Untertitel

• Farsi

پشت این خواب رویایست
پشت این سکوت غوغا یست
پشت این موج دریا یست
پشت دیروز فردایی ست

من خواب می بینم از بیداری
عشق می ورزم به این بیزاری
بهت زده از زشتی این زیبائی
چشم به راه اسارت در آزاد ی

در گورستان زمان
میتپد قلب بهشت
بلبلی زجه زنا ن
شعر تبعید نوشت

قاتل خنده تو
مست منبر و اذان است
قاتل رقص بزرگت
هار حیدر به دهان اس ت

زائران زندگ ی
حجله در زندان کنند
روبروی بازجو
عشق را کتمان نا کنند

راهب دیگر خدا
با وضو اعدام ش د
لشگر صاحب زمان
بی خدا گمنام شد

ای قاتلا نای جاهلا ن
ای ضاربا نای کاسبان
گناه را با خون نتوان شست
زیر چکمهها بهشت نتوان جست
قسم به این سکوت پیش از طوفان
ظالمان در خشت خام گردند عریان

کودکان کش
مادران طغیان کنند
خاوران ک ن
کودکان عصیان کنند

حرف دل کشتی
خشم قدرت می شود
دستها مشتی
خواری حرمت می شود

ای زائرا نای راهبا ن
ای شاعرا نای عاشقا ن
این دین ز دین ب یدین شده
با جنبش زن زندگی

کامم کمی شیرین شده
پشت این خواب رویایست

پشت این سکوت غوغا یست
پشت این موج دریا یست
پشت دیروز فردایی ست
من خواب می بینم از بیداری
عشق می ورزم به این بیزاری

بهت زده از زشتی این زیبائی
چشم به راه اسارت در آزاد ی

• Deutsch

Hinter diesem Schlaf versteckt sich ein Traum
Hinter diesem Schweigen ein Trubel
Hinter dieser Welle steht ein Meer
Hinter Gestern ein Morgen.

Ich träume vom Erwachen
Ich liebe die Wut gegen den Hass
Mich wundert die Schönheit der Hässlichkeit
Ich warte auf die Gefangenschaft in der Freiheit

Auf dem Friedhof der Zeit
Schlägt das Herz des Paradieses.
Eine Nachtigall schreibt schluchzend
Ein Gedicht aus dem Exil

Der Mörder deines Lachens
Ist trunken von seinem Gebet
Der Mörder deines Tanzes
Kaut den Namen des Propheten (wenn er dich angreift)

Die Pilgernden des Heiligtums des Lebens
finden ihr Ziel im Gefängnis
Dem Verhörenden gegenüber sitzend
verteidigen sie die Liebe

Die Mönche anderer Götter
werden nach islamischer Waschung hingerichtet
Die Armee Allahs
kennt ihren Gott nicht mehr

Ihr Mörder und Schläger
Die Sünden könnt ihr nicht mit Blut waschen
Unter den Stiefeln könnt ihr das Paradies nicht finden
Fürchtet die Ruhe vor dem Sturm
Die Tyrannen sehen im Spiegel der Wahrheit nackt aus

Tötest du Kinder
werden ihre Mütter aufbegehren
Tötest du die Väter
Werden ihre Kinder rebellieren

Tötest du die Gedichte
Wird aus der Wut die Kraft
Die Hände ballen sich zu Fäusten
Aus der Demütigung wird die Würde

Ihr Liebenden, ihr Pilgernden
Ihr Dichter und Mönche
Diese Religion verliert ihre Religiosität
Und die Bewegung der “Frau, Leben, Freiheit”
verzaubert den süßen Geschmack in meinem Mund

Hinter diesem Schlaf versteckt sich ein Traum
Hinter diesem Schweigen ein Trubel
Hinter dieser Welle steht ein Meer
Hinter Gestern ein Morgen.

Ich träume vom Erwachen
Ich liebe die Wut gegen den Hass
Mich wundert die Schönheit der Hässlichkeit
Ich warte auf die Gefangenschaft in der Freiheit

Some days you breathe as the ocean

and others as the hushed drag of air over Alps,

you harmonise quietly the promise of crisp clear nights

beyond those cliffs,

you resonate as the pause between steps, 

you inhale and hold the breath of the world unfolding.

