Brane Mozetic
from Banalities
36***
I watch all these thin boys, posing in the corners,
Chinese, Arabs, Blacks, Latinos, Bosnians, how
they laugh, spit while grabbing their dicks.
I undress them with my eyes, over their chests,
their flat stomachs, their dark muscles, about their
bodies to and fro. How they hurl themselves at the ball,
take their shirts off in the heat until beads of sweat
glitter, whistle at girls, and I imagine how they’d
go after me if they knew I was watching them.
Their eyes curiously leap into the world,
and it is clear that the worst is behind me, I can
observe them with ease, for what on earth
would they do in my bedroom, where things are
in order, no need to look out for the police, no need
to get excited about fights, or run from gunshots.
What ever would they tell their friends, what would
they brag about, what would lend them glamour, the heroes
of the next block. I find smoothness at the gym
where muscles are on display. Or at the
bars, or on the beaches, where thousands of gay men
race against time. Yet how would they
train in my bedroom, how would they compete, when
time stopped, how would they comprehend tiny
kisses, enjoy silence or a whisper.
The unknown would frighten them, as it did you, who,
smiling, proudly stepped through the door, then
became smaller and smaller until you
vanished in the morning haze.
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Uros Zupan
THE HORIZONTAL SUN
Slanting rain is falling from the sky. I cannot
split myself into different personalities and live
so many imaginary lives. I cannot.
Even if I am trapped inside unfinished metaphyics.
Even if love letters seem ridiculous to me,
also. I’m ashamed of them, and am burning them.
I don’t get along very well with my former
self. He was too savage, innocent,
trusting the grace of heights. However, I summoned
you with the letters, with what are now
as you lie by me, ashes on the palm of the hand. Our bed
is our sole sustenance, you say. You lie next
to me, you lie in my thoughts even when not present, while I
am vanishing, sustained, sewn together with depth.
Slanting rain is falling from the sky. Your father and mother
are white clouds, dances of light sailing over our days.
Pain rises and dies in you. I keep quiet. With love
it is the same as with a catastrophe. It transcends speech. We
are left with babbling and hawking when we find ourselves
in the grip of its power. Even without words the two of us are protected
and wealthy in it. Our thoughts intersect and shake hands
continually. They mix breaths, adding some weight to the air.
Short are the days, and even shorter are the nights when I am
startled in sleep, and watch you from the height, how you lie in your
body, deeply immersed in the folds of linen. No one knows
which one of us will be the first to hand a coin to the somber
boatman. But long before, we’ll live in a house with gay balconies.
Your flowers will bloom and drop, will drop and bloom.
And outside will fall the slanting rain.
And outside will shine the horizontal sun.
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Thanks, OP, whoever you were -- This thread has inspired to write my own.
Sirkyous, Lilmaninsc and Phill -- Thanks for sharing your work (yourselves) with all of us.
Calson, you began all this -- jocks getting gushy on RJ -- so thank you, too.
