Urška Kramberger

My top was blown off.
Varicoloured, lying in a pin,
I do squats through the moonlight.
Conceptually into heaven.
O breeze in heaven,
you who give bouillon cubes to slackers.
Seems there was something
meant for me.
Something like brilliant cocoons
with a view on vacation.
I lost movement in the depths of buoyancy.
And my mind. My uniform.
Or maybe it’s a flash of pleasure
underneath the billowing breath.
Have you dried? Returned the jewels?
Proud, I smell the sediments of pulse.
I’m adorned with solace.
Softly remind myself
of the majesty of stasis.
Whoever comes into the glass case
comes into an old new world.

Bald tenors
with eclipses of straw between their teeth.
Summoned, they squander cold.
I forgo milk
upon a gram of instance
just as tree bark gives birth to a patient,
distended, blue.
A marathon born into structure.
I smell of pups, those other ones
that I haven’t killed
in their incompetence.
Blood distends the master,
births a pedestal.
Puts the healed into the wild.
I’ll watch you
putting a live firefly in your mouth
and I’ll be coming
to the thought of the ring, winking,
smearing,
setting down a knife on the bed.

Lumbered the galactic fucks
into silk. One time shaped
like brain, another like a method
in an abyss. Details don’t convert one.
And why everything at once.
I’m coming, honey, I’m coming dressed.
You’re evident, it’s evident who needs to get fucked over.
To drowse a breakdown in the Devil’s dialect.
Under the feathers, with a trophy, towards a purebred existence.
Or, in the event of character, with remote controls in mouths.
Knots of rickety interest,
just a bottoms up away from barbarism.
A stinger moults off hunger
like a body poisoned by a mechanism,
clutching its tummy.
Plunging for you, the third time like an ally’s shoulder.
It’s different
if we kneel as pagans.
With strength in multiple joints
we leave a milky trail like hooligans.
You’re spying on me again,

I can hear you knocking on the landing.
Will you go further,
you fervent membrane?
Frothy in the access to opportunity.
To shackle zest into the eyeball
when the posterior calms down,
just so.
A constant hacking through.
You are a line that killed the cuttlefish
under a drip of ink,
under electric sand thrown onto a roof.
It was a miracle through a spear in the navel
that we caught the shark,
with pearls remaining on our sexes
and reflecting on the real.
Soon turned towards shadows of our deeps.

The mountain was catheterised
during the Renaissance.
Laid down in the sun
like a nibbled-upon hornet.
How far from the idea
does plaster fall into a face?
Sandpaper maw opens.
Tiny crystals glue the ground
into ballast eyes.
So I lied in wait for a mistake.
The eagle’s daughter,
an eaglet, young, attentive,
disdainful.
Would bite sparklingly,
licking her beak.
Reveal wrongly, no, you can’t.
What a virginal foolhardiness,
what absolute stupidity.
Position surely heals
quicker than schnapps.
So pleasant was
the memory
grown into a squishy sponge,
a holographic intruder.