I would line up Hannibal’s elephants,

sink my teeth into the ice,

whisper into their vast, fluttering ears:

I know you don’t understand,

but the goal is not to cross,

it is to die on the way,

left by the side of the road,

just another snow-covered boulder,

so the howling of the wind waves does not end;

they lean on your shoulders for a moment,

simmer into cold foam and snowy mist,

they open their palms,

how you love them green,

and love them blue,

and most of all just love. 

***

I rifle through the pockets of your coat

for a lighter,

so I can turn on the gas

and make coffee.

I tiptoe carefully,

as if I hadn’t woken you up

with my alarm clock,

as if coffee in bed will still be a surprise,

if only I try hard enough.

I heat up the water

and peer through the window,

thinking

how would the walls echo

if people watered them regularly

and fertilized them every now and then,

thinking,

how strange it is

to see the mountains

just like that

through the window

and how strange it is that we all agree,

mountains probably echo like organ pipes.

Everything is so very leveled here,

so very bare and draughty.

A healthy amount of agoraphobia

protects me from vultures,

which reminds me,

that though my whole life

I’ve been hugged by the hills,

but that even now

everything is as it should be

because now

I’m hugged by you

and today I’ll once again steal

another pair of your socks.

***

My greatest goal is

to always write happy 

and therefore astonishingly bad poetry,

to be late for everything a minute or two,

to not step out of the way for men

who stomp towards me down the middle of the sidewalk

like a towering wave of a sandstorm.

I gave up on the revolution

around my fifteenth birthday,

but my goal is to never stop pretending

that I haven’t,

to sit on wet benches,

to take off wet socks,

to keep forgetting my keys

and keep losing my umbrellas.

Whenever I sit in the passenger seat next to you

my goal is to never write a poem again. 

Not even a happy one, not even a bad one. 

Because a poem is still a kind of screaming

and all I want to do is just purr quietly

and breathe deeply

with your hand on my knee,

to wait for kisses at red lights,

to tap the roof of the car at yellow ones,

and laugh at you

when you rant about the cars in front of you 

and the car behind you,

there is no space for poems here,

because we are enough. 

THE ROSARY OF WANT

I.

You could cut open all my poems like frogs,

and none of them would smell like you,

because I don’t know how you smell. 

Usually my mouth is too full of unwritten words,

to be able to take a deep breath. 

I can’t prove anything,

I can’t take hold of anything,

to drag it towards me,

to take a bite into nothing,

most of my life unfolds in a language

I don’t speak. 

It is all a dance,

a game of either pushing or pushing away,

the goal cannot be put into words

and usually puts on its name only after it’s under the sheets

and on the stairs,

wearing bruises,

a physical evidence that we own each other

more than we own ourselves. 

II.

Some things just stay,

like the span of your fingers holding the neck of your guitar,

never managing to hold the F chord just right,

like a nail hammered crookedly into the wall

in the middle of some night 

in an impulsive redecoration effort,

like the scar on your knee you’ve had

since you were ten. 

When I kiss the sweat off your forehead, I am aware that

there are kilometres in the time

and that you are not allowed to speak on the spaceship,

especially not about this,

so that the vacuum of the room does not flinch 

and collapse unto itself

if we are careful enough 

when we tiptoe around each other’s edges.

With phantom remains

of the tips of your fingers everywhere,

I am aware that it is better not to know

what capillaries unfold into 

when they finally 

succumb to gravity. 

III.

Tomorrow you will wake up into a milk blue morning,

wash your face and uproot me from in-between your teeth,

flick me into the corner of the sink,

but I forgive you today,

because life is a rosary of small deaths

and sometimes a rosary of trailing fingers

and we,

we are the freshly fallen snow,

it will never be more beautiful than it is today.

IV. 

Tell me about the colours

with the names you’ve made up for them,

I want to tattoo them in-between my fingers

and onto the soles of my feet

and then forget you. 

V.

The next spring won’t awaken anything anymore,

only yield mistletoe and ivy to cover the bodies with.

We have breathed out enough fires

to recognize a burning house

when we fall asleep in it.

• Hebrew –

למראית עיין, למראית עין ודברים מדברים.

