A Young Monster from Transylvania! The Poetry of Marius Conkan! |
by Marius Conkan |
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the son shouts and death reluctantly undresses
Poems by Marius Conkan translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Aura Ţeudan mother’s T-shirt 1. the train entered my village with its perversion scenes of hunger and game-playing scenes of frustration and disgust then I’d see mother’s T-shirt aglow on a ragdoll after she’d become a scarecrow at this harsh merciless return mother’s T-shirt her nipples sticking out and phantoms of children frolicking inside mother’s T-shirt good for wiping your nose like a shipwreck in the process of disintegration after I’d become a monkey with piercings and irrational hair desensitized by the world’s wars by failures and consequences mother’s T-shirt which we’d sink into when other children pulled our hair cursed us spat I promise I’ll kill my obsessions I promise I’ll no longer smoke or drink I’ll be diligent and conscientious mother’s T-shirt watching me furtively like a devil steeped in alcohol and rolled in tobacco mother’s T-shirt drowning me like a devil in a cup of coffee that I drink after long tremors you must know that I was born only through you that my crying smashed father’s image that I’m no longer a little girl that I’ve turned into a man mother’s shirt stained with oil and menstrual blood is the cleanest clothing in the house it purifies me of any woman it strokes my bones and unknown virility it makes me feel my ground warmer and my brain plunged deep in the ground yes, you must know my death’s become a sort of a feminine way of living and all the toys are buried somewhere in the wardrobe 2. I drink a glass of juice smoke a pall mall write a poem and my sister’s asleep with her teddy bear under her head I drink wearing mother’s T-shirt smoke wearing mother’s T-shirt write wearing mother’s T-shirt and I’m full of toys in mother’s T-shirt I feel pregnant in mother’s T-shirt I have breasts in mother’s T-shirt I have velvety skin I don’t believe I’ll ever grow up grow old be loved while I wear mother’s T-shirt the first letter from soporia slightly lunatic apprentice I’m writing to you with death in feathers and whales dwelling in my womb my voice has gone dead and we can’t talk on the phone my nails lie hidden in my flesh like the kittens of a poisonous cat I wear glasses and my beard flows to the ground our marriage was too earthly and not at all crazy I’ve started to grow human whiskers and lost the gnome’s earring you’ll say that the bogeyman’s to blame but you’re wrong he merely tenderized my skin in salt and bathed me in strong water he kindled my love for women and my belief in the gods here in soporia it’s cold and I often sleep curled up like a pretzel people smoke and drink they’ve built brothels and cafes some lost their breasts others their manhood and procreate unceasingly in soporia I’m sort of a symbolic king retired to an island in a hotel room together with my brother caliban who picks up cigarette butts his right arm was cut short and he has a single adicolor eye he watches TV about children all day long and often dresses as a cook or as a maternity nurse slightly lunatic apprentice remember me as a devil with long nails and a bald spot mention me at funeral services and honor me by going on a spree that’s all caliban’s waiting for me with a lamb steak and by tonight I hope to find the much searched-for earring the second letter from soporia. caliban I’m caliban the cannibal my pockets full of virgins long have I dwelt alone on this strange island I used to hunt only amerindian women with nipples like coconuts and sleep in pouches I’m caliban the cannibal and I’m writing to you slow-witted as I am and my eye sometimes dead other times rough as a cow’s tongue I pray only to blood I pay homage only to an enchanted clitoris I’m my own ancestor and progeny god and devil once I loved but only with my lust I hated but only with my teeth my island’s populated by nooses and stuffed children my right hand was cut off while I was digging out a virgin my left arm’s both my fan and axe delicate touch and beast since I’ve been staying with sopor in the hotel room I seem less savage but in fact I’ve got the same little devil’s ears and the same sticky fur I heard you’re a vamp’s apprentice and you’re driving yourself crazy as if your death weren’t just another well our twinned brains are wombs for mothers and brothers come to the island lunatic apprentice I’ll be your lover and your amerindian gal the third letter from soporia slightly lunatic apprentice last night my brother caliban died of gout and I buried him in a roe deer. he could only pack in his suitcase a pair of stockings and a divine prosthesis. I wept for a while and kept logged on to the internet till morning. well if the suitcase remains alive I think I’ll go back down to earth again. I’m no use here. I found my gnome’s earring in the drain trap of the sink so I’ll be safe from lusts both earthly and not at all insane. still I want you to know I’m no longer the same sopor hallucinating. I use a crutch and snore like an old man I’m diabetic and eat only dill . . . the son a. I take cover under a tinfoil skin so that you can’t get through to me (I take another drag on my cigarette and they look daggers at me) I’m the son the only son of a sorrowful mother who gets beatings instead of happiness I’m the extravagant neurotic no one can fathom me (another drag on my cigarette and their daggers gleam red) from who knows where a woman’s hand rips away the foil I’m an abandoned children’s home b. I need your suicide just as I need cigarettes since no one can transform plastic into flesh c. I draw smoke into my lungs as if I plucked out your nails with pliers I’m not a sadist nor a masochist I’m only looking for the certitude that my obsessions will utterly baffle you d. the son doesn’t know the black cat’s tongue the son shouts and death reluctantly undresses the son makes love to death nothing’s more satisfying than sinking your teeth in death’s fat ass. death’s brother I’ve talked a lot about death but said little about her brother known as the asexual he was born when a knife ripped