Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Daniel Bănulescu

PLEASE BE GOOD, I’M JUST GOING TO KISS YOU A LITTLE, THEN KILL YOU AND GO

I’m talking to this woman on the phone
As I’m smoking
She responds in a vulgar and alien tone
I consider the prospect of just dropping by
And wringing her neck
 
I’m not doing it though
And her lip is abiding with me still alive on my flesh
I fly in a rage and we yell at each other
She’s like a matchbox scraped bare
So bare I can no longer strike a match upon it
 
All night long she’s been sweating and weeping but she’s finally got the idea
All night long she’s been fretting and weeping but she’s finally worked up a sweat
I fly in a rage and we yell at each other
She’s like a matchbox scraped bare by match- after match- after matchstick
So bare I can’t manage to strike a match upon it
 
I sit up shout out something and we yell at each other
I slam my fist into the radio set also abiding with me
Why don’t I just drop by
And wring her neck
 
I could only compare her to a glove made of flesh
In which God caught me one day
And squashed me flat against a wall

ALSJEBLIEFT WEES BRAAF IK ZAL JE WAT KUSSEN JE DODEN EN WEGGAAN

Ik spreek met een vrouw aan de telefoon
En rook
Ze antwoordt me vulgair en vreemd
Ik zeg bij mezelf dat ik bij haar langs zou kunnen gaan
En haar de hals breken
 
Maar ik doe het niet
En haar lip die ik nog op mijn lijf voel blijft bij me
Ik maak me verschrikkelijk kwaad en we schreeuwen tegen elkaar
Ze is als een afgesleten doosje lucifers
Waarop ik geen zwavelstokje meer kan afstrijken
 
De hele nacht heeft ze liggen zweten en huilen maar nu is het haar duidelijk
De hele nacht heeft ze liggen woelen en huilen maar eindelijk baadt ze nu in haar zweet
 
Ik maak me verschrikkelijk kwaad en we schreeuwen tegen elkaar
Zíj is als een doosje dat door de ene lucifer na de andere werd afgesleten
En waarop ík geen zwavelstokje meer afgestreken krijg
 
Ik sta op roep iets en we schreeuwen tegen elkaar
Ik sla een radiotoestel in elkaar dat ook bij me blijft
Ik zou bij haar langs kunnen gaan
En haar de hals breken
 
Zou haar alleen kunnen vergelijken met die handschoen van vlees
Waarmee God me op een dag heeft gegrepen
En tegen een muur te pletter heeft gegooid
 

TE ROG FII CUMINTE, AM SĂ TE SĂRUT PUŢIN, AM SĂ TE OMOR ŞI-AM SĂ PLEC

Vorbesc cu o femeie la telefon
Şi fumez
Îmi răspunde vulgar şi străin
Mă gândesc că aş putea să trec pe la ea pe acasă
Şi să-i frâng gâtul
 
Dar nu o fac
Iar buza ce i-o simt încă pe trup rămâne cu mine
Mă înfurii îngrozitor şi urlăm
Este ca o cutie hârjâită de chibrituri
Pe care nu mai pot să-mi aprind nici un băţ
 
Toată noaptea a transpirat şi a plâns dar acum în fine e lămurită
Toată noaptea s-a neliniştit şi a plâns dar în fine acum e transpirată
 
Mă înfurii îngrozitor şi urlăm
Ea este ca o cutie hârjâită de alte şi alte chibrituri
Pe care eu nu mai reuşesc să-mi aprind nici un băţ
 
Mă ridic strig ceva şi urlăm
Sparg mutra unui aparat de radio care şi el rămâne cu mine
Aş putea trece pe la ea pe acasă
Şi să-i frâng gâtul
 
Aş putea-o asemăna doar cu o mănuşă de carne
În care într-o zi m-a prins Dumnezeu
Şi m-a strivit de-un perete
Close

PLEASE BE GOOD, I’M JUST GOING TO KISS YOU A LITTLE, THEN KILL YOU AND GO

I’m talking to this woman on the phone
As I’m smoking
She responds in a vulgar and alien tone
I consider the prospect of just dropping by
And wringing her neck
 
I’m not doing it though
And her lip is abiding with me still alive on my flesh
I fly in a rage and we yell at each other
She’s like a matchbox scraped bare
So bare I can no longer strike a match upon it
 
All night long she’s been sweating and weeping but she’s finally got the idea
All night long she’s been fretting and weeping but she’s finally worked up a sweat
I fly in a rage and we yell at each other
She’s like a matchbox scraped bare by match- after match- after matchstick
So bare I can’t manage to strike a match upon it
 
I sit up shout out something and we yell at each other
I slam my fist into the radio set also abiding with me
Why don’t I just drop by
And wring her neck
 
I could only compare her to a glove made of flesh
In which God caught me one day
And squashed me flat against a wall

PLEASE BE GOOD, I’M JUST GOING TO KISS YOU A LITTLE, THEN KILL YOU AND GO

I’m talking to this woman on the phone
As I’m smoking
She responds in a vulgar and alien tone
I consider the prospect of just dropping by
And wringing her neck
 
I’m not doing it though
And her lip is abiding with me still alive on my flesh
I fly in a rage and we yell at each other
She’s like a matchbox scraped bare
So bare I can no longer strike a match upon it
 
All night long she’s been sweating and weeping but she’s finally got the idea
All night long she’s been fretting and weeping but she’s finally worked up a sweat
I fly in a rage and we yell at each other
She’s like a matchbox scraped bare by match- after match- after matchstick
So bare I can’t manage to strike a match upon it
 
I sit up shout out something and we yell at each other
I slam my fist into the radio set also abiding with me
Why don’t I just drop by
And wring her neck
 
I could only compare her to a glove made of flesh
In which God caught me one day
And squashed me flat against a wall
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère