Psychedelic Fur

Doing busi­ness with God
I became his street dealer
wait­ing for
the lone­ly & the desperate
always in the same spot
always in the same leather jacket
always in same dusty shoes

I grew up in the dark
watch­ing the light flicker
around the cho­sen ones
and I was ready to explode in my corner 
and save my soul and maybe yours too
and the souls of all souls
but some­one did that long before me
he was giv­en a chance and crucified
all what’s left for me are
these four walls & the city
and that’s all I’ve got

exiled among people
I sell love
to blind passers-by
hell’s symphonies
and fat children
always hungry
I walk
always down the same street
always with chapped lips
always in the same dirty jeans

you know me
but you nev­er say: hello
your breasts
graze me in passing
your touch
reminds me of futility
your T‑shirt says :
poets always mess around with eternity

God’s phone is ringing
but he doesn’t have the time
to pick up the receiver
he packs and sends suf­fer­ing to the faithful
human­i­tar­i­an aid to the saints
he real­ly takes good care
of his sad circus 

the phone rings
but he’s busy
and lets things happen
the way they will happen
and I carry
my hairy heart
in a wood­en box
always on the same street
always in the same park
always in the same leather jacket
with a raised collar

I want­ed to tell you
some­times I feel so lonely
when I stand
I look peo­ple straight in the eyes
that mir­ror sorrow 
sad violins
from the grey suburbs
lust is everywhere
the earth’s weary with the weight
my T‑shirt says:
only suf­fer­ing belongs to the people

I stand
always in the same park
bit by bit I sell
my life away
always to the same people
your breasts graze me in passing
and the dark whirl of passion
lingers behind
tooth­less elegies

I want­ed to tell you that
I’m used to the solitude
it doesn’t hurt
just smolders
and if desire’s flame sparks up
that will be the end
fire is the devil
Satan of a thou­sand greedy tongues
he comes for the soul
personally
and van­ish­es with it

doing busi­ness with God
I’m still his street dealer
exiled among people
I wait for
the lone­ly & the desperate
that’s my only job
I don’t own a watch
or keys
I parked
my rusty used car
behind the build­ing over there
I wait
always in the same place
always in same dusty shoes
always with the raised collar
you know me
but you nev­er say: hello

I grew up in the dark
envy­ing painters
who turned earth­ly figures
into heav­en­ly beings
envying
the bums & the madmen
they never 
messed around with people
com­mu­nism & real estate
they never
applaud­ed the victors

my park is my workplace
I have to fill the quota
I stand and look around
always on guard
my days
scat­tered like confetti
tossed off the roof of a skyscraper
you know
things have reached their limit
when long­ing becomes lust
and suicide
hunger for life

I still trav­el with­in myself
I entered the world of crooked lines
my mirrors
have become vistas
my head
is still my only home

six­teen hours of think­ing a day
why did all the great­est philosophers
long to be poets
in my room
a dent­ed tin plate
full of cig­a­rette butts
and emp­ty beer bottles
patient­ly await­ing their bags

the future is bright & insufferable
as I crawl along solitude’s walls
I hear bells
some­times I wish some­one would kiss
my chapped lips
some­times I see
shad­ows leave their objects

I’ll demand
a short­er workday
high­er dai­ly wage
a foot massage
I need attention
a vel­vet the­ater with feathers
and high heels
that
that’s exact­ly what I want­ed to tell you

suf­fer­ing isn’t noble
and it’s so hard
when you turn your head away
and pass me by
your breasts
touch me in passing
your T‑shirt says
some­thing that real­ly dis­turbs me

you know what I mean

[Trans­lat­ed from Ser­bian to Eng­lish by Ana Božićević]

Psi­hodelično krzno

Trgu­jući s Bogom
postao sam nje­gov ulični diler
čekam
usaml­jene i očajne
uvek na istom mestu
uvek u istoj kožnoj jakni
uvek u istim prašn­jav­im cipelama

odras­tao sam u mraku
i gledao kako treperi svetlost
oko izabranih
i bio spre­man da eksplodi­ram u svom uglu
i spasim svo­ju a mož­da i tvo­ju dušu
i duše svih duša
ali to je jedan već učinio davno pre mene
nje­mu su dali šan­su i raza­peli ga
meni su osta­la samo
četiri zida i grad
i to je jedi­no što imam

