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Lucian Vasilescu
Behind the half-empty bottles,
Coppery-skinned slave women And the pleasure was hanging, tattered, from the Day’s edge
I was sitting quietly, stretched out on my back and remembering a diary, some incidents and stories. On the wall to the left, looking from the door, memories projected themselves for me. At the edge of the sidewalk, along the curb, I was hitchhiking. The asphalt moved forward quickly and nobody felt like stopping. I was hitchhiking at the edge of the poem and everybody was learning from me just to stand in place. It was this way: she was gripping me upon where my left hand belongs with the place where her right hand belongs. Finally we were silent, in an embrace. We were translucent and so the words penetrated into us. We were dancing as if in water, smooth, late. Our moving shadows made circles around the twilight. Slowly, the earth was drawing to a halt. Only the street moved forward, more and more quickly, farther away. Glaring advertisements thumbed their nose at me. The entrance to the night club sucked me in, right up to the zinc bar. A glass came near me on its own and stopped directly before me. Inside it, the liquid waited, as clear as the purest water, resigned. I looked straight ahead, through the bartender’s checked shirt, through the half-empty bottles, through the mirror, through the wall, through the gas station, through the most distant suburbs of the city, through the line of the horizon, through the red sun, through a thousand worlds. There, triumphal-vanquished legions were leading their heroes to Heaven. There, convicts were rowing the galleys, there, coppery-skinned slave women were masturbating their masters, there, the pleasure was hanging, tattered, from the day’s edge. Like a black cloth over the edge of a funeral carriage. Oh, Lord, I lied, I stole, I was greedy, I coveted and I used to take my neighbor’s wife, I practiced deceit, I blasphemed and cursed, I drank, I overfucked and fucked over, and much suffering have I brought about in this world. Oh, Lord, if only I could start from scratch and have a second chance, once again, my Lord, I’d do it all the same. And if You’d give me a third try, my Lord, You and I, we’d lie, we’d steal, we’d be greedy, we’d covet and we’d take our neighbor’s wife, we’d cheat, we’d blaspheme and curse, we’d drink and we’d overfuck and fuck over together, and in this world we’d bring about much suffering. The pleasure was hanging, tattered, from the day’s edge, like a black cloth over the edge of a funeral carriage. There, coppery-skinned slave women were masturbating their masters, there, convicts were rowing the galleys, there, triumphal-vanquished legions were leading their heroes to Heaven. I was looking straight ahead, through a thousand worlds, through the red sun, through the line of the horizon, through the most distant suburbs of the city, through the gas station, through the wall, through the mirror, through the half-empty bottles, through the bartender’s checked shirt. The glass departed in the same fashion as it arrived. In the morning, the bar’s doorway had a hard time of it giving birth to me, tearing bricks from the wall. Slowly, the earth started up. I was hitchhiking at the edge of the poem and everybody was learning from me just to stand in place.
translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Sorin Alexandru ªontea
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