DAY(DREAM) #9,377
I’d been home maybe an hour
when I slipped out again.
Not long before the sun would set
I walked up the road to the woods behind the railway line
and the football pitches, carrying my homemade spear.
Its point a dreadful screech.
They said a dog had got out
some rare breed, jet black as a sermon,
the froth that was on its jaws.
Barking to stay ahead of the darkness
I flitted after my shadow between the trees
until a solid curtain was ripped away.
Something was there, half-buried under a few leaves and sand.
I raised my spear, took a step forwards and froze.
As though I had suddenly forfeited the right to speak –
my T-shirt stuck to my body
the prism of my skin was like a flickering dream.
For a short time I emitted light
and then I was put out.
Translated by Michele Hutchison
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SHAKA FINALLY FINDS THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE
in one of his mother’s fashion magazines.
Those eyes and that small chin, those cheekbones!
Calls her N, how should he describe her?
Like an evening stroll after a magical film.
Like a drive in a dilapidated Beetle
between rocky mountains, he meanders along a glassy stream
and suddenly the sun breaks through
the sunlight breaks through the air, far below
is the valley where he will spend the night.
N! Like an abrupt taste that explodes in your mouth
heavy rain at the height of summer.
As addictive as a football game.
His biographer complains of hackneyed imagery never mind
as long as it works, Shaka thinks.
Who crushes so guilelessly but cannot dance.
Who keeps treading on his partner’s toes.
Has no idea how to offer a drink
how to kiss with your whole mouth.
As a young boy he was often teased about love.
‘Fat Babette is shagging Shaka’
and ‘Shaka = Nerd’ in giant letters
on the side wall of the corner shop.
Bitter, he ran home, hid himself away
in his bedroom and didn’t come out for days.
He concentrates on sharpening the point of his spear
and wonders whether N knows that he exists.
Whether in her dreams he rescues her from the flames
and whether she sprays a little perfume between her breasts
while looking at his photo, leaves the dinner to burn
disguises her imperfections with make-up
while humming ‘They can’t take that away from me’.
About four times a week and
crazy with longing he heads towards
the red-lit backstreets of the village.
He stays there until he hasn’t a cent left.
Long after midnight he’s still roaming the streets.
Living from minute to minute
on his way to more and still more life.
Translated by Michele Hutchison
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‘'VISIT' - DAY(DREAM) #3,623
Sweat pours down my back I’ve suddenly lost my script.
I stand there messing around with a map
it seems like an eternity.
Bare trees, tidy streets, shutters closed
but all the houses are inhabited.
At least that’s what I heard.
I leave the engine running just in case.
My car is made of stainless steel but where I go I go in peace.
No stopover this day with potholes in the road
and mist, traffic jams, arid brush, nothing but sand
and all of it without stars without light.
As though I were wandering through my own brain
as though I had drowned in a sea of mercury –
perhaps I’m not reading the map right.
It’s freezing cold here.
Reeling with lightness I tread on a dog, I think
something hairy, it lies there motionless.
If only someone would speak to me, someone who could
understand me.
I mean, it’s already evening
I think I should have gone left there
at that playground
only it’s a dead end street.
Translated by Michele Hutchison
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SHAKA'S BRIEF FLIRTATION WITH ROMANCE
One day he appeared at her door like an apparition.
It must have been his first and last attempt.
Bunch of flowers in his hand, some roses and chrysanths
clean smoke blowing out of the smoke machine behind him
and the universe dangling on ropes
consciously apolitical and shining.
It had cost a pretty penny, some serious logistics
and bloodshed, but his anticipatory pleasure
set its sights on the spectacle in her bed.
If anyone had tried to pull one over on him
at that moment, he would have stood his ground.
Knocked and then again and then again.
After some discussion it turned out
he was at the wrong house!
Laughing in disbelief, locals slid
down from the trees, windows were closed again
even the ladies from the drum band made an about turn.
He was led off silently
a decrepit barge in an immense canal
and people forgot about the whole business so that it
would never happen again.
Translated by Michele Hutchison
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'SELF-PORTRAIT AS 007' - DAY(DREAM) #1,516
Something has gone wrong.
I hang like shot game catching copious amounts of wind
high above a city.
Office glass everywhere, the blood slowly leaves my arms.
Something burning in the distance, a pack of dogs
bark angrily on the asphalt down below
helicopters hover out of sight rattling like egg whips.
Up to now, I’d always done my own stunts.
I utter a few screams that aren’t in the script
that I fought evil with evil
evil was like a cockroach.
I always turned up when needed
before wandering off triumphantly into the future during the
closing scenes
my deeds and misdeeds forgiven and forgotten –
I never shot my mouth off
I’d rather let go.