בחיים שלי כמו במכונת הכביסה שלי אני מסתובבת יחד עם שחורה לבנה, צבעונית עדינה וסינתטית. כולם לאותה קלחת נכנסים , ערמה של כבסים. שמלום ומכנסיים ף תחתונים עם גרביים גינסים שיטיחים  כולם סמרטוטיםזה יוצא נקי בסוף אבל רק למראית עיין ואף בחיים שלי כמו במוכנת הכביסה יש הרבה תוכניות , ההבדלים קטנים אך ההשלכות מהותיות תמיד אני מנסה להיות בשליטה אבל התוצאה בסוף תמיד סחיטה!

במחשב שלי כמו במחשבה שלי הכול לכאורה נראה מסודר אבל אם ממסתכלים פנימה מגלים שלא באמת כך הדבר כי ערמות של קבצים מונחים בהיגיון רנדומלי על הדסקטופ שלי, כמו אוסף שירים שנצרבתי בתשס”ו, תמונה מטיול שנתי בכיתה ו’, התזה שלי לא נגמרת באלף ואחת גרסאות קיבצי הגיגים וכמובן ….מחשבות. מחשבה שלי כמו המחשב שלי רצה כשהיא עומדת , ישנה כשהיא עובדת, נמחק לה הזיכרן והיא מתחילה להתעדכן בדיוק עכשיו, למה ? למה ? אני מנסה לכבות אותך לפעמים אין לי קליטה לפעמים יש לי קליטה , זה לא באמת בר שליטה.אפשר מרשם לאנטי וירוס בבקשה?

במקרר שלי כמו בלב שלי יש הכול מכול טוב אפשר ליצור עוגת מוס או תבשיל קארי בחלב קוקוס כל מרכיב שעולה על הדעת לכל מתכון יש גחמה משוגעת אבל במקרר שלי כמו בלבי הפועם זה רק למראית עיין הוא לא באמת שלם כי כשאני פותחת אותו מתבוננת פנימה אין לי במה לחשוק כי זה לא כדאי עכשיו, עדיף להימנע את הרי לא רוצה להיות בסוף ז/שמנה אין לי כח לקלף את הקליפות טינדר זה כמו פחמימות ריקות ובסוף גם את תהיי זאת שצריכה לנקות , את השברים. אז למה סתם לטרוח ?

אבל בבית שלי כמו בנשמה שלי תמיד יש אור, ולא משנה כמה בלאגן, צפיפות או לכלוך יש לי בחיים, במחשבה, בלב, בזמן שעובר, הנשמה מוארת. וכשאני באה הביתה מדליקה את האור יושבת במרפסת נפשי, ירושלמית לכיוון מזרח שם השמש כל יום תזרח. במרפסת שלי כמו בנפש, יש שבשבת עם כל משב רוח הררי צלול וקריר נפשי משובבת. הנפש כמו המרפסת משקיפה אל האופק צופה אל העתיד, מבינה שהדרך אל האופק כמו הדרך אל האושר לא ברורה תמיד. אף כלל אין דרך אל האושר, כפי שאין דרך אל האופק.  זו רק נקודת מבט. מהמרפסת בירושלים , כיוון מזרח, שבת.

• English – 

At first glance, things may seem different than they really are

in my washing machine like my life, I go around with black, white, colorful, and synthetic. Everyone enters the same bin, like a pile of laundry. Shirts, pants, underwear with socks, jeans, and t-shirts, all tangled up together. In the end, it comes out clean, but only at first glance.
In my life, like in my washing machine, there are many “plans”, the differences are small, but the consequences are significant. I always try to be in control, but the result is always squeezing!

On my computer, like in my mind, everything seems to be in order. But if you look inside, you discover that it’s not really the case. Piles of files are arranged randomly on my desktop, like a playlist from 2006, a picture from my 6th-grade class trip, my never-ending resume with 101 versions, GIF files, and of course… thoughts! My mind, like my computer, runs when it stands, sleeps when it works, has limited memory, and it’s starting an update right now. Why? Why? I’m trying to turn you off! Sometimes I do have a connection, sometimes I don’t have reception, I’ts not predictable and I can’t get this under control. Can you prescribe an anti-virus, please?

In my fridge, like in my heart, at first glance, I have it all. I can make a mousse cake or a curry dish. Any ingredient that comes to mind, every recipe has crazy potential.
But in my fridge, like in my heart this time, it’s just at first glance. Because when I open it and look inside, I have nothing to crave for. Because this is not worth it right now, it’s better to avoid it. After all, I don’t want to be in slat, I mean fat…”

I don’t have the energy to peel the shells, Tinder is like empty calories, and in the end, you’ll be the one who has to clean up the pieces. So why bother?

