Poem
Milko Valent
6. Sentimental Voice of the Prophet
religious silenceis unavoidable in bad compositions.
because of that here is some gentle news:
I’m the one you’ll meet
at the brink of the paleness.
I’m the voice of the one
shouting at concerts
who wants to overcome the loud quietness
of the slow-motion idiots, of the dust in the making.
I know, the fight against dust is useless
but my area is the impossible.
I work on it in my spare time.
I’m your personal prophet, very mischievous.
I’ll be inside you even when
your curves, various menstruations perish.
I’ll heal you from depression
and the sudden tugs of melancholy.
then you’ll happily walk through the boys
and sing jazz where the night reigns,
where the rich homeless are living.
chorus singing is not for you.
the future poor girls are singing that,
unhappily married women from wrecked
juvenile homes and bad households,
handicapped mothers giving birth
to cynical children with a strong feeling
for autism, communism, fascism,
and consumer psychedelics.
you are far from the chorus, the truth is sung solo.
I know, I heard you in the bathroom,
we were painting a mural with Altamirean lips:
with penises on a blue background.
from your voice the color
could not dry for weeks.
and you threw in only a few vocal sketches.
you, my sweetheart, my female-male love,
will sing a fucking good neuro-jazz
straight from the cunt’s lymph in alto,
dritto from the raspy ovaries in contralto,
directly from the wrinkled balls and glistening
ovaries of a spring lyrical soprano,
impressively from the balls into the ostriches’ heads
of petrified princes of the audience.
and I’ll listen to you. I’ll wrap
eternity in your swollen vocal chords.
exhilarated I’ll jerk off in front of the podium
like Diogenes at full strength
surrounded by the ruthless Greek whores
with a sense for poetry.
you will sing such jazz from which
the Eskimos will freeze and sweat at the same time
while listening to the
sirens in your groin,
your compact discs of chaos,
breakfast, beer, brandy and hot ice cream.
you could even sing the first orgasm
of an unhappy 60 year old nymphomaniac.
when you begin to sing the eternal neuro-jazz
a chanting of priests and other mastersingers
will be only a desert hum
and the pope’s words nothing but an attempt:
a little Sunday solfeggio for the children of chaos,
for the insane children of contemporary speed.
© Translation: 2004, Miloš Đurđević
6. Sentimentalni glas proroka
6. Sentimentalni glas proroka
vjerska tišinaneizbježna je u lošim skladbama.
zbog toga evo ti blage vijesti:
ja sam onaj kojeg ćeš sresti
na rubu bljedila.
ja sam glas onoga
koji viče na koncertima
jer želim nadjačati preglasnu tihost
usporenih idiota, prašinu u nastajanju.
znam, borba protiv prašine je uzaludna
ali moje je područje ono nemoguće.
na tome radim u slobodno vrijeme.
ja sam tvoj osobni prorok, vrlo nestašan.
bit ću u tebi i onda kad izumru
tvoje obline, raznovrsne menstruacije.
izliječit ću te od depresije
i naglih trzaja melankolije.
tada ćeš veselo koračati kroz dječake
i pjevati jazz tamo gdje je noć,
tamo gdje žive bogati beskućnici.
zborno pjevanje nije za tebe.
njega pjevaju buduće sirotice,
nesretno udane žene iz razorenih
popravnih domova i loših kuća,
invalidne majke koje će rađati
ciničnu djecu sa jakim osjećajem
za autizam, komunizam, fašizam
i potrošačku psihodeliju.
daleko si ti od zbora, istina se pjeva solo.
znam, čuo sam te u kupaonici,
slikali smo mural s altamirskim usnicama:
nježnicima na plavoj pozadini.
od tvog glasa boja se
tjednima nije htjela osušiti.
a nabacila si tek nekoliko vokalnih skica.
ti, dušo, moja žensko-muška ljubavi,
pjevat ćeš jebeno dobar neuro jazz
ravno iz pizdine sukrvice u altu,
dritto iz promuklih jajovoda u kontraaltu,
direktno iz naboranih muda i blistavih
jajnika proljetnog lirskog soprana,
efektno iz jaja u nojeve glave
skamenjenih prinčeva publike.
i ja ću te slušati. zamotat ću
vječnost u tvoje nabrekle glasnice.
oduševljeno ću drkati ispred podija
kao Diogen u punoj snazi
okružen surovim grčkim kurvama
sa smislom za poeziju.
pjevat ćeš takav jazz od kojeg će se
Eskimi istovremeno smrzavati i znojiti
slušajući tvoje sirene
za uzbunu u preponama,
tvoje kompaktne pločice kaosa,
doručka, piva, konjaka i vrućeg sladoleda.
ti bi mogla otpjevati i prvi orgazam
nesretne nimfomanke od 60 godina.
kada ti zapjevaš vječni neuro jazz
pojanje svećenika i ostalih majstora pjevača
bit će tek tiho zujanje pustinje
a riječ pape tek pokušaj:
mali nedjeljni solfeggio za djecu kaosa,
za umobolnu djecu suvremene brzine.
