compared to you, the constellations are a frump
the city lights are a dumb joke, dead on delivery,
the breezes in the air
sailing by you like liquid consignments
wolf down the birds and crush plant spores
between their teeth, spreading only the stench of rotten luck and guano
to new volcanic earths in melanasia.
your femininity colors in my crises of pavor nocturnus with a demented hue
my memories of you in the garden of the icons park, when you used to put on your makeup shamelessly
in the convex mirror of the anglican church or a setter
yes, our love was upping the district record another centimeter…
you, redemptress, tender confederacy of systems and apparatuses
who’d gamble his small allotment of precocity
on your pink and sinuous hierarchy
and who’d intuit your sweet duplicity
selvaged with snack bars and a breughel of velvet
in this tangle of no one, nothing, nowhere, nevermore?
beyond everything, half-hearted moral beauty,
a brilliant diminishment
and a reality of discussions and mutterings over crystal cups
at the negoiu restaurant
beyond everything, that grumpy jubilation of the sole survivor
of an ocean liner of feelings.
Translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Ileana Ciocârlie