I’m lost to alcohol,
beauty and benzodiazepines,
my veins and neurons blocked, stimulated,
blocked a carousel of afflictions
(and affections)
When I was a kid I fantasized about this,
spending a weekend with a bottle of whisky
fueling some imaginary west wind,
dreams I didn’t have the guts for
Now I don’t have the guts to wake up,
the years have made me weak
but I’m trying to stay alive, to help
you survive,
someday save myself
maybe
(En kerro teille tytöstä
Kerron teille tytöstä,
joka saapui luokseni yli betonilattian ja pölyn valtameren)
En näe hengittää mutta tunnen sinut
yli betonilattian ja pölyn valtameren
Näytät kauniilta parvekkeellani
polttamassa tupakkaa hämärässä ilmassa
josta laulut tehdään
It’s all about this city, its pseudo-random vignettes, not my whisky, stupor or improbable dreams, but
our microcosm in the machine:
109 west 45th street,
James Cagney affairs,
I taught my turkey how to tango
Sotilaskaappauksessa epäonnistunut
troolari hakkaa murtajiaan vasten,
kadonneen tuen nuottaverkko
korjaa meidät minäksi
Valtamerellä uskoin ettei
minulle tapahdu mitään pahaa,
silitin perattuja suomuja nuoruudellani
Tunsin karkoitettuja sankareita,
hahmoja ruoppausjätteessä,
katkeruutta
Väliviiva on puumerkkini,
pilkku ja jos todistavat ajattelevan luonteen
Everyone was practicing their routines and she felt she’d lost something. She checked her handbag for two sets of keys, BlackBerry and a Russian doll full of makeup. Her wallet and its credit cards were in the pocket of her leather jacket, the cabinets had all the pills in their places. Also, her collection of the Journal of the American Dental Association was intact. Finally, before passing out from all the searching, she went through her wine-stained teeth with her tongue and found an open cavity.
She e-mailed her assistant for an appointment.
It was February in an apartment in the Upper East Side. Woman opened a bottle of middle-shelf wine and stretched her hands out of the window. There was a slight scent of spring in the air (if only she could’ve smelled it through her perfume).
On the street she saw a couple fighting, beggar rustling through his pockets, an artist with fluffy hair and for a brief moment even a flicker in the sky (Jupiter, barely visible from all the incandescence).
Kompuroin ohi siilojen, hylätyn teurastamon,
lihavarastojen, kaupungin yksinäisen savupiipun
Missä kauniit tytöt ovat harvassa,
he opettivat minulle Yhden totuuden;
mitä on haluaminen, vastaamaton
puhelu ja murtunut sydän
En muista tästä mitään,
kaikesta mitä sain sinulta ja raahaan
edelleen arkussani, alastonta
omaisuuttani, humalaista harkintakykyä
ja kyvyttömyyttä muistaa kasvoja
Early, AM, the consciousness
hides in the white between stations.
Beyond these points
of departure and discontinuity
lies nothing.
I can’t sleep.
