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Deep
I have the word deep.
I have other words too.
But the word deep,
it is tired
(...)
Danijel Dragojević
we didn’t rest in it; we have dug in water, we have dug in
earth, we have dug the bones, we have hit with the hoe
wings and stone, we have plucked weeds from the faces of
those gods that for long kept silence in us, we have plucked
the algae from your hair, a lit-up harbour, we have prayed
for rain and for wind without rest; in it dwell Freud’s mice,
blue, gloomy like herds of albatrosses, in the corners of his
room white seeds like a drug, an ocean of ants; we have
drank in it, we have prepared our ships to set sail, we have
smoked in it and we have danced, we have fucked, we have
broken plates, windows, candles, our tall and soft sexes
alike to dandelions implanted in the walls, we have begged
for mercy in it, wanting to save and to change with it, we
have destroyed the words and we have climbed in the
mountains with our books burning in our pockets;
lamps,
we have lamps
, the word was yelling after me,
lamps
,
yelling like a ghost on an iron deck, but I was tired, I could
have bought one just to throw it in his head, to light the
jellyfish up, to light him up as a concertmaster ignites the
embers in the cello’s skull; we have dug colours, we have