Translated by Michele Hutchison
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'NEW YEAR' - DAY(DREAM) #1,354
It had cooled down.
On my minuscule balcony
I didn’t stand a chance against the hubbub
so before going to sleep I cast down the anchor
from the second floor, it was fixed to the outside wall
by a heavy chain.
It disappeared into the ground with a muffled splat.
A gaggle of geese drifted around in the grass beneath my flat
like a drunkard’s prayer.
I’d bet on them being geese – cackling
white-grey splodges.
Not long after midnight half awake
and overcome by blindness
I was drawn towards the window that was now open, just caught
a glimpse of the village vanishing into the horizon.
The chain the anchor had been fixed to
swung wildly back and forth.
I closed the window as quietly as I could
not wanting to make a noise, and went
back to bed.
Translated by Michele Hutchison
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DAY(DREAM) #526
This bare space that I crossed with enough ammo for a week.
I was hitched to a truck here
as I roared the first lines of the national anthem.
Only the first lines, for the melody.
I learned to slaughter animals here
the innards in a burlap sack and chucked onto the fire.
Here the game was to beat death.
Cycling, jumping ditches and this was where seven kids
peed over me and I stayed prostrate until I could get up again
here I ran through the garden on a summer’s evening
chasing her – whether she’d giggle, all that low light.
If I don’t watch out, I’ll take one cautious step back
and another step and step by step
I step away from myself. Only once I’m far enough away
and can no longer hear myself, I turn around and
begin to run like mad.
How quiet it is today.
As quiet as a forest in winter.
As quiet as a bird, high up in the sky.
As quiet as a sleeping whale.
Translated by Michele Hutchison
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DAY(DREAM)#3
The nights are the worst.
In the distance the last farms
but nothing is recognizable anymore, not even my own voice.
Nothing, nothing makes sense anymore –
things suddenly seems dangerously close and recorded.
The water in the ditches, the wind through the knee-high grass
the porous earth and that horse over there
I think it’s a horse.
I do up my laces to buy time.
In my rucksack: water, food, dry clothes
a handful of bullets my mobile still has a signal.
I barely reflect, barely breathe.
As though I were dead but I’m bursting with life.
If I’m thirsty, I drink.
If I’m tired, I sing a song
my mother always used to sing to me.
From above this might look like running away
but everything is dark from above.
A few kilometres at the most, I guess
then the sun will come up
gleaming, clear light all around.
Translated by Michele Hutchison
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AN EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH ONE OF SHAKA'S FOOTSOLDIERS
A sticky Friday afternoon.
On the terrace of Café Sizobonana, Sipo’s eyes shine
then he looks troubled again.
A desolate young man.
Smokes non-stop, looks over his shoulder constantly.
Doesn’t have much time.
‘But you work for a murderer?’
‘Those aren’t my words.
This is my lot as a soldier, I don’t give a damn about politics.
Shaka’s just a normal, friendly man.
He likes playing chess, driving and fishing.
Sometimes he gives us the afternoon off.’
‘He’s popular with the ladies?’
‘He gets a lot of fan mail from men too.
Sometimes we’ll have a game of football on the battlefield.
He watches us, almost moved
sometimes a woman will stalk him
but the stuff about those sex orgies is bullshit.
Shaka’s a good boss.
After a day of fighting he often buys a round.’
‘You’re taken care of properly?’
‘I studied Marxism.’
‘But all that bloodlust?’
‘I don’t want to defend myself, of course
there’s a death or two, but that’s because there’s a war on!’
‘What does your average day look like?’
‘We get up at four when the world is cold and wise.
First a cup of coffee then we sharpen
the weapons, get our kit together
and go off in search, into the future.
Don’t get me wrong, you can lose yourself completely there
we always come across new terrain.
In the evenings we’re quiet, after a successful day
we play snakes and ladders or argue about football,
about women, there’s always alcohol and smokes.
Until Shaka says goodnight, then we crawl into our beds
kind of large socks made from agricultural plastic.’
‘You don’t have any doubts?’
‘No comment.’
‘You must all see the news?’
‘We don’t read the papers here.
Sometimes I’m allowed to call home
but not for too long because war
requires discipline.’
‘Rumour has it that you were punished.’
‘Shaka’s a good boss, no comment.
Any enemies wanting to join our people
will find a warm family here.
Anyone who flees or turns away in fear – well
we are and remain a fighting machine.’
‘Explain that.’
‘I don’t have to defend myself
I don’t come from another planet, this is my lot as a soldier.
If you want to kill someone in battle
don’t cut his windpipe but go for his neck arteries.
That’s a tip I can give you for free
I’ve had more than enough of this chitchat.
Nothing ventured nothing gained.
With the best will in the world you can’t make more of it than that.’
Translated by Michele Hutchison
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