pro­ter­an među ljude
prodajem
ljubav slepim prolaznicima
sim­foni­je iz pakla
i debelu decu
uvek gladnu
prolazim
uvek istom ulicom
uvek ispu­cal­ih usana
uvek u istim prl­jav­im farmerkama

ti me poznaješ
ali mi nikad ne kažeš: zdravo
tvo­je grudi
me okrznu u prolazu
tvoj dodir
me pod­seti na uzaludnost
na tvo­joj maji­ci piše:
pes­ni­ci uvek neš­to petl­ja­ju s večnošću

tele­fon zvoni kod Boga
ali on nema vremena
da podigne slušalicu
paku­je i šal­je pat­nju vernicima
human­i­tar­nu pomoć svecima
on zaista brine o svom
tužnom cirkusu

tele­fon zvoni
ali on je zauzet
i puš­ta da se stvari dešavaju
onako kako se dešavaju
a ja nosim svoje
dlaka­vo srce u drvenoj kutiji
uvek u istoj ulici
uvek u istom parku
uvek u istoj kožnoj jakni
s podignu­tom kragnom

hteo sam da ti kažem
da se ponekad osećam
tako usamljen
dok stojim
gledam ljude pra­vo u oči
one su ogledala tuge
tužne violine
iz sivih predgrađa
požu­da je svuda
zeml­ja je umor­na od tolike težine
na mojoj maji­ci piše :
jedi­no pat­n­ja pri­pa­da ljudima

sto­jim
uvek u istom parku
pro­da­jem parče po parče
svog života
uvek istim ljudima
tvo­je gru­di me okrznu u prolazu
i tam­ni vrt­log strasti ostaje
iza bezu­bih elegija

hteo sam da ti kažem
da sam naviknut na samoću
ona ne boli
samo tinja
i ako se pojavi pla­men požude
biće to kraj
vatra je đavo
sotona sa hil­jadu pohlep­nih jezika
koji dolazi po dušu
lično
i nes­ta­je s njom

trgu­jući s Bogom
i dal­je sam nje­gov ulični diler
pro­ter­an među ljude
čekam
usaml­jene i očajne
to je moj jedi­ni posao
ne pose­du­jem sat
ni ključeve
parki­rao sam
zarđali polovni automobil
iza susedne zgrade
čekam
uvek na istom mestu
uvek u istim prašn­jav­im cipelama
uvek s podignu­tom kragnom
ti me poznaješ
ali mi nika­da ne kažeš: zdravo

odras­tao sam u mraku
i zavideo slikarima
koji su zemaljske likove
pret­var­ali u nebeska bića
zavideo
skit­ni­ca­ma i ludacima
oni nika­da nisu
petl­jali s ljudima
komu­niz­mom i nekretninama
oni nika­da nisu
aplaudi­rali pobednicima

moj park je moje rad­no mesto
moram da ispunim normu
sto­jim i osvrćem se
uvek na oprezu
moji dani
rasu­ti su kao konfete
bačene sa kro­va solitera
znaš
stvari su doter­ane do granice
kad čezn­ja posta­je požuda
a samoubistvo
glad za životom

još uvek putu­jem kroz sebe
ušao sam u svet kriv­ih linija
moja ogledala
posta­la su predeli
moja glava
i dal­je je
moja jed­i­na kuća

šes­naest sati razmišl­jan­ja dnevno
zaš­to su svi najveći filozofi
žudeli da budu pesnici
u mojoj sobi
iskrivl­jen limeni tanjir
pun je opušaka
i prazne boce od piva
str­plji­vo čeka­ju svo­je kese

budućnost je svet­la i nepodnošljiva
dok puz­im uz zidove samoće
čuju se zvona
ponekad pože­lim da neko poljubi
moje ispu­cale usne
ponekad vidim
kako senke napuš­ta­ju predmete

tražiću
skraći­van­je radnog vremena
povećan­je dnevnice
masir­an­je stopala
potreb­na mi je pažnja
plišano pozorište s perjem
i visokim potpeticama
to
baš to sam želeo da ti kažem

pat­n­ja nije otmena
i tako je teško kad okreneš glavu
i prođeš pored mene
tvo­je grudi
me dodir­nu u prolazu
na tvo­joj maj­ci piše nešto
što me zaista uznemiruje

znaš na šta mislim