Gal Gjurin

It was autumn when I came back to Ljubljana. It was
The autumn I saw for the first and the last time an old man whose
Body has already almost forsaken him, and who was left with sheer reason,
Forced to understand and observe his body forsaking him.
I knew it was autumn because of the marvellous cinnamon light.
Again I'm standing under this flat. Searching for apartment sinuses,
Fed up with half-people who still haven't had their say.
I'm returning to flats which are always the same, just redecorated and with
Other tenants passing away. I've been away for a long time. The only
Link between the flat I'm standing in now and the flat from the past
Is a small red TV set from the eighties, where he would watch daily news
Every single day.
Then we were all in his now untidy kitchen. The pizza bill
Had his name, just as the names of the deceased are
Still written in phone directories. Doorbells stay the same, light buttons
Are all dead. Under the flats and stairs, I'm fluttering like a sticker.

Translated by Janko Lozar

If our souls exist, I like to sleep beside you by the hairdryer.
It warms us and dries our fat souls,
Which are fat because of their seamanly nature,
Our two fat souls, wallowing and jumping
All over each other like the lasting hands of Bill Evans.
Like the hands of Bill Evans playing D minor to himself,
For himself, about himself, by himself for himself on his D-Day,
Two tiddlers in their twenties secretly recording him on the
Microphone. They've chased him all over the city for months.
And have finally found him.
They are perfectly happy, though he is half dead from gloominess.
They're almost as happy as our fat souls, which are fat
Because of their seamanly nature, or two fat souls,
Wallowing and jumping all over each other, just like
The hands of Bill Evans, stretched all the way to here.

Translated by Janko Lozar

I'll smoke passionately: I'll smoke, no doubt I'll smoke.
There's no doubt I'll smoke. I'll smoke and draw into my current
All that is forbidden here on the slanting bank.
First I'll smoke this year's spring to get used to the soft
And pleasant taste, then I'll smoke the seasons one after
Another. I'll smoke all times in general: so far, time has yet
Remained inconceivable, so I'll finish conceivability. I'll smoke
The sweetish poetic decoration, doing all the hard work -
Replacing the poor and miserable meaning.
I'll smoke the faith in the lesser man, I'll smoke the ambassador
And the rear mirror he uses to look into the past and grin.
I'll smoke rage, which so far seems to have uttered all but
Sensible stuff. I'll smoke huge spread sails,
Which still make me want to travel.
I'll smoke my neutral gear,
My leg, my voice, and I'll be this machine rhythmically drawing
Close to the inner truth. I'll smoke economy, fear, love and
The desire for change: all that defines me.
The bird is part of town, not of tree: and when you love, the burns of reason
are the first bird in the flock. I'll smoke everything I truly love, I'll smoke
The lemon and you and me - my own garden. Random things are in the garden.

Translated by Janko Lozar

Today I'll leave my flat behind, my underpopulated
Savage island, and get my world out of joint. I've been waiting whole day
To pick up the phone, get the message or become unreachable.
At the outskirts, the city's mucous will get renewed again and again.
I'll be in no rush. With no one passing by for several hours,
Not even the security or police or taxi drivers.
Today the night atmosphere will be relaxed and simple. With no traces
On it. Journeys don't matter at all, final destination even less.
Today I'll give the chance to all those who'll dare to stop me
Or address me. Even to the security, who will chase me in the morning
From the castle, even to the police, who will denounce me to the judge
For driving under the influence of fresh love, to taxi drivers, who will
Put me back, as if on a shelf, to my flat, with no one in it except me.

Translated by Janko Lozar

The way we travelled that day, Sale! Racing like that towards Zagreb!
At half past three in the morning we left the city where we were born
And where we shall die, we rushed down South, rushed towards Zagreb,
Overtaken by strangers possessed by the wild asphalt fever,
The two of us with a clearer goal in mind, but even
Crazier than them, more sleepless,
this sleeplessness, which goes away the moment I realize the world
will again grow older, I shrink in this seat, sign posts passing away
Past me, you can never prevent the night from committing suicide,
which is right, we'll be there sooner than the two of them by train,
stairs, skyscrapers, sunflowers, my departure in time, oh the day, the way
the day spread its buttocks, sitting on my tongue, oh the day, the great day,
which will be one long continuous tone, like the tone of the Saturday siren,
the way we travelled that day, Sale! Racing like that towards Zagreb!
Remember how we said goodbye to them at the station and yelled
On the taxi drive: Are we dudes or what? In the meantime they would smoke
In secret between the compartments on the train, we had to be faster,
At any price, to get there earlier and be there for them in Zagreb with flowers,
We had to be all romance and cliché, Sale, we had to, because women
Like it sometimes, especially if they have no idea who you are. The way we rush like
Two little spades, we'll overtake the train that keeps avoiding us, any time now,

Customs officers are like tiny flies on the hotel fruit, small in figure,
Small in function, small in their souls. The way we travelled that day, Sale!
Racing like that towards Zagreb! The way we arrived there crystal cold
From the morning and sleepless, how incredibly quickly we found a parking place,
Unloaded our instruments and ran to platform 6,
Set everything up and played bossa nova. We had to be all romance
And cliché, Sale, we had to, because women like it sometimes,
Especially if they have no idea who you are. And this day, oh the day, the way the day
spread its buttocks,
Sitting on my tongue, oh the day, the great day, which will be one long continuous tone,
like the tone of the Saturday siren.

Translated by Janko Lozar