Tomaz Salamun: Stork, Lift Your Weight!

Oh blindness with red cherry hands behind
a wire that bars escape from the tunnel!
Blindness is a bowl.
I am blind, I am blind!
Blindness is terrible rusted wheelbarrows
with skin, smoldering marble.
Blindness is a handkerchief.
Everybody is counting eyes!
Blindness is Christ’s wounds with a grid of netting.
Saws and files being sketched by carnivorous
animals.
Blindness is rocks banging against each other,
chafed by chains.
The insects break their sex.
Scales tumble over cliffs and twist their
mouths.
There is no pier!
No getting away from oneself!
Blindness is the thunder of little frogs, a thousand in a pile,
smooth.
Wrap a little bun inside a kimono, bucket!
They have come for you!
They have come for you!
They have pins on their faces and soft slimy buttons.
They open like tentacles in red water.
Rabbits gather on the teeth of harrows.
A staff of calm people smiling behind the
nibbled hands.
Cattle low from the drought but we don’t hear it.
Sheds stream down hills like
black green lightbulbs.
The spirit of the universe is compressed.
Savages in packs tear their earrings from their fields.
Blindness is a bloated pear.
Sails slaughter like razor blades to cover with snow.
Burns drip from the bones.
Lava kills itself before a bulk of boiling air.
The altar peels only scales.
Papers do not change the direction
of the slaughter by the Red Hand Brothers.
I can hear the saber crying.
Bandits sniff around like Cherokees.
A salmon is struck dumb.
Blindness is a Slav, black destiny of a Slav.
There are no clear lakes.
Nor larch trees that would push off the banks as in a fairy tale.
It sucked the air from the bees
and now there’s no more work.
At home there are peacocks.
Blindness is a string thunder.
A house that acts the part of a janissary.
Paper hats trampled themselves beneath lentils.
Bach mines, mines of slings, gray slings!
Wind is yellow, with a yellow head.
Under Komarca the forehead and concrete clashed,
pavement and concrete, a scarf and concrete.
Convicts drink the gulps of their parents.
Everywhere there are posters.
SUGAR FOR THE BEAVER!
THE BEAVER IS OUR BROTHER!
DRAGON FLIES FALL INTO SKILLETS.
THE BEAVER SAVES THEM!
THE BEAVER HAS LITTLE CLAWS ON RAILS AND IN OUR
JOY!
White scabby roads.
Dewey diamonds leaves.
Bosch, Bosch, not the painter but the porcelain
head in the doghouse on Tito Street, there you can
also order a washing machine,
a Miehle,
horses with their organs out,
junkers on steps.
Blindness is beer froth on a tablecloth.
Out of the catalogue grow terrible potatoes.
The cigarettes are full of rouge.
Through the door blows ornamentation.
Machiavelli, you who have a thick sense of touch, why do you
spin?
Crickets on whales are coated with sage.
Fathers scrape oaks and give them to their mothers.
A file hangs from the light.
Blindness is a corant that bangs his face
against an icy stream before the chance of spring.
Herds carry medals in bundles.
Yellow guys with trucks supply dew.
Oh blindness with red cherry hands behind
the wire that bars escape from
oneself!



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