It's ten already. Alice is
a good girl neat and tidy, doesn't masturbate.
At this moment, she does
not even have fantasies.
Now she is ready
to listen to a surreal story.
She has a watch, a telephone,
a camera and a computer,
but her real contacts
she creates slowly, telepathically.
She ties pink ribbons on the legs
of pigeons at her window,
plugs the ears of
little dogs with wool.
Her sun laughs only on Shabbat
and on weekdays is indifferent.
Her real friend is the moon
and the fact men landed on it
makes no impression.
Whenever she wants
she walk on it herself,
peeps down from there
on couples doing sex.
By now she has seen
all the positions,
taken part in real pleasures
and in fake orgasms.
Sometimes she comes.
But what makes her really wet
are stories about wonderland
and a huge cock of a pervert
who desires little girls.
Translated by: Anthony Rudolf
published in Modern Poetry in
Translation no.14, winter 1998-99,
King's College, London, page149
|Capturing words on paper
Lines upon lines coming from nowhere
gather to browse in the Book of the Soul
and rest on the seam between words and colors;
to seek the inner reflection of the eye,
to bring back forms from space,
to collect demons from Siberian snows,
and coat them with thickened honey
to freeze them as a tinted arabesque, a white lily
to define Time by dust sediments on Mars
to set fine traps of beauty for the words
and catch them on paper for good.
Translated by: Esther Hecht
You are the hammock where I lay my yearning
during siesta on a summer's day
so that they shell have an airy shaking
in the midst of imaginary trees
in a surprise forest, supposing it is there