DORUČAK 

Jedno razbijeno jutro

sedam potopljenih noći

nekoliko starih satova

osam salveta

jedan stolnjak

i miris truleži

čađave ruke 

omotane plastikom

u najlonu sunce

a srce na tanjuru

tanjur na glavi 

i osmijeh na licu

na licu čovjeka 

s drvenim vratom

on pokušava popraviti vrijeme

Zagreb 2005

 

 

U noći ispod kiše

Da li je važno kako se osjećam? Zašto se sve svodi na osjećaje? Da li je važno što vodim tihi rat, rat sa sobom, jer me drugi ratovi ne zanimaju. Sve i ništa je važno. Mi smo važni, ti i ja, u ovoj samoći dok čekamo taxi ispred leteće katedrale, pod neonskim svjetlom i kišom.

Da li je važno tko nam je majka ili izgubljeni otac u svijetu duhova? I oni su samo šašava djeca koja se plaše. Da li je važno što mislim naglas? Da li je to uopće bitno?

Odgovora nema, ni u novinama, ni u knjigama velike knjižnice, ni ispod šešira beskućnika u prolazu, ni u amazonskoj prašumi. Nema ga.

Da li je Dziga Vertov važan? Čaplin? Bud Spencer? Da li su važni vrtuljci izgorenog luna parka? Da li su važne misli ljudi u čekaonici kardiološkog odjela, bez pogleda koji se sreću?

Da li je važno kako se osjećaš dok te strah steže? Strah od uskih ili širokih prostora. Da li je važno? Da li je?

Pariz, 2023.

When Birds Fly Backwards

I would describe to you one picture. You stood at the window as if in an old film. The day was warm and gentle, the sun spilling over the buildings, while cars passed down Tolbiac, along a river of concrete, a river without meaning.

I would describe to you one picture. The smell of coffee filled our room. The sound of an accordion nearby dragged behind it all the crazy years. The shopfronts were full of colors, madness in every shade, people walked by like ants, yet the traces they left were heavy and vast. A child’s ball, like the sun, rolled across the sky. Someone sang Brel, someone strummed a guitar, and birds flew backwards. We laughed at that, but you more than me. Because your eyes knew what mine could not understand.

I would describe to you one picture. On the balconies flowers grew without asking, lilacs poured down like a purple waterfall, irises gazed at the sky, and hyacinths swayed gently. Restaurants were full again, people eating, drinking, talking about the same things, repeating themselves like clocks. They spoke again and again. And the birds flew backwards while tulips kept silent, guarding the thoughts we never spoke.

I would describe to you one picture. In the distance, the sound of sirens and the broken voices of old people in the streets seemed to want to chase time away. And children, children searching for their own voice, their small, lost and distant world. Just like us. Here, on Tolbiac. Here, where everything rushes and everything stands still at the same time, in one day that goes on and on.

I would describe to you one picture. The air was thick again with waiting, with everything that happened and did not. Everything teetered on the edge. Shopkeepers held their heads in their hands. A woman in the laundromat yawned. The postman dragged himself slowly. People at the bus stop rolled their eyes. The pharmacy was crowded. The restaurants had no room left. Someone waved, now everyone waved. But were they waving at us? Or just waving for the sake of waving?

I would describe to you one picture. A wedding passed along the main street. Music blared. Girls in white dresses danced barefoot in the courtyard below us. The bride and groom laughed as if nothing else existed. Confetti fell like soft rain. Everything returned again. The air thickened once more. But no one cared. People waved, poets waved, drifters, musicians, drivers, dogs, cats, everyone waved. But were they waving at us? Or just waving for the sake of waving?

Night slowly descended. People returned to their shelters. You were still on the balcony. You looked at the lights in the distance, then at the sky above Paris, one spring, one April.

I would describe to you one picture. But why… You have already seen them. I painted them only for you. We laughed again, but you more than me. Because you laugh more beautifully than I do.

Imao sam kuću u sebi

Imao sam kuću u sebi, pored mora, imao sam tužnog psa i dvije palme od papira, imao sam ruke omotane oko njenog tijela koje se sjajilo u maloj, zavodljivoj sobi s mirisom lavande.

Tražio sam u njenom carstvu malog boga na kraju izgubljenih cesta. To su bile ceste našeg djetinjstva.

Imala je četiri brata. Jedan s velikim srcem od zlata. Drugi poštar bez sreće, vrijeme ga je nosilo kroz bure i nedaće.

Imala je slavnog oca, u birtijama uvijek glasan. Imao je tvrde šake, koristio ih je često. Stajale su mu kao čekići na stolu. Majka joj plaha, radila je sve po kući, imala je rijetke snove, imala je, a imala je malo. Jedino iglu i konce bez boja.

Sanjao sam opet tebe. Imala si nježne oči, stajala si pored mora, plesala smiješno, ali bez greške. Ja sam bio opet onaj na lošem glasu. Stizale su me kurvinske ruke. Alkohol je bio izlaz, rješavao je sve moje zaostale muke.

Ljudi lete sve dok ne padnu. Mali je Ikar zaspao u meni. Svanulo je jutro iznad tvog čela. Opet sam te sanjao, sanjao sam kako ležim kraj tvog besprijekornog tijela.

Imao sam kuću bez prozora i vrata. Nosio sam tugu još od prošlog rata. Imao sam kuću od prašine i dima. U njoj su drugi spavali, a ja sam jedino htio kraj tebe.

Imao sam svašta, a imao ništa. Bio sam kao skitnica u srcu tvoga grada. Imao sam te u sebi, a bila si daleko.

Zar to nije čudno, djevojko moja mala?

Angoulême, 2024.