IN A TWILIGHT SUBURB

I was listening to fierce sad stories
In a twilight suburb, stories
Drowned in tics and alcohol.
While the faces of those present
Were swallowed by tobacco smoke
They would show me the door,
Toss me into the street,
From the mountain into a cave,
Promise warm lodging, pleasures,
Insult me, steal my breath away.

How do you get out of your neighbour’s cupboard?
Who lost their innocence after a pasty?
How do you earn one hundred thousand nothings?
Where is Božo?
A life for the General!?

I was listening, I say, to fierce sad stories
In a twilight suburb, stories
Drowned in tics and alcohol.
Years later, the tramp’s words
And the policeman’s words, love scenes
And scenes of violence settled
In the rose of the evening
Which feeds me,
Which I cannot escape.

How do you get out of your neighbour’s cupboard?
Who lost their innocence after a pasty?
How do you earn one hundred thousand nothings?
Where is Božo?
A life for the General!?

Well, I have only one story now
Which has overtaken me entirely.
No longer can I pluck the petals, forget the face of the man
Giving a speech outside the inn windows.
Each night the rose repeats to me:
This world is a spider’s web
Into which you weave yourself
As soon as you stop fearing the spider.
Although it existed before you,
You think you were the one that began to weave it.

Yes. I listened long to fierce sad stories
In a twilight suburb, stories
Drowned in tics and alcohol.
Now they are my horizon and my border.
And native land, which I bear with me
Into the heart of the city like an identity card.
If anyone there asks me who I am
I shall tell him without hesitation

How to get out of your neighbour’s cupboard
Who lost their innocence after a pasty
How to earn one hundred thousand nothings
Where Božo is . . .

U polutami predgrađa

U polutami predgrađa

Slušao sam u polutami predgrađa
priče tužne i žestoke,
natopljene grčevitim gestama i alkoholom.
Dok bi duhanski dim
proždirao lica prisutnih,
one bi me bacale s tržnice na ulicu,
s planine u pećinu,
obećavale topli ležaj i užitak,
vrijeđale, oduzimale dah.

Kako izaći iz susjedova ormara?
Tko je izgubio nevinost poslije bureka?
Kako zaraditi sto tisuća nečega?
Gdje je Božo?
Život za generala!?

Slušao sam, kažem, u polutami predgrađa
priče tužne i žestoke,
natopljene grčevitim gestama i alkoholom.
Nakon godina, riječi klošara
i riječi policajca, ljubavni prizori
i prizori nasilja nastanili su se
u večernjoj ruži
koja me hrani,
kojoj ne mogu pobjeći.

Kako izaći iz susjedova ormara?
Tko je izgubio nevinost poslije bureka?
Kako zaraditi sto tisuća nečega?
Gdje je Božo?
Život za generala!?

Zapravo, sada posjedujem samo jednu priču
koja me potpuno obuzela.
Ne mogu više otkinuti laticu, zaboraviti lice čovjeka
koji drži govore pred izlozima gostionica.
Svake noći ruža mi ponavlja:
Ovaj svijet je paukova mreža
u koju se zapleteš
čim se prestaneš plašiti pauka.
Iako postoji prije tebe,
uvjeren si da je upravo ti počinješ plesti.

Da. U polutami predgrađa
dugo sam slušao priče tužne i žestoke,
natopljene alkoholom i grčevitim gestama.
Sada su one moj vidik i moja granica.
I zavičaj koji, kao osobnu kartu,
nosim u središte grada.
Ako me tamo netko upita tko sam,
bez oklijevanja ću mu ispičati

kako izaći iz susjedova ormara
tko je izgubio nevinost poslije bureka
kako zaraditi sto tisuća nečega
gdje je Božo . . .