To the Lost Halves (A Violently Interrupted Poem)

When steel cranes dropped the last nuclear power plant on the city
your origami heart burst like a glass ball 

which Ted Nugent’s high C capes into shiny emptiness. yes. that’s how it started:
a film in which a woman, a vulgarly fit young woman, 

finds her lost half, yes, that’s how it started.
a street turned into Finland, the northern fleet made of paper 

swallows the asphalt faster than the cracks the earth sends
from inside to make it smile, an executioner, cuts sharp replies 

like fingers; the air so transparent I want to see it. absence,
the poem’s main feature, makes way for the bodies of children, who retreated 

back into houses, carefully, after one call. the smell of just flushed water which,
a bellhop on cocaine, tirelessly goes up, hides, in nostrils  

founds a disgustingly liberal syndicate, in the end stays calm, for a second, somewhere high,
and falls down again. absence. a triumphal vacation which you never take. 

tea: crumbs dipped into teeth and the surface that stood still is on the move,
our halves find us or remain hidden. all that is real surpasses us. 

voice, your own narrator, says that you are now complete
in a safe tone it moves across the canvas, like a psychoanalytic Buddha, and knows 

knows that all is never lost. a rhetorical corkscrew that pierces your eyes. sucks your
brain out, that’s how it ends. all the psychoanalysts and zombies and Buddhists the moment they appear 

destroy every attempt at an end. only Christians are worse. even after the Apocalypse
something happens.

Izgubljenim polovicama (nasilno prekinuta pjesma)

Izgubljenim polovicama (nasilno prekinuta pjesma)

Kada su željezni ždralovi bacili posljednju nuklearnu elektranu na grad
tvoje se origami srce rasprslo kao staklena kugla 

koju Ted Nugentov visoki C zaogrne u sjajnu prazninu. da. tako je počelo:
film u kojem žena, nepristojno pristala mlada žena, 

pronađe svoju izgubljenu polovicu, da, tako je počelo.
ulica pretvorena u Finsku, papirnata sjeverna flota 

guta asfalt brže od pukotina koje zemlja šalje
iznutra da ga nasmije, krvnik, odsijeca britke replike 

kao prste; zrak toliko proziran da ga poželim vidjeti. odsutnost,
temeljno obilježje pjesme, uvlači se u tijela djece, oprezno 

jednim pozivom povučene u kuće. miris upravo spuštene vode koja,
kokainizirani liftboy, neumorno odlazi gore, skriva se, u nosnicama

osniva odvratno liberalni sindikat, na kraju miruje, nedugo, negdje visoko,
i opet pada. odsutnost. trijumfalni odmor na koji ne odeš. 

čaj: mrvice umočene u zube i površina koja je mirovala kreće se,
naše polovice nas pronalaze ili ostaju skrivene. sve što je stvarno nas nadilazi. 

glas, tvoj vlastiti pripovjedač, kaže sada si potpuna
sigurnim tonom prelazi preko slike, kao psihoanalitički Buda, i zna 

zna da nikada nije sve izgubljeno. retorički vadičep koji ti probuši oči. isiše
mozak, tako završi. i psihoanalitičari i zombiji i budisti čim se pojave 

unište svaki pokušaj kraja. jedino su gori kršćani. čak i nakon apokalipse
nešto se dešava.