fresh empire. Let it
be squeezed into the eyes and memory: playing with wine
and the flight of bees is for Pilate, not for pathetic
craftsmen. Let this massaging of people’s hearts
and the dripping of stalactites on their wide,
unschooled intestines receive its stamp on the green
grass: obliteration. I thus had them
compose this diet of delightful and thrilling
reading. Let them also become little
schoolkids so that this impatient stomping on the ground
settles down and submits to the natural state of things.
The events really inspired me. So let
the board with my office hours be hung up publicly.
Now I’m standing among
a spruce, which is wrapped in a diaper,
and a larch, which is wrapped in a diaper,
and a fern, which is wrapped in
a miniature diaper. My flashlight
is shining because it’s night. I cough.
My cough reaches farther than the light
of the flashlight. I unfasten the diapers from the trunks,
my eyes hurt from the miniature diaper.
I wish a wolf would come and rip me apart.
Someone fragrant walked this path
to the cabin. I turn on the flashlight again
to see where I’ve come.
Moss is made for resting hands. We sleep
and wake up on the moss.
Baby Jesus is surrounded by sheets
of moss. Not only would I like to be ripped apart
by a wolf, I want to live because I want
to throw a greengage from the corner of the room
into a pool that is a sheet of glass.
But there’s no river in the desert!
They’ll also domesticate me like that.
Geniuses are nasty, monotonous, terrible and they
remind me of a turtle’s jaw.
Shits are for people.
Shit is kind if you excrete it.
It gawks and worries about nothing.
It’s smoking like some pig.
It reminds me of the white heights of amber mountains.
Of Gregorčič, for example, specifically
of me and the bloody Soča.
This can be justified to me only by divine frenzy.
That is, divine frenzy is a democratic
institution, the property of all, mostly
children and four-year-old cousins.
They arrive together at family celebrations and say
shit and are already overcome by divine joy,
they shake and roll from happiness and
divine rapture and you say sorry! this isn’t
fair, I’m the father, the parent,
I made meat instead of having fun
with them and if I enter the role of my
son, I supplant him, and so I’m backed against the wall.
You’re blameless as long as you’re
untouchable, so it’s better
not to linger around those blotting
papers that surround you—
shit is my brother, sin is terrible—