7. Cabriolet No. 13

for years I’ve been preparing my heart.
I baptized girls skin-deep with a superficial liquid
and listened to the instrument of victory
without the sun in my hair, with irony in my eyes.
every morning I’d shout
and where are you
and deliriously deliver superior babble,
poetry of basic blood
without sonnets or bookish cramps.
Petrarch would jealously send Laura
to the pope’s catacombs of evil,
burn all the verses
and then kill himself with a quill.
I waited for you in the darkness
girls who have just bloomed.
for 13 full years I studied the night,
weeded their pussies from bad
predecessors and adolescent neuroses.
sometimes I was first
in the row of small deaths and great dreams.
a harem living on margarine, bread and wine.
the poorest Casanova in the history
of new houses and small china sets of emptiness.
I drank alcohol with merry losers.
I’ve consigned the politics to the TV.
instructed living beings on convenient happiness,
on a useful patrol of the hips.
I was just one line:
in the hell of the easy flesh of youth,
of heavy drugs for solitude without peace.
and then in the cathedral
The Great Drunken Afternoon has struck.
in ecstasy I stumbled piously
all the way to Zrinjevac,
the park that made Zagreb famous
like the most expensive prostitute in Paris
famous for her two times sharp clit.
blue notes, blue tones and you:
blue angel, little transparent god.
we discharged the blue syncopation
and forever sings the fountains,
foamy beer and crazy monastery
gardeners with no education.
the murmur of a relatively healthy madness,
our umbilical chord . . .
and jeans, pencil, paper, yellow drink,
in the pupil’s neuro-neuro.
eternal jazz
in our cabriolet’s eyes

7. Kabriolet broj 13

7. Kabriolet broj 13

godinama sam pripremao srce.
djevojke sam krstio površnom tekućinom
i slušao pobjednički instrument
bez sunca u kosi, s ironijom u očima.
svako jutro viknuo bih
a gdje si ti meni
i buncao vrhunska tepanja,
poeziju osnovne krvi
bez soneta i literarnih grčenja.
Petrarca bi od zavisti poslao Lauru
u papinske katakombe zla,
spalio sve stihove
i zatim se ubio guščjim perom.
čekao sam te u mraku
tek procvalih djevojaka.
punih 13 godina studirao sam noć,
plijevio njihove nježnice od loših
prethodnika i pubertetskih neuroza.
ponekad bijah prvi
u nizu malih smrti i velikih snova.
harem na margarinu, kruhu i vinu.
najsiromašniji Casanova u povijesti
novih kuća i malih servisa praznine.
pio sam alkohol sa veselim gubitnicima.
politiku sam pospremio u televizor.
poučavao sam bića priručnoj radosti,
svrsishodnoj ophodnji bokova.
bio sam tek u jednom stihu:
u paklu lakog mesa mladosti,
teške droge za samoću bez mira.
onda je na katedrali
izbilo Veliko Pijano Popodne.
u ekstazi teturao sam pobožno
sve do Zrinjevca,
parka koji je proslavio Zagreb
kao dvaput brušeni klitoris
najskuplju prostitutku Pariza.
plave note, modri tonovi i ti:
plavi anđeo, mali prozirni bog.
odapeli smo plavu sinkopu
i vječno pjevaju vodoskoci,
pivo s pjenom i ludi samostanski
vrtlari bez ikakva obrazovanja.
žubor relativno zdravog ludila,
naša pupčana vrpca . . .
i traperice, olovka, papir, žuto piće,
neuro-neuro u zjenicama.
vječni jazz
u našim kabrioletnim očima