seventeen days later we screwed
against the back side of the armchair:
which slid unstoppably towards the middle of the room,
taking from us even the smallest support and brutally
crumpling the violet carpet: soon we were cramped all wet,
on its legs, in the middle of the fiery hotel room:
the howl jerked the cold ass of allen ginsberg in his grave
on the other side of the globe, and the second one, nine minutes later,
already broke out on the spacious, made-up bed.
i told him of a writer and a friend, of their regular
screwing on friday after the fish in the canteen
at the institute for self-restoration of ‘body and soul’,
some sort of eastern meting out of fog and primitive narcotics,
after which he, the writer of the populist plays,
would humbly return to is carefully construed
nest, in which each thing without fail
suggested its historical belonging,
even the tiny photos of writers cut from the yellowed magazines.
i took him by the hand, sweaty, out of breath,
freed from the wild energy subdued
by half a century on his back: with an uneven voice
he squeezed: even i haven’t known that i can still do it.
i wiped the sweat from his sweaty
brow and pushed the hairdo to the side: in the pit of the stomach
a spring breeze fluttered with the sudden zephyr, then rolled
a spout of torrid volcanic mixture, mowing along
all the other senses, then followed the rumble and after that
through the wider surroundings spread a soothing vibration.
he remained besides, dumb and slowed, he was sinking
into a dream on the healing shores of a near yet numbed body,
mechanically squeezing the left nipple that still burned
with the full intensity of recent developments.
Translated by: Boris Gregorić