Lives Journal 7

Matej Krajnc










First there was a bed.

They cut off her leg.

That leg had quadruplets.

When they grew up,

they checked into the monastery

to learn about gardening.

They gave up

after a day and a half.

They ran away,

chase by the holy scriptures.

Massey was the last one of them.

He stank.

Mother superior aimed the gun

and shot him through the right arm.

Meanwhile, Tereza Kesovija was singing

Sve se vracha, sve se placha, svaki stari dug

in the left one.

Massey was lucky to escape the second shot,

but he lost his brothers.

He went tramping around the world,

but his wound was too severe

to be seen on highways.

He gave up a few miles before Unec

and died, without ever rewinding the tape

in his left arm.


Fuck the beatnik orientation,

he groaned.

And the day

began to mourn.







The devil on the right

got serious,

read a few poems,

folded his blanket,

but Cooper was faster,

he shot him before

he could have gotten married.


The devil on the right

was writing his biography at that moment,

his autobiography

and bibliography,

but Cooper was faster,

he shot him before

he could have written ten units of all that.


The devil on the tight

got confused,

he couldn't figure out

all the blood on the scene,

but Cooper was faster,

he shot him before

he could have determined the blood types.


I've been watching moves

for fifty years,

there are several scenes

on my mind,

I would direct them,

but I fear the trees

falling down on those

who are not righteous.


I'd act for free,

I'd double for a cowboy,

if the blood from the forehead

isn't mine.


Cooper doesn't know

intention from action.

Cooper is a righteous judge

who shots the good and the evil.







Raskolnikov didn't know what he was doing,

at least that were the words he uttered in his defense

to Bud Spencer,

when he came to solve

the unsolved problems of the court.

Bud Spencer didn't sweat a bit,

he let the gavel do the thinking.

Hang the sucker!

Hey, hey,

is this what we were fighting for?

Should all the legends hang from the nooses now?

The boy killed that old wench,

so what!

How many did you kill, Spencer,

tell us!

Spencer didn't count.

He was asleep.






A modern epic poem

cannot be written,

they say.

They are wrong.

It can be captured in one line:

fast asleep.







Dispose of this Krajnc,

he wears hats,

he is lanky,

but that isn't enough for him

to be taken seriously.

Look, he nibbles a cracker,

takes photographs with Dale Watson,

but that's not written in the constitution,

it isn't legal.

Let's hang him!







I've got troubles with my stomach

just like Napoleon.

I was exiled

to St. Helen

by my bowels.

I flush the toilet there.

Pure poetry.







Translated from Slovenian by author




Slovenian (gajica)

Slovenian (bohorichica)