But in my home, like in my soul, there is always light. No matter how much mess, density, or dirt I have in my life, my thought, heart, my soul is illuminated. And when I come home, I turn on the light. My soul sits on the balcony, facing east, where the sun rises every day. On my balcony, like my soul, with every mountain air cool and crisp, my restless soul becomes calm. The soul, like the balcony, gazes towards the horizon, looking towards the future, understanding that the way to the horizon, like the way to happiness, is not always clear. But maybe there is no way to happiness as there is no way to the horizon. It’s just a point of view. From my balcony in Jerusalem, direction east, Sabbath.

Geometry of life

It’s as fragile as the long-stem flowers

by the pond

and we call it life.

It is constructed out of numerous

thin pyramids and cubes

and other frame structures;

the vast emptiness in between their frames

like the emptiness of an atom,

a space,

in which we cram our memories

and moments of insufficiency

and the morning fog.

We glue these frames together

using sticky bits of back street trash,

polish them

with the dirt of grandma’s attic.

We bridge the gaps

and level the slight inclinations

by jamming dusty souvenirs in to the gaps.

We repair the cracked wires with

unused condoms and knotted ribbons

that once belonged

to our ex-lovers.

It’s as fragile as the long-stem flowers

in rain… or hail.

Comes hail of fists

or stones

or bullets

or bombs.

Or departures.

Or a hail of words. Or lack of words.

It is fragile,

but incredibly complex

with its thin golden frames

that might get rusty, when it rains.

So every now and then we polish this rust

off of them

and we spit it out,

flush it down the toilet.

Life dances in the wind

like the long-stem flowers by the pond –

rooted into the ground,

yet still ever floating

their tiny blossom

through the air.

The emptiness gets scary

and the frames get confusing;

it’s hard to tell which way is up sometimes

or what the lowest point is

or if the maps of light mean

anything at all.

The equations calculating its volume

are far too complex

for us to conceive

and the time variable

can make it look dark

or neon-bright,

small or monumental,

but nothing makes its golden frames

as beautiful

as the unusual glow

of the purple minutes

between the day

and the night.

DIPLOMACY

This is the countdown rhythm!

Israel and Palestine

aren’t talking to each other.                                    

This has been going on for far too long;               

they will NEVER settle on who gets the bigger room

and they keep weaving plastic guns

at each other.

Only that the fight isn’t fair,                     

because one has significantly

bigger guns.

Only that they’re not plastic

and real people are dying.

And America doesn’t talk to Afghanistan

And China doesn’t talk to Taiwan

and Slovenia argues on Twitter

with just about everybody.

Our different gods don’t talk, either,

and people were made in their image.

The unvaccinated aren’t talking

to the vaccinated,

the left aren’t talking to the right,

the ignorant aren’t talking to the educated.

Parents aren’t talking to their children

who carry semi-automatic rifles in their school bags.

Dad doesn’t talk to mom,

mom doesn’t talk to him,

mom only talks to herself.

Each on their own side

gulping our words whole

Each on their own side

each behind their own Wailing wall

and our tectonic faults are growing;

The industry doesn’t talk to the environment

The economy doesn’t talk to our health

and politicians in power

aren’t talking to us.

Is it so strange, then

that the two of us aren’t talking?

We choose silence

as if tectonic movements could be stopped

by editing a paper map.

Your silence has mass

and it’s crushing me.

I can’t get to the other side of your

Wailing wall.

Verses fall apart in my mouth

and you will never know of all the words

that have fallen victim to this silence!

Fallen victim to Israeli violence!

WHY don’t we talk to each other?

We all have our own Palestinian questions right at home!

We all have our diplomatic failures!

We suffer from teenager syndrome

and our egos are childishly vengeful.

We will all fall into this

tectonic fault

if we don’t start T-A-L-K-I-N-G.

This is the countdown rhythm.

Hang on, Palestine!