© 2001, Milko Valent
From: Jazz: afrička vuna
Publisher: Naklada MD, Zagreb
From: Jazz: afrička vuna
Publisher: Naklada MD, Zagreb
Poems
Poems of Milko Valent
Close
6. Sentimental Voice of the Prophet
religious silenceis unavoidable in bad compositions.
because of that here is some gentle news:
I’m the one you’ll meet
at the brink of the paleness.
I’m the voice of the one
shouting at concerts
who wants to overcome the loud quietness
of the slow-motion idiots, of the dust in the making.
I know, the fight against dust is useless
but my area is the impossible.
I work on it in my spare time.
I’m your personal prophet, very mischievous.
I’ll be inside you even when
your curves, various menstruations perish.
I’ll heal you from depression
and the sudden tugs of melancholy.
then you’ll happily walk through the boys
and sing jazz where the night reigns,
where the rich homeless are living.
chorus singing is not for you.
the future poor girls are singing that,
unhappily married women from wrecked
juvenile homes and bad households,
handicapped mothers giving birth
to cynical children with a strong feeling
for autism, communism, fascism,
and consumer psychedelics.
you are far from the chorus, the truth is sung solo.
I know, I heard you in the bathroom,
we were painting a mural with Altamirean lips:
with penises on a blue background.
from your voice the color
could not dry for weeks.
and you threw in only a few vocal sketches.
you, my sweetheart, my female-male love,
will sing a fucking good neuro-jazz
straight from the cunt’s lymph in alto,
dritto from the raspy ovaries in contralto,
directly from the wrinkled balls and glistening
ovaries of a spring lyrical soprano,
impressively from the balls into the ostriches’ heads
of petrified princes of the audience.
and I’ll listen to you. I’ll wrap
eternity in your swollen vocal chords.
exhilarated I’ll jerk off in front of the podium
like Diogenes at full strength
surrounded by the ruthless Greek whores
with a sense for poetry.
you will sing such jazz from which
the Eskimos will freeze and sweat at the same time
while listening to the
sirens in your groin,
your compact discs of chaos,
breakfast, beer, brandy and hot ice cream.
you could even sing the first orgasm
of an unhappy 60 year old nymphomaniac.
when you begin to sing the eternal neuro-jazz
a chanting of priests and other mastersingers
will be only a desert hum
and the pope’s words nothing but an attempt:
a little Sunday solfeggio for the children of chaos,
for the insane children of contemporary speed.
© 2004, Miloš Đurđević
From: Jazz: afrička vuna
From: Jazz: afrička vuna
6. Sentimental Voice of the Prophet
religious silenceis unavoidable in bad compositions.
because of that here is some gentle news:
I’m the one you’ll meet
at the brink of the paleness.
I’m the voice of the one
shouting at concerts
who wants to overcome the loud quietness
of the slow-motion idiots, of the dust in the making.
I know, the fight against dust is useless
but my area is the impossible.
I work on it in my spare time.
I’m your personal prophet, very mischievous.
I’ll be inside you even when
your curves, various menstruations perish.
I’ll heal you from depression
and the sudden tugs of melancholy.
then you’ll happily walk through the boys
and sing jazz where the night reigns,
where the rich homeless are living.
chorus singing is not for you.
the future poor girls are singing that,
unhappily married women from wrecked
juvenile homes and bad households,
handicapped mothers giving birth
to cynical children with a strong feeling
for autism, communism, fascism,
and consumer psychedelics.
you are far from the chorus, the truth is sung solo.
I know, I heard you in the bathroom,
we were painting a mural with Altamirean lips:
with penises on a blue background.
from your voice the color
could not dry for weeks.
and you threw in only a few vocal sketches.
you, my sweetheart, my female-male love,
will sing a fucking good neuro-jazz
straight from the cunt’s lymph in alto,
dritto from the raspy ovaries in contralto,
directly from the wrinkled balls and glistening
ovaries of a spring lyrical soprano,
impressively from the balls into the ostriches’ heads
of petrified princes of the audience.
and I’ll listen to you. I’ll wrap
eternity in your swollen vocal chords.
exhilarated I’ll jerk off in front of the podium
like Diogenes at full strength
surrounded by the ruthless Greek whores
with a sense for poetry.
you will sing such jazz from which
the Eskimos will freeze and sweat at the same time
while listening to the
sirens in your groin,
your compact discs of chaos,
breakfast, beer, brandy and hot ice cream.
you could even sing the first orgasm
of an unhappy 60 year old nymphomaniac.
when you begin to sing the eternal neuro-jazz
a chanting of priests and other mastersingers
will be only a desert hum
and the pope’s words nothing but an attempt:
a little Sunday solfeggio for the children of chaos,
for the insane children of contemporary speed.
© 2004, Miloš Đurđević
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