Napísala som báseň,
takú tu
ready-made
ako o nich hovorí Kolenič,
no telo si stále trávilo tie
steny
okná
dvere.
Dvere! Tak zbytočné, keď aj tak nikde nebolo miesto
kde by som sa za nimi mohla skrútiť,
zavzlykať si ako ženy zvyknú.
Nikde nebol pár rúk,
taký čisto
home-made
čo by ma vedel zabiť z tohto
pop-art fungovania.
Chcela som si vygúgliť nový nos medzi očami,
priateľov,
nové lavičky pred bytovkou.
Na nič neboli peniaze!
Piť za tie obrázky nahraté v stenách
a telách okolo.
Zohriať si nohy vo veľkých papučiach.
Žiadny deň sa nevtesnal do nohavíc.
Všetko bolo príliš na mieru.
The toes on my feet were blue and still people made me sick
I wrote a kind of
ready – made poem
as Kolenič says,
but my body
was still digesting
walls,
windows,
door.
Door! So useless because there was no place for me
to curl up and sob
behind them
like women use to do.
There was nowhere a pair of hands
so purely
home – made
that would be able to kill me
from my pop – art living.
I wanted to google for a new nose between my eyes,
friends,
new benches in front of my block of flats.
There was no money for that!
I wanted to drink for those pictures
recorded on walls and in the bodies around,
I wanted to warm up my feet in big slippers.
None of the days fit into trousers.
Everything was tailor – made.
http://i-f-kobjelska.blogspot.sk/2011/11/palce-na-nohach-som-mala-modre-no-aj_25.html