Hang on, my sweetest girl!                                      

I love you…

「喜劇」

“Comedy”

私が

本当の膣の行き先を世界に暴露したら

庭では小さな花が咲いているし

誰もその春、私を許さないだろう

Say that I  

exposed to the world the place where my vagina leads,

in the garden tiny flowers bloom and

no one that spring would forgive me

そんな誓いは最初から存在していないのだけど跡だけがある

あなたは縫い閉じられていて

私は飾りを、先月のお給料で買ってあげた

Such an oath may never have existed but its trace sure does

you are sewn in closed and

I used last month’s paycheck to buy you some decorations

不審死をした私を解剖するときそこに後悔や憐憫はあるのだろうか

頭蓋はやはり真っ白いのか

切断を終えた糸ノコギリを銀の台に置くとき

その音はあたたかく湿っているのか

その部屋を俯瞰している

映像未満の意味を持たなくて

嘘くさい

When I die my mysterious death and they do the autopsy

will there be any remorse or pity, I wonder,

and will my skull be pure white? 

when the severing’s done, and the hacksaw is placed on its silver stand

will that sound be warm and moist?

And the not-quite cinematic

birdseye view of the room devoid of meaning

suggesting bullshit

振動が私だった

The vibration––it was me

もっともかなしいばしょを触れるとき

微笑まずにはいられない種類のオナニーが一番気持ちよくて

そんな何万回と、

触れ合わないように細心の注意を払いながら

越えてきた幾百の夜あるいは昼のセックスのあとに

何も残らない身体であなたと

激辛ラーメンを噎せながらすすって

横に並ぶ

何も知らないのに

何もかもわかってるような顔や

ほんの少しはわかっているような顔をし合いながら

延々と伸びる舌の色は淡い

淡いよね

Whenever I touch the saddest of places,

what feels best is that kind of masturbation you just smile through

Do that some multiple of ten-thousand times and

after the hundreds of midnights or middays spent

taking meticulous care to avoid touching each other during sex

in this nothing-left-of-a-body, I

slurp ultra-spicy ramen with you, almost choking, 

we stand side-by-side

We know nothing, but

We exchange looks that say   We Know It All

or       We Know at Least a Little Bit

My endlessly stretching tongue is so pale,

look how pale it is––

持ってないからほしかった

正しい顔の仕方を習ってこなかった

正しい顔ならば出来た

持っているからほしくなかった

等しく

かわりばえのない挨拶が続いていく

I didn’t have it, so I wanted it.

I never learned how to make appropriate faces.

I could have made appropriate faces.

I had it, so I didn’t want it.

Equally.

A torrent of impeccable greetings.

誰かだけを好きでいることなんてできない

かわいらしくてやましいことだらけの人間が

ひそやかに穴に向かい叫ぶときにやっと回る地球が、一個しかない

I cannot love just one certain someone.

People so cute they ooze guilt

when they secretly face the hole and scream––

The Earth spins. There’s only one.

やり直すべき事は何もなかった

不謹慎だけどもう笑っても良くて

そのあと少し雨が降って

誰もが舌打ちをしました

Nothing to regret and do over.

It may be improper, but go ahead and laugh.

Afterward, it rained,

and everyone clucked their judgy tongues.

「メルヘン」

“Fairy Tale”

冷たくて甘いものが好きだった女の子が

遠い街へ全部捨ててあたらしいものだけで

旅に出るには

For a girl who liked cold, sweet stuff,

Who threw it all away and, with only brand new trappings,

Set off on a journey to a faraway town,

20万円と

買ったばかりの青いスエードの靴と

どうしようもない言葉が必要だった

￥200,000 and

Her freshly-bought pair of blue suede shoes and

Incorrigible language were necessities

むかしむかし

トルエンと

むせかえる機械油のにおいのする

小さなまちで

A long, long time ago,

In a small town

smelling of toluene

and machine oil sobbing

赤ちゃんを産んだことがある

彼女は言った。

I once gave birth there,

She told me.

アイスコーヒーがちゃんと銀色のやつで出てくる

国分寺の喫茶店で

静かに怒ることのできる人間たちが

Ice coffee pours right of that silver thing there

In the café in Kokubunji, with its artsy, college student vibe,

Humans capable of silent rage,

とまらないとまらない

煙草の煙のなかで

夢をみている。

しんでるみたいに。

Watch dreams

In the tobacco smoke,

Drifting ceaselessly, ceaselessy.

Like the dead.

どうしようもないことばっかりの

この街が好きだ

Filled as it is with one absurdity after the next,

I love this town

海へはなにか途方もないものが流れ出て

ドラム缶の中で人が死んで

急ぐ帰路には背中を殴られる。

Extraordinary things washed out to sea,

Someone dies in a metal barrel,

Hits me from behind as I rush down the road home.

