Friday is the day you think of death

Friday is the day you think of death. That’s why
you have to go out, having had enough
of torment, masochism, constantly
running into walls. You’re stoned and drunk
and you drive from club to club. You barely know
who you’ve been kissing, the faces
foggy. You’re tempted to take someone
home, but then you forget.
You get stopped by the police who tell you
you’re drunk and must continue on foot.
In madness, your friends drag you to the next
hole where you get even more stoned
and drunk. It’s dark. The blinds have been pulled down
so that morning will never come.

Friday is the day you think of death

Petek je dan, ko pomisliš na smrt. In zato
moraš ven, in ti je dovolj vseh bolečin,
trpinčenj, ta mazohizem, nenehno
zaletavanje v steno. Zadet in pijan se
voziš od kluba do kluba. Komaj
veš, s kom se poljubljaš. Obrazi se
meglijo. Zamika te, da bi koga odpeljal
domov, a potem že pozabiš.
Ustavijo te policaji in ti povejo, da
si pijan in da moraš naprej peš.
Prijatelji v norosti te zvlečejo v naslednjo
luknjo, kjer se še bolj zadeneš in
zapiješ. Tema je. Spustili so rolete
in upaš, da jutro ne bo nikoli prišlo.