4. Soup Kitchen

music is the public voice of demigods.
similarly there is no personal poetry,
there is no yours or mine diary.
all that is an universal ocean, foam of strength,
the edible sperm of the short-term wretches,
a soup kitchen for primordial dead,
the shameless tasting of blood and chaos.
it is warm in the kitchen, a radio is playing.
poetry is eaten with the heart:
with unwashed hands and no silverware.
Zen Buddhists understood that
too tired for killing or working
in textile factories with no essence.
that is why they write poetry filled with metaphors.
they want to express the depth of a dolphin,
expose destiny as a common whore at work:
with no protection, no condoms, no pimp and no
spare knickers in a handbag of tortured skin.
they say: little is needed for nirvana:
only the epic minimalism of a convertible,
wind in the hair, leg up in the air, cigarette
in the smile of a snout and lots of techno sound
for brainwashing before sleeping.
they say: for Zen more is needed.
if you hear jazz in the convertible
you are Zen, you don’t give a fuck about anything
even about me on whose
broken rib you gave birth to Eve, grapes
orgasms, wet feet, tenderness,
moonlight sprinkled with chocolate verses.
you see, poetry is
a soup kitchen, warm sweat of martyrs.
they cook nightmares for common meals without dreams.

4. Javna kuhinja

4. Javna kuhinja

glazba je javni glas polubogova.
isto tako nema osobne poezije,
nema mojeg i tvojeg dnevnika.
sve je to opći ocean, pjena od snage,
jestiva sperma kratkoročnih jadnika,
javna kuhinja za iskonske mrtvace,
bestidno kušanje krvi i kaosa.
u kuhinji je toplo, radio svira.
poezija se jede srcem:
neopranim rukama bez pribora.
to su shvatili zen budisti
preumorni za ubijanje ili rad
u tekstilnim tvornicama bez bitka.
zato pišu poeziju punjenu metaforama.
žele izraziti dubinu dupina,
pokazati sudbinu kao običnu kurvu na poslu:
bez zaštite, bez prezervativa, bez makroa i bez
rezervnih gaćica u torbici od mučene kože.
kažu: na nirvanu je potrebno malo:
samo epski minimalizam kabrioleta,
vjetar u kosi, noga u zraku, cigareta
u smijehu gubice i puno techno zvuka
za pranje mozga prije spavanja.
kažu: za zen je potrebno više.
ako u kabrioletu čuješ jazz
ti si zen, jebe ti se za sve
pa čak i za mene na čijem si
slomljenom rebru rađala Evu, grožđe,
orgazme, mokre noge, nježnost,
mjesečinu posutu čokoladnim stihovima.
vidiš, poezija je
javna kuhinja, topli znoj mučenika.
oni kuhaju more za opće obroke bez sna.