どうしようもないことばっかりの

この街が好きだ。

Filled as it is with one absurdity after the next,

I love this town.

冷たくて甘いものはどのお店でも買えるし

私がどの色を、どの味を選んだって

誰も見ていなくて

うれしくって

泣いている。

You can buy cold, sweet stuff in any store,

No matter which color, which flavor I choose,

No one pays it any mind,

It makes me so happy that

I’m crying.

私たちは遠くへ飛ばされようと

たかいところたかいところ

目指してのぼって

As though we’re being blown far away,

Aiming to ascend to

Some high place, some high, high place,

大気圏にタッチして

そのまままっさかさまに落ちて

いつか死ぬだろう。

Touching the atmospheric layers,

Then just like that, plummet upside-down,

And someday surely die.

これは幸福な予言だけど

私にはいつだって正しい言葉が出てこない

のどがはりつく感触ばかり

This is a prophecy of blessings,

But the right words won’t come,

A choking sensation in my throat,

リアルで

切り取られた時間が

風で散らばっていく

In reality,

Time is torn up

And scattered on the wind

ウーマン、イズ、ヘビー、ライクユー

ウーマン、イズ、ヘビー、ライクミー

Woman, is, heavy, like you

Woman, is, heavy, like me

あの高い声が大好きだった。

オレンジ色のかばんが宝物だった

古本屋でアルバイトしていた。

あのとき髪は長かった。

I loved that high-pitched voice.

That treasure of an orange bag.

Working part-time at the used book shop.

Such long hair back then.

好きな子には優しくできなかった。

いつだっていらいらしていた。

いいにおいのお香をあつめていた

あのとき本当に髪は長かったのだろうか

I could never be nice to the boy I liked.

I was always in a pissy mood.

Gathering nice smelling fragrances

Back then, I wonder, was my hair really that long?

さらっていけ

風

遠くまで

伸ばすのは

腕じゃない

Sweep it away

Wind

Into the distance

What extends

Is not an arm

まきつくほど長く

ラプンツェルのかみのけ

あの高い声が好きだった

大好きだった

So long it grows tangled

Rapunzel’s hair

I loved that high voice,

Oh, how I loved it

それだけで生きていけるのに

あるかどうかわからない世界に

私たちが飛んで行ってしまう

I could live on that alone, yet

Into this may-or-may-not-exist world,

We go flying away

さよなら

最後まであなたがわからなくて

メルヘン

Goodbye—

To the very end, I never understood you: A fairy tale

1「アナルファック経堂」

“Anal Fuck Suburban”

夢の中でくだらない建物を建てている

アナルファック経堂という名のアパートだ。

In my dream there stands a nondescript building

called the Anal Fuck Suburban apartments.

もうかれこれ2年くらいかかっている

ヴェスパが道の横に停まってる、木造アパートだ。

It’s been appearing for somewhere around two years now

A Vespa parked on the street outside, the building made of wood.

最終的には火災でなくなってしまうことを前提に建築されたそれを

私はいたずらにケーキ用のフォークで突き刺したり

グラインダーにかけたりしてしまう。

that building seemingly predestined to end up burning down,

as a prank, I stick a dessert fork in it,

put it in a grinder and such

最終的に起こる火災の原因は煙草の不始末ではなくて

プロパンガス大爆発で世界中の燕までいなくなってしまうことにしている。

だってここはアナルファック経堂

As the image comes, ultimately the cause of the fire isn’t a half-extinguished cigarette

but a massive propane explosion that wipes out even the swallows in the sky.

After all, this is Anal Fuck Suburban.

歩いたら千歳船橋

人が勢いよく嘔吐したり

出会い頭に抱きしめ合って

Walk over to Chitose-Funabashi area

People are vomiting vigorously

The instant they meet, the embrace each other

お互いの肋骨をきしきし言わすには

ぴったりの場所だから。

だってここはアナルファック経堂

Grinding their rib bones together—

Because the place is perfect for that.

After all, this is Anal Fuck Suburban.

歩いてもトーキョー

煙草吸いたくて

パチンコ屋に入ったら有無を言わさず

異次元にワープ、腐った結界。

Walking on, to TOKYO.

Wanna have a smoke

Duck into a pachinko casino, not giving a fuck

Warp into another dimension, a rotten spirit world.