open a virgin’s womb he works as a singer you can see him on youtube licking his nails like a famished dog not long ago he paid me a visit and explained how things have to be in his kingdom it seems that women aren’t allowed to be dressed in there they work side by wide with men and keep up drink for drink he smoked a pack of cigarettes and then the asexual cut out claiming he had to shoot a video what sort of brother is that for death if he won’t let himself be buried in either woman or man if he fails to produce fear walking with his hair in his mouth and doesn’t drink coca-cola but only strong ţuica distilled out of plums brought from his grandmother’s village entry for death (1) death’s a plaster mask I put on when upset I’ve amassed too much disgust inside and can no longer save myself except by raving with a noose around my neck a blade biting my flesh nothing’s better than this cigarette I stab in phantasms’ eyes crying: forgive my blood only I’m to blame I condemn lack of violence I love lack of affection I add myself only to a devoured womb searching for a fetus I’d sleep all day long dreaming that death’s like brushing your teeth but no come what may death clutches my tongue and face muscles as if it forbade me to confess mother won’t confront death mother’s naïve a believer to humiliate death it’s necessary to know the touch of its blade like a prostitute’s caress to love death it’s necessary to hate yourself so passionately that you’re unable to kill yourself flowers girls and boys songs and singers strangled while you were with your lover I bathed and perfumed myself to caress like a man I trimmed my cuticle put on mascara undressed I have a loser’s caress I glide past your high heels like an animal in heat lift your skirt thrust the doll between your legs I stick my tongue out mother scolds me oh stained your pants again there-there mother croons at the child flowers girls and boys songs and singers let’s play break our heads spit at each other kiss cheeks waiting for the buttered loaf of bread that mother tosses us from the window let’s trick the gossipy old hags let’s molest young maidens jet-powered plane fly with me today the bogeyman lands scissors in hand and cuts our gasping throats blood spurts on mother’s face not father’s fathers have rough feet and smell of alcohol flowers girls and boys songs and singers you’re kind of rambling little man made of corrugated paper don’t weep over mother drowned in blood she’s gone to buy candy for the child bo peep my little bottom’s dancing I poke my eyes out with the colored marker mother’s laundry was rotting bo peep stop banging your head against walls it’s better to try and oink like a pig to meow bo peep let’s slurp the vegetable soup from the bowl so we’ll grow big the toys in the shop window were dying flowers girls and boys songs and singers she brings candy for the naughty who peep through the keyhole of the bathroom door she comes feeling weak and angry she goes there-there to the child let’s make faces and when she enters the house let’s beat her with the scald her as one does to hens I sprayed perfume on myself to caress like a bogeyman I put on mascara undressed I have a loser’s caress I still have one desire left 1. I won’t make it past fifty I’ll melt chocolate-armored magpies on the tongues of men fond of travesty impotent lunatic and easy mark I’ll cuddle on big boobs a broad who’ll get me drunk every day on cyanide and coffee I’ll no longer be a stud I’ll no longer write poetry she’ll stop feeding me I won’t have money for a coffin the ideal woman will stay locked inside my hump I’ll sleep in the tents of the shipwrecked I’ll be cobbler or beggar I’ll be lazy and my bitchy mother will deny me father will deny me my sister will cry in vain I won’t make it past fifty. 2. I’ll be majestic I’ll be sadistic I’ll be deliciously handsome a little child in the corridors of the dark morbid asylum I’ll be a lollipop stabbed in the skulls of femmes fatales I’ll be ice-cream melting down hot bodies a feather plume I’ll be in my mother’s mouth ejected altogether with the first foul oath. 3. don’t believe me when I die asphyxiated in sleep or when I’m making love don’t believe me to be a madman with eardrums on sizzling virgin vaginas don’t dress me in baggy clothes don’t stuff cotton wool in my nostrils don’t embalm me in oils and spices but only alcohol fumes and cigarette smoke the service won’t take very long my eyes will be open. 4. gracious whore for rocking children make me alive and docile sweeten me with your licorice blow my mind let’s dance until our brains spurt against the walls let’s dance until we wear holes in the wood floor until the neighbors come clutching forks and pans gracious whore for rocking children make me your sprite dress me in long skirts below my ankles take me on bicycle rides down the asylum corridors tell me stories about mothers and suicides gracious whore for rocking children will you come? I’m not sopor aeternus I’m not sopor aeternus to write poems of genius just with my motions in my sick mind lie raped virgins naughty children with their legs round their necks malformed babies are born mothers couple with the devil the insane are treated as lusty maids they’re gaudily made up for virgins and lady teachers we train even the most cowardly rabbits for war we polish our swords with the grease of the fat ones we behead we burn at the stake we’re the madmen who escaped from the asylum to march down the streets tricked out as prostitutes to pay tribute to the madness that makes us creators to raise altars for the sacrifice of the lucid and livid to nibble on shaved heads to smear our flesh with blood we’re the madmen who escaped from the asylum we march across forgotten graves we don’t believe in deceitful lovers in good-for-nothing friendships we hang the lucid and livid from ropes that emerge out of their navels (you’re right this poem’s too violent and incites suicide don’t read it until you’ve had a few beers and enough loving). Marius Conkan is a student at the Faculty of Letters in Cluj, Romania. His first poetry collection soporia was published by Editura Vinea, Bucharest, 2009. |
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