Monthly Archives: Travanj 2014

The History of One Tough Motherfucker

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he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over

I took what was left to a vet who said,
“not much
chance…give him these pills…his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he’ll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he’s been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there…also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off…”

I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn’t eat, he
wouldn’t touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him,
I didn’t go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him
and he looked back at
me
with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn’t work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I’d had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
“you can make it,” I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps,
he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn’t want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he’s better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left…
and now sometimes I’m interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,”look, look
at this!”

but they don’t understand, they say something like,”you
say you’ve been influenced by Celine?”
“no,” I hold the cat up,”by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!”

I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he’s relaxed he knows…
it’s then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it’s bullshit but that somehow it all helps.

 

Charles Bukowski

Pjesma o žilavoj mrcini- Bukowski

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Došao je pred vrata jedne noći mokar mršav izubijan i
isprepadan
bijeli zrikavi kusi mačak.
pustio sam ga unutra i nahranio i ostao je
stekao povjerenje u mene dok jedan prijatelj nije
naišao kolima i pregazio ga.
odnio sam ono sto je ostalo kod veterinara koji je
rekao ”male su šanse…dajte mu ove tablete…kičma
mu je slomljena, ali i ranije je lomljena pa je
srasla, ako preživi nikada neće hodati, gledajte ovaj
snimak- pucano je u njega, gledajte, sačma je još tu…
nekad je imao i rep, neko mu ga je odrezao…”

vratio sam mačka kući, bilo je vruće ljeto, jedno od
najtoplijih u stoljeću, stavio sam ga na pod u kupatilu,
davao mu vodu i tablete, nije htio da jede, nije htio
da pije, umakao sam prst u vodu i kvasio mu njušku i
pričao mu, nikuda nisam išao, odvojio sam dosta
vremena za kupatilo i pričao mu i pažljivo ga dodirivao
a on je gledao u mene tim blijedoplavim zrikavim očima i
kako su dani prolazili načinio je
prvi pokret
dovukavši se prednjim nogama
(stražnje nisu radile)
do kutije za nuždu-
bilo je to kao truba moguće pobjede
iz tog kupatila ka čitavom gradu,
baš sam se vezao za tog mačka…

jednog jutra se digao, stao na sve četiri, zatim pao i
samo me gledao.
”možes ti to”, rekao sam mu.

i dalje je pokušavao, dizao se i padao, i na kraju
hodao dva- tri koraka, kao pijan,
stražnje noge ga nisu slušale i ponovo je pao,
odmarao, zatim se digao.

ostalo znate: sad je bolje nego ikad, zrikav,
gotovo bezub, ali gipkost se vratila, i taj izraz
u očima nije ga napustio…

sada me intervjuišu, žele da čuju nešto
o životu i literaturi, a ja se napijem i dižem mog
zrikavog, upucanog, pregaženog bezrepog mačka
i govorim ”gledajte, gledajte ovo!”

ali oni ne shvataju, govore nešto kao ”vi kazete
da je Selin uticao na vas?”
”ne”, držim mačka u vazduhu, ”već ono što se
dešava, stvari kao što je ovo, ovo!”

tresem mačka i držim ga uvis u
zadimljenom i pijanom svjetlu, a on je opušten, on zna…

tada je intervjuima kraj
mada sam ponekad ponosan kada kasnije
vidim slike i eto mene i eto mačora i uslikani smo
zajedno.

i on zna da je to ništa ali da sve to ipak pomaže

Bezobzirno

Standardno

Noći u kojima se boriš najbolje
su
kada je svo oružje upereno
na tebe,
kad svi glasovi
bljuju svoje uvrede
dok se san
gasi.

Noći u kojima se boriš najbolje
su
kada razum
udaraju u samu bit,
kada trijumfalna kola
tame
okruže
te.

Noći u kojima se boriš najbolje
su
kada smijeh ludih
ispunjava
prostor,
kada se poljubac smrti
vidi
kao ljubav.

Noći u kojima se boriš najbolje
su
kada je igra
namještena,
kada gomila vrišti
za tvoju
krv.

Noći u kojima se boriš najbolje
su
noći kao
ova
kada progoniš na hiljade
nitkova iz
svoje glave,
kada ustaješ protiv
nemogućeg,
kada postaješ brat
nježnoj sestri radosti i

nastavljaš dalje

bezobzirno.

 

Charles Bukowski

Song of Myself

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XX

What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?

 

All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,
Else it were time lost listening to me.

 

I do not snivel that snivel the world over,
That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.

 

Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov’d,
I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.

 

Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?

 

Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel’d with doctors and calculated close,
I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

 

In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less,
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.

 

I know I am solid and sound,
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.

 

I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter’s compass,
I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.

 

I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)

 

I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.

 

One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.

 

My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.

Walt Whitman

Pjesma o meni, 20.

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Sto je uopste covjek? Sto sam ja? Sto si ti?
Sve sto oznacavam kao svoje sopstveno
ti ces izravnati svojim sopstvenim,
inace bi slusati me znacilo gubiti vrijeme.

U svima ljudima vidim sebe, nista vise i ni zeru manje,
a dobro ili lose sto o sebi zborim, to zborim o njima.

Znam da sam cvrst i citav,
predmeti svemira sto teze istom cilju stalno idu ka meni,
svi su ispisani za mene, a moram saznati znacenje pisanog.

Znam da sam besmrtan,
znam da ovu moju putanju ne moze izbrisati drvodeljin krug,
znam da necu proci kao sara
koju dijete usijeca nocu u vazduh upaljenim prutom.

Znam da sam uzvisen,
ne tjeram duh svoj da muci se dokazujuci ili objasnjavajuci sebe,
vidim da se elementarni znakovi nikad ne izvinjavaju.

(Smatram, najzad, da se ne ponasam ponosnije
od ravni na kojoj podizem svoju kucu)

Postojim kakav jesam, to je dosta;
ako toga niko drugi na svijetu nije svjestan, ja ostajem zadovoljan;
i ako su svi toga svjesni, ostajem zadovoljan.

Jedan svijet je svjestan i za mene daleko najveci,
a to sam ja licno;
i svejedno je da li cu postici svoje
danas, ili za deset hiljada godina, ili za deset miliona godina,
mogu to veselo primiti danas, ili cekati sa istim veseljem.

Uporiste moje uglavljeno je i urezano u granit,
smijem se onom sto nazivate rastocenje,
i poznajem obim vremena.

 

Walt Whitman