だから惜しみなく唾を吐き捨てる

お前の自慰を見せつける

So I feel no guilt in spitting on the floor

You can go fuck yourselves

ヘッドフォンを売りつけるふりをして

お前のギターにピーナツバターを塗り込む

I pretend I’m hawking headphones

And smear peanut butter all over your fucking guitar

そういったすべてを内包するためにあるのが

アナルファック経堂

私たちの救いの家だ。

What exists so as to encompass all such connotations:

The Anal Fuck Suburban,

house of our salvation

柱の影には鼓笛隊がいる

いつでも何かしらの音頭を演奏。

In the shadow of the pillar: a drum and flute band

Always playing some kind of march.

ふざけて私が倒立をしたって

だれも見てない

めっぽう死んでるアナルファック経堂。

Playing around, I bust a handstand

But no one’s watching

Completely dead, Anal Fuck Suburban.

賛美歌はいらねえよ、

声だけ、ください。

Don’t need your damn hymns—

It’s your voice I want.

“WET REIKI” OR “THE PROBLEM OF SMOKING JOINTS AND ATTEMPTING TO GO TO PUBLIC BATHROOMS”

Standing in front of the sink in a bar bathroom I wonder why I wash my hands after I pee and not before. My hands were dirty, my penis was clean (I took a shower in the morning and put on a new pair of underwear). Now I dirtied my penis and, on top of that, I have to wash my hands just because people are disgusted by the idea of suffering “passive dick syndrome”. They don’t mind being touched by hands full of microbes from public transportation, door handles… but God forbid they get touched by a hand that touched a penis.

I finally wash my hands. By now, it’s been already about 5 minutes and the person waiting outside definitely thinks I’m taking a shit. And it’s not that it bothers me that he pictures me shitting, it’s just the fact that it’s not true; my problem is not one of aesthetics but ethics.

When I turn to dry my hands, I notice that instead of an “analog” paper dispenser, there is one that -as I read on its front- works with a sensor that gets activated when you place your hands in front of it. I do so. Nothing happens. Maybe the sensor is not where I think it is. I move my hands to another spot. Nothing happens. I start to get a little nervous. I move my hands around the device. I stop for a second and think to myself “I’m giving reiki to a paper dispenser”. Not even Isaac Asimov thought of this one. Robots will rule the earth and we will give them alternative therapies. Or worse, strange sexual practices. This one will be called “wet reiki”. “Yes, human, activate me; make me throw all the paper over your hands.”

This is what I find extraordinary about life: as Rick and Morty taught us so well, there are infinite universes with infinite alternate realities, and I am certain in my heart that this one we live in is the only one in which the answer to the phrase “we should create a paper dispenser that is motion-sensor activated” was “sounds like a great idea to me”.

By now, about 10 minutes have passed and the person on the other side of the door who previously thought I was taking a shit must now be thinking that I managed to seduce some girl at the bar and we’re having sex. Or worse, that we’re having some sort of weird threesome with a perverted paper dispenser. How much can you lie to a person you don’t know without even speaking to them? But even more: how many paper towels are we using as humanity that someone felt the need to regulate their supply in public bathrooms? What’s next, the complete disappearance of toilet paper? And if we as a society decide that we are against the existence of paper with shit all over it, shouldn’t we start by stopping printing bibles?

The person outside bangs on the door and in my head, it sounds like medieval siege weapons trying to break down the gates of my fortress. To go out now with wet hands is to accept defeat. Who spends 15 minutes in the bathroom but doesn’t do it in time to dry his hands? A subnormal, that’s who. It would even be preferable to dry my hands on my T-shirt and pretend not to have had any problems than to come across as a moron who doesn’t know how to use a sensor-activated paper dispenser. But I’ve already lied so many times to this person I don’t even know that I owe him at least this much truth.

I open the door as one who opens his soul. A mixture of sincerity and dejection. I look the man in the eyes and give him a sad half smile. My hands cry over the floor tiles. He looks at me, looks at my wet hands, my guilty hands, my “I’m not good enough for this world” hands, pauses and finally says “I’m here to fix the paper dispenser”.

Mei Großvoder hod scho imma gsogt, wer midn Radl fohrt, der geht ned zfuas

Weit zweng, zweng Weit, zweng Zeit, Gangfight, bled bleibn, Mensch sein

Bled bleibn:

Waun so wie ihr sats gscheid is, wer wü daun nu gscheit sei?

Ihr fordats imma mehr Freiheit oba schränkts eich soba imma mehr ei

Ihr keifets wos vo Gleichberechtigung oba unterdrückts jeden der ned eicha Meinung is

I bin a gscherda Prolet und a hirngschissena Hintawödler oba ihr sats da Beweis, dass sie gscheid sei und foisch liegn niemois ausschliast

In ana Zeit in der jeda des sei kau wos a wü und jede Meinung zöht, is jede Meinung vakehrt de nur a bissl aundas is

Waun so wie ihr sats gscheid is, daun wü i bitte fir imma bled bleibn

Weit zweng, zweng Weit, zweng Zeit, Gangfight, bled bleibn, Mensch sein

Gangfight:

Griaß di! A des is oiso dei neicha Hawara? Wie, er is a Kiwara, wie denn des, de Lauch wiegt doch mit nosse Hor grod moi 5 Kilo

Und fir den host du uns aufgebn? Aso, der Habschi is a Itaka und er fohrt an Mercedes, is eh klor, er is frisst nur Greazeig und sauft nix, na des passt, er singt da jeden Obend liebesliada auf seina Akkustikgitarr und in da Mittogspause schreibt da dir kurze Sprüchal mit Herz, jojo

Und fir so an host mi valossn? Sog ameu wüsst du mi pflaunzen?

I man i bin a ka Hauptgewinn oba schaumst di du ned waun du mid dem gsegn wirst, i man er is im Grunde wie a Lamborgini und i vü mehr wie a Steyr-Puch Pinzgauer, ned sche oba dafir sinnvoi

Weit zweng, zweng Weit, zweng Zeit, Gangfight, bled bleibn, Mensch sein

Zweng Weit:

Zweng weit gsprunga im Turnunterricht und deshoib imma ausglocht wordn

A wengi ruhig und aundas und deshoib imma vo eich ausglocht wordn

Blad, schüchtern, potschad, unsportlich und deshoib imma ausglocht wordn

I hob des Packl imma nu zum trogen weils ihr mi ausgschlossen, zaumghaut und ausglocht hobts

I kann imma nu ned Sport mochen weil i imma nu de paraneua hob das mi olle auslochen nur weils ihr gschissenen Wappler des gmocht hobts wie i im Turnunterricht den scheiß Boi zu schoch und zweng weit gworfen hob

Weit zweng, zweng Weit, zweng Zeit, Gangfight, bled bleibn, Mensch sein

Mensch sein:

I wü so gern der Mensch sei, von dem du mir imma dazöht host

I wü so gern der Mensch sei, von dem du de Aundan verzöhst er is da liabsta

I wü so gern der Mensch sei, den du in deina Insta Story mit an Herzal erwähnst

I wü so gern der Mensch sei, der die zum lachen bringt und der die in de Arm nimmt wauns blearst

I würd so gern der Mensch sei, der die niemois foin lost und der die nie entteischt

Oda kurz gsogt, i wü so gern der Mensch für di sei, der du für mi bist

Weit zweng, zweng Weit, zweng Zeit, Gangfight, bled bleibn, Mensch sein

Zweng Zeit:

I hob nie wertgeschätzt wie wertvoi der Zeit mit di wor, i man i hob eh doch des geht für imma und i hob nu gnuag Zeit, hät i gwusst wie weng Zeit wir nu hobn hät i di im Krankenhaus besucht anstott das i mit irgendwöche depadn Leid de nie echte Freind worn mei Zeit verschwendt

I man hät i gwusst das wir vü zweng Zeit hobn, hät i okobn waunst mi angruafn host, weil du woits mir sicha nu so vü sogn, du woitats nur mid mir redn oba i woit jo stottdessen liaba irgendwöche gschissenen Computerspiele spün

I hob docht wir hobn ewig Zeit, oba ewig Zeit is woi zweng, denn da kam der Anruf aus dem Krankenhaus, ich werde diesen Moment nie mehr vergessen, als Mama mich mit Tränen in den Augen ansah und sagte: „da Papa is tot“

Weit zweng, zweng Weit, zweng Zeit, Gangfight, bled bleibn, Mensch sein

Mei Voder hod scho imma gsogt, es is wias is, es ist